5. Chapter 5
Present Day
Father: Don’t test me, son. If you go against me, I’ll make sure there’s nothing left for you.
Istare at my father’s text and take a sip of my coffee; his threat barely registering at this point. It’s not like I haven’t heard it all before.
Push me again and I’ll show you what happens.
Fail me now and I’ll make sure failure follows you forward.
If you force my hand, I won’t hesitate to finish what you started.
Every day it’s another tired threat from a man who confuses control for love. He doesn’t love me. He loves what I do for him, and that’s the part that hurts me the most since I’ve spent most of my life trying to become his carbon copy.
What a waste of time that was. As if I could ever live up to him.
I put the coffee down on the red checkered tablecloth of the most aggressively wholesome diner I’ve ever stepped foot in. It feels like someone's nostalgic wet dream of small-town America, and my usual idea of hell, but I’m here and I have no intention of leaving.
Another text comes through with my father’s name.
Ignore.
It’s been a week since I got here, and for seven whole days I’ve been ignoring him. His texts, his calls—everything, and it’s fucking liberating. Pathetic, really since it’s one of the only acts of rebellion I’ve ever done.
He’s not here. He doesn’t know where I am, but still, I catch myself scanning crowds, tensing whenever I see a black SUV, waiting for one of my dad’s stone-face security details to materialize and drag me back to Southern Collegiate.
Not going to happen.
Not when I have the St. Michael’s campus map staring at me from my computer screen. Classes start soon, and I’m still wondering if I’ll have the balls to show up at the school where Zach Evans is considered football royalty.
Three days. I’ve got three days until the classes start, and I need to be officially transferred.
I want to be here, I need to be here.
So what’s stopping me from pressing the button?
“More coffee, hon?” The waitress—Sandy, according to her name tag, hovers with a pot. I don’t have the heart to tell her it tastes like battery acid, so I nod my head, instead.
“Sure. Thanks.”
She refills my coffee with a pitying look. Yeah, I know. I’ve been here long enough to become the furniture, but can’t she tell what willingly walking into the fire and burning your life to the ground looks like?
As she walks away, I drag my finger across the mouse pad and pull up the St. Michael’s transfer application. I’ve been working on it since I found out where Tiff was. Everything is complete. The references are in place, the transcripts are loaded up…I just haven’t clicked the button.
One click. That’s all it will take to go nuclear and destroy whatever remains of my relationship with my father. I’ll be the first ‘Nicks’ not to complete my degree at Southern Collegiate. The first not to make partner by thirty-five. The first not to marry the girl they’d lined up for me.
Just one click and poof… it would all be gone.
My finger hovers over the submit button.
Do I dare?
I’ve got to do it at some point, so why not now?
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I wince at my stupid phone. It’s not my father this time.
Asher calling
Ah, yes, Thatcher ‘Asher’ Hastings has been trying to call me since seven this morning, and every time I’ve forwarded it to my voicemail. Asher has always been one of my closest friends, but he’s part of the life I want to get away from.
The privilege comes with a power I no longer want.
Still, the phone buzzes and I know he’s a persistent motherfucker. If I don’t answer, he won’t stop, and honestly, I could use a distraction.
I click accept and bring the phone to my ear. “Yeah?”
“Finally.” Asher’s deep voice comes through sharp with frustration. “I’ve been calling you all morning. What the hell, man?”
“Been busy,” I mutter, staring at my laptop screen, rereading the transfer application that I know by heart.
“Busy doing what? Jerking off to your tragic life choices?” His tone drips with mockery. “Because your dad won’t stop blowing up my phone asking if I’ve heard from you.”
I lean back against the vinyl seat, making it squeak. “And what did you tell him?”
“That you’re probably being a dramatic asshole somewhere, which - surprise—seems accurate.” He pauses, and I can almost see him running a hand through his perfectly preppy hair. “Look, you know I love you like a brother, right?”
“Here we go.”
Asher ignores me. “Well, as your bro, I’m asking you to call your dad. Soon. I’m tired of making excuses for your sorry ass.”
A bitter laugh crawls up my throat. “That’s fucking rich coming from you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb, Asher. I helped you ‘kidnap’ that girl you’re obsessed with. The one who wants nothing to do with you, by the way. So maybe get off your high horse before lecturing me about—”
“That’s rich coming from you," he mimics back. "Remind me, didn’t you give your baby mama my name the night you impregnated her?”
I grip the phone tighter, my other hand crumpling up a napkin at my side. “Yes, but that’s why I’m here trying to fix my mistakes instead of throwing money at them. That’s more than I can say for you.”
Asher sighs. “Right, Saint Jamie. Should I nominate you for Father of the Year now or wait until you actually show up for her birthday? Tell me, was it worth leaving Honey for all this?”
The napkin is a ball now. “At least I’m fucking trying,” I hiss. “Unlike you. You were born with a platinum spoon so far up your ass it’s touching your tonsils and making you believe you can have anyone when clearly, they don’t want you.”
I hear Asher huff out a breath and silence stretches between us.
“You done?” Asher asks. He’s used to my outbursts by now. Sometimes I can’t help them. He’s the only person who knows the truth, which means he gets a hell of a lot more baggage than most.
“Probably not.” I rub my free hand over my face. “But I don’t have the energy to keep going.”
“Good, because you know I’m not the enemy here, right? I’m trying to help you. Your father won’t get any information out of me. I just want to help… monetarily, or otherwise.”
“I’m sorry, Asher. I know I’m being an asshole.” The admission tastes bitter on my tongue. “I just—” I break off, not sure how to explain the constant weight pressing down on my chest.
“What are you planning, brother?” Asher’s tone softens. “I need to know if you want me to access those secret funds we have.”
Ah, yeah, the accounts with all the money we used to use for those stupid bets we’d play in high school.
A timeout notification pops up on the screen.
Are you still working on your application?
You’ll be signed out in 60 seconds due to inactivity.
Tap “Continue” to stay logged in.
The timer is counting down.
“I’m going to transfer,” I say finally. “To St. Michael’s.”
“What?” The word explodes through the speaker. “Are you insane? Your father will—”
“Lose his shit? Yeah, I’m counting on it.” I move my finger across the trackpad to the ‘Continue’ button. “I’m done, Asher. I’m done with everything. I’m done letting him control every fucking aspect of my life. I’m done trying to fit into his legacy.”
I feel the last two words deep in my soul.
His legacy…not mine. It will never be mine. Not really.
“So, you’re going to give up everything for a daughter you only found out existed six months ago?” It’s not unkind. He’s hitting me with the reality of what I’m doing. What I’m choosing. No money. No support. Nothing.
I will have to somehow figure out how to make it on my own.
Just like Tiff.
“Look, I get it. You’re trying to do the right thing, but torching your entire future—”
“What future?” I interrupt. “The one where I marry a girl I don’t love, work at a firm I hate, and pretend to be someone I’m not?” I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “That’s not a future, Asher. It’s a fucking prison sentence.”
“Okay, but—”
“I found something that matters,” I cut him off again. “Something real. For the first time in my privileged, hollow life, I actually give a shit about something beyond the next party or my trust fund balance.”
“I get it. I just don’t know if the answer to your relationship with your father is running away to Indiana.” Skepticism drips from every word.
Heat rises in my chest. “I'm trying to be a father. To know my daughter. To—”
The bell above the door jingles before I can finish my sentence, and I glance up out of habit.
That’s when my heart stops.
Fuck.
What the hell is she doing here?
Tiff.
And what’s she going to think when she finds me here?
She’s going to think I’m stalking her. That I’ve been watching her every move since my plane landed, and although that’s kind of true, I don’t want her finding out.
I duck down, using one of the fake plants sitting on top of my booth as cover. Then I nab my Carolina Catfish baseball cap and shove it on my head.
I should leave. I should sneak out just as the waitress offers her a seat, but my body doesn’t move.
Instead, I find myself watching her.
She’s in jeans and an oversized sweater with her hair loose around her shoulders in the same way it looked that night. The night I met her. The night I apparently tried to forget.
Because my brain knew I’d never get anything better.
But, how do you forget someone like her? How does your brain just wipe the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen clean off the map?
Answer: it can’t.
I never forgot her. Not really. I just focused on surviving in the Nicks household and inflicting as much pain as I could on others. It was easier than admitting how broken and lost I was.
Tiff steps further in, and that’s when I see the little girl holding her hand.
Ella.
My daughter.
And just like that, the ground tilts. Something in my chest shifts, no, snaps, like tectonic plates realigning after years of pressure. I swear I feel it crack, right down the middle.