Chapter 23 #2
I planned on taking charge, handling the serious conversation—because I always do. When it comes to us three, I play the middleman.
But right now, I’m at a loss for words, frozen in place as rage boils to the surface, taking over completely. How could the man I’ve come to love and admire turn into a completely different person in such a short span of time?
“Hello?” my father asks with annoyance, waving his hand in front of him impatiently.
“Dean?” Asher whispers softly.
My gaze shifts from the dead look in my father’s eyes to the image glowing behind him.
I spent years running into this very room, excited to visit him, and every single time, I would stare at the art of my parents who were happily in love.
But when we lost her, we might as well have fucking lost him too.
“What have you done?” My voice breaks, deep but soft, as any semblance of respect for him fades away. I can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes as I search the glass for my mom’s smile. Anger bubbles up in my next words. “What the fuck have you done?”
“Dean,” my father warns me, but I don’t care.
Nothing he says is going to stop the storm tearing through me, the same one that’s been brewing deep inside of me for years, finally ready to be set free.
Time stills—or rather, I lose it completely. The next thing I know, I’m stretched over his desk, his collar in my fists with him hauled out of his seat.
“Hey!” Asher shouts as he grabs at me, not in defense of my father, but probably in shock that I’m falling apart. “Dean!”
I cock my arm back as my fist clenches, ready to land across his jaw. But at the last second, I stop myself, lowering my arm and dropping him back to his seat, my face twisted with a scowl.
My teeth are bared as I look him up and down with disgust. “She would be so disappointed in you.”
“You fucking brat!”
I see his hand follow through, driving across my cheek, and then my face stings like a hot iron hit it.
I’ve taken a lot of punches in my life, both in hockey and off the ice, but never from my father. Somehow, this cuts far deeper than any of the ones before.
His hand quivers as he covers his mouth in shock. “Dean, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” His words are rehearsed, as if he were speaking to an employee. At least he probably doesn’t hit them.
“Why did you replace her?” Asher asks, and I turn my head, finding him staring up at the glass window with teary eyes.
Slowly, my father shakes his head, and a small sparkle of emotion glistens in his eyes. “I didn’t replace her, Asher. I … I just couldn’t bear to see her there every day, feeling her look over me. With her there, I couldn’t function or lead this family the way I need to.”
“Yeah? Well, neither could we. And you made us do it alone anyway.” I scowl.
Asher continues, his gaze still searching the panes as anger starts taking over, “Where is she? She was right there. She was perfect.” His voice breaks. His next words are cold and loud, cutting through the room. “Where is she?”
“The piece is in storage. It’ll stay there.” He exhales unsteadily, like a frog is caught in his throat. The appearance of emotion is alarming, given his recent actions. “You are not displaying it in this house.”
“God forbid you have to face your wife while wedding your new one, huh?” I scoff, crossing my arms so I don’t reach out and choke him to death.
Asher’s breathing accelerates beside me, fast and heavy, and I make a mental note that he’s a ticking time bomb right now. He stays silent, but I can’t tell if that’s better or worse.
A beat of silence lingers, the tension as taut as ever. But my energy for him and this argument is quickly waning. Right now, he doesn’t deserve a heads-up. Maybe his lesson is best learned the hard way.
Without a word, Asher throws the door open. It slams against the wall so hard that it rattles the frames hanging near it. Framed pictures of his colleagues, of us, but none of my mother. And he storms out of the room.
I force my gaze back to him, and we lock eyes. I study him for a moment, searching for my father. I know he’s hurting. I know he’s in pain, mourning her, like we are. But that doesn’t give him the right to act like this.
Clenching and unclenching my jaw, I tell him the truth. “You know … she’d hate who you’ve become. Just like we do.”
For the first time since the day of her passing, his eyes well up with tears. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I’m doing my best.”
Something—nope, someone—flies by my head, toward my father, soaring over his desk.
Oh shit.
I barely have time to register what’s happening before Asher’s fists drive into his jaw, his stomach, his ribs as they crash to the ground.
“Ash!” I shout at him, racing around the desk and grabbing on to his shoulders.
He may be slightly smaller than me, but, fuck, he’s damn near impossible to move as I struggle to pull him off our father.
“Asher, stop.” I lean forward, ordering him to get himself under control.
He finally lets me pull him back, hauling him off our father.
“You’re a goddamn disgrace,” Asher spits, rage rolling off of him in boiling waves.
“Get out,” my father orders, standing to his feet and fixing his suit. “Now.”
Asher doesn’t hesitate, turning and stomping out of the room. I’ll find him in a minute and make sure he’s all right.
“What a fucking mess,” I curse.
“Thanks to your brother,” my father growls, brushing off his shoulders and righting his chair.
“I was going to say our family, but sure, my brother works to take the blame. Anyone but yourself, right?” I shake my head.
Any semblance of emotion I saw minutes ago is gone, replaced by the hardened robot.
“I think it’s best if you both stay away from tomorrow’s event. I don’t want you upsetting the guests.”
“You mean the one being held in our own damn house?” Knowing arguing won’t do anything, I nod. “You got it. It won’t matter in the end anyway. You’ll see.”
He mutters something, but I don’t catch it, briskly strolling out of the room, off to find Ash.
Our father had his chance to listen to us. Instead, it turned into this mess. He’ll face the music tomorrow, and I finally know exactly how we’re going to do it.