Chapter Eight #2
“There’s still some left,” Damon said. “Though they won’t be around for much longer. Should go check them out before I burn those too. Gonna plant a really nice orchard. Apples, I think.”
Nathan’s lip curled into a disgusted sneer. He still managed to look handsome, because that was another of the Hess family gifts—or curses. All depending on your angle.
“What are you even doing here?” Damon demanded. “You’re not here to see my garden or my land. If you’re just here to remind me what a terrible Hess I am, you’ve succeeded. Now, leave.”
Crossing his arms across his chest, Nathan actually had the nerve to look concerned. “I played a round of golf with Walter last week. He mentioned to me how happy he was that you were investing your trust in the family business.”
“It’s my trust,” Damon argued. “I can do whatever the hell I want to with it.”
“Including throwing it away on a pipe dream? Starting a restaurant? In that old shack?”
“Why does it matter to you?” Damon was struggling. It wasn’t like his horrible, overachieving, critical father was the only reason why he’d become an alcoholic—but he sure hadn’t helped.
“It matters,” Nathan enunciated each word carefully and slowly, like Damon was an idiot who needed help understanding, “because when you burn through your trust starting a business in a field you have no experience in, in a highly competitive market like Napa, with one of Aquino’s rejects, you’ll be back on my doorstep, begging to join us again. ”
“I wouldn’t beg, and I certainly wouldn’t beg you,” Damon said. “I’m capable of working. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. I know manual labor isn’t something your highly privileged brain comprehends, but I’m good at it.”
That was the whole root of this disconnect with his father. He didn’t get Damon, and had long since given up trying.
“You’re a Hess,” Nathan said. “You’re not meant to be working the fields. You’re meant to own them.”
Damon wanted to tell his father that he could do both, that he was enjoying doing both now. But it had always been useless to argue with Nathan Hess, and nothing had changed in years.
“Thank you for the unsolicited advice.” Damon paused. “Now since you’re so eager for me to exercise my rights as a land owner, get the fuck off my land.”
Nathan threw his hands up, his expression making it perfectly clear that he hadn’t wanted to come here and argue, but that he’d done it because he’d felt obligated. Not out of fatherly love or familial concern, but fear of financial waste.
Damon watched him walk away and told himself that he’d reconciled himself to a shitty father years ago.
But if that was true, why did every encounter feel like razor blades slashing at his composure, at his sense of self?
When would he finally feel like he wasn’t obligated to fulfill the duties of being a Hess?
He’d left the family. He’d left the business.
He kept to himself, and did his own thing.
The money and the land still tied him to them though, and if it had been any other land, and money from anyone else but his grandfather, he might have rejected both.
But his grandfather had cared about this land, about what it had meant.
Had felt an obligation and a responsibility that far eclipsed his father’s noblesse oblige bullshit.
And when Damon walked it, early in the morning, the sun creeping over the hills, he remembered the only person in his family who hadn’t been a total waste of his time.
He’d come here and taken back his land first for his grandfather, and then he’d discovered, especially after that horrible night, a purpose of his own.
John Hess would have been proud of him—no matter what he’d done to the vines. If Damon closed his eyes, he could almost hear his deep, gritty voice. It’s your land, he’d have said, you can do whatever the hell you want with it. They’re just vines.
Damon shoved his hands in his pockets, because the urge was strong to call Xander, because he couldn’t have a conversation with a ghost. Xander might be one of the few who’d understand besides his grandfather.
But their relationship was so new, so fresh, so tentative, and he didn’t want to crush it with all his personal baggage.
Xander didn’t need to hear all of that, definitely not yet, no matter how much Damon wanted to tell him.
He knew some of what Damon struggled with, but he definitely didn’t need to know the whole of it. Rachel, who’d practically known him his whole life, had gotten sick of it and left. That had hurt badly, but he’d persevered, and he’d even felt cautiously optimistic about his chances with Xander.
His father showing up had re-opened old wounds, reminding Damon of their existence when he’d been trying so hard to pretend he wasn’t fucked up.
That being a Hess carried with it a whole load of ridiculous expectations and that it was bad enough being born into it. Anyone sane didn’t choose it.
After being dismissed by Damon, Xander went to the grocery store, randomly wandering the aisles, picking up vegetables, and then putting them down again.
He finally managed to fill half a cart with ingredients he thought he could use to work on recipes for the restaurant.
He went back home, put the food away, and went on a grueling, punishing run.
The truth was Xander really wanted to be pissed, but after exhausting himself, all he felt was empty and directionless. Instead of cooking anything, he grabbed carrots and a tub of hummus and plopped down on the couch.
It was easy enough to feel certain of Damon and Damon’s feelings when they were together, but it turned out it was also easy enough for doubt to creep in. No matter how much Xander wanted to trust him completely, he didn’t know him completely. Couldn’t know him completely, not yet anyway.
He stewed all night as he sat on the couch, laptop in hand, as he researched some recipes he wanted to try for the restaurant.
He was sure he’d enjoy the quiet, but it turned out the quiet was actually way too quiet—especially when he was upset and wanted someone to vent to.
He never thought he’d miss the ambient noise of Nate and Kian being in the house, but it turned out he did.
He almost texted his friend Wyatt, but remembered that this was one of the nights he and his brother ran their food truck near Venice Beach, so he’d be way too busy to listen to or comment on Xander’s bad mood.
Calling Miles again was out of the question, as was calling Kian.
Xander impatiently tapped his fingers on the laptop keyboard.
Everything he was thinking now was total crap, and he hated how much sense that made.
For him, food came from a place of care and love.
He cooked because he wanted to share with someone.
And right now, what he wanted was to share with Damon.
He glanced at his phone, sitting so innocently on the coffee table. Wouldn’t it be better if he found out now that this was normal behavior for Damon? Wouldn’t it be better to know now if Damon wasn’t worth the trust he wanted so badly to place in him?
The truth, no matter how painful, was always better than a lie. And if Xander was lying to himself, then he needed to know.
He could’ve just texted—Damon had always answered texts quickly, even quickly enough for Xander’s natural impatience—but he dialed his number instead.
Xander’s heart thumped in his chest, loud enough that he could hear it even over Alton Brown’s muted voice on the TV. He didn’t have to wait in suspense very long; Damon picked up on the second ring.
Like he’d been waiting too, trying to decide whether he should call Xander.
Xander pushed that thought aside. He was doing it again: his hopeful heart making up the best possible scenario for him to believe, instead of the truth.
He needed the truth.
“Xander,” Damon said breathlessly. Exactly as breathless as Xander felt.
He’d considered playing all his cards close to his chest, acting like everything was okay, and waiting for Damon to say something about earlier this afternoon. But when faced with Damon’s voice, Xander discovered that was total bullshit.
He wasn’t the kind of guy who prevaricated.
He wasn’t the person who let shit go for a half-hearted explanation.
He’d done it when he was much younger, and after that flaming disaster of a relationship, he’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t let himself be manipulated again.
After that, he’d always been straight, to the point of making guys uncomfortable.
It was why he’d stopped seeking relationships.
He wanted a level of honesty that nobody was quite prepared to give.
The initial shock of his attraction to Damon and discovering that it was mutual had thrown him off-balance enough that he’d forgotten who he was. Who he’d become, out of necessity.
“What the hell was with that today?” Xander demanded.
Silence.
Damon didn’t know the truth-seeking missile that had been Xander. He’d met him briefly that one night, a year ago, but even then the shock of attraction had melted his rough edges away almost immediately.
Damon didn’t know the guy that Miles and Wyatt and Kian did. And it was time he did.
“That was my father,” Damon said. “You didn’t want to meet him.”
“You’re right,” Xander admitted, and he didn’t want to be an asshole, though he knew he got mistaken for one sometimes, “I didn’t want to meet him. But I also didn’t want to be shoved aside like some sort of toy you’re ashamed of.”
More silence.
This might be the end of their relationship, personal and professional, if Damon didn’t understand what Xander was trying to say.
He tried again, a little less abrasive this time.
Miles had told him for years that wanting honesty didn’t necessarily mean being a dick, and Xander had never felt that particular piece of advice had much merit. But he did now.