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Deep breaths.

He should go for a run. A quick one around the block to take the edge off. Or if it was too cold out, he could do some push-ups in the spare room. Or he should—

Suddenly Bradley knew exactly what he should do.

“Please excuse me as well.” He stood and planted a kiss atop his mother’s head. “Everything was delicious, Mom. Absolutely perfect.”

“Oh, Bradley, no need to rush off too. Please stay, have another slice of turkey.”

“Thanks, but I think this conversation is long overdue.”

“Is it really the best time? It’s Christmas, for heaven’s sake.”

This time, it was Sara who placed a hand on their mother’s arm.

“Well, then,” his mother said. “Why don’t I get a slice of pie ready for when you’re done.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Bradley followed the palpable wake of his father, heading up the spiral staircase toward his study, a room Bradley had never been invited into. He turned the knob and pushed open the door. His father startled, swivelling around in his leather office chair and sliding a desk drawer shut. No one entered his den without knocking first.

“You should be downstairs with your mother,” he huffed.

“So should you.”

Bradley stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He eyed the empty chair opposite his father but remained standing. It gave him a definite height advantage, and yet he still felt small before his father, who radiated a certain power sitting behind his stately wooden desk.

“I don’t understand what your problem is.” Bradley feared he sounded more like a child than the mature man he meant to portray. “I know you were upset to find out about my drinking problem. But I’m getting help for it. I’m in therapy. I haven’t had a drink in over a year now.”

His father shifted behind his desk, tension in his jaw, his skin sallow.

“Seriously. I’m tired of whatever this”—Bradley gestured between them—“is supposed to be. You don’t have to be happy about my issues. You don’t have to pretend everything is okay. But at least…I don’t know, at least get mad. At least say something.” Bradley was fairly certain he paused to allow his father a chance to reply, but he could never be sure in moments like these. “At least tell me what you’re thinking. We could talk about it. Work through it. Maybe you could come to therapy with me. We could figure it out there, together.”

“Always going on and on about your therapy,” his father mumbled.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

Silence.

“Just say it,” Bradley barked.

“Do you have any idea what you sound like? This obsession you have with talking about your feelings and sharing the most embarrassing details of your life?”

“I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. But honesty is part of my process.”

“Process. Your process. What does that even mean?”

“It’s…I don’t know. It’s a process. A bunch of steps.” He shrugged.

Bradley wanted to continue, to detail his entire therapeutic experience to this man, but he held himself back.

“Go down and spend time with your mother.”

“No.”