CHAPTER 96
Troy
I FOUND OUT that Karl took an Uber to my apartment, laughing when he mentioned he’d just take one back to our dad’s house.
And as much as I wanted to avoid my father, I wasn’t going to not at least offer to take him back to the coastal house.
Of course Karl accepted.
The kid’s always been keen on me and Dad forming a peace treaty, a sneaky suspicion filling me wondering if this was his plan all along—hoping we finally hash out our differences while being stuck in a room together.
My assumption wasn’t too far off since as soon as I pull into our father’s roundabout driveway, Karl insists that I come in to watch a movie with Dad and him, so glad we’re speaking again that I overlook the notion and agree to join.
But when Karl strolls off to his room to change out of his workout clothes, the sound of a gruff voice near the kitchen startles me.
Puzzled, I trudge past the staircase and into the living room to find our grandfather seated across from our father at the large table by the television, a scowl lifting Dad’s face. Odd, when Stellan tends to make Gustaf look like he’s a ray of sunshine.
Stellan Larsson—Dad’s father—rarely makes us a visit, the one time we pretty much see the guy only if we fly over to him and his giant estate back in Sweden.
My back tenses up at what this could possibly mean.
Cautiously approaching them, the deep wrinkles on Grandpa’s temple merge with the ones sharpening along his high cheekbones, his grey frowning eyes still as intimidating at his old age.
“Troy, good, you’re here,” he greets without a smile. “Nice work at Skate America.”
There was zero sarcasm in his response, confusion and a whole lot of unfamiliar nerves building in my chest.
“Um, thanks,” I say, still spooked by the wildly uncharacteristic compliment coming from the guy.
Realizing my heartbeat’s picked up in anxiousness, I take a seat at the middle of the table.
“These many years later,” he says, “and you’re still at the top of your game.
A few of my investors were quite impressed by your work ethic.
Helping manage the company while still finding time for your sport.
” He turns to face me, meeting my gaze, and the move makes this whole conversation progressively more insane.
“That girl you brought over for the banquet,” he goes on, the words catching me so fucking off guard, “are you seeing her?”
“No,” I grit out, “she’s just my skating partner.”
“Good,” he says, sounding so pleased that the reaction ticks along my jaw.
“Keep it that way. You’ve done well. Yeah, it’s not hockey, but you have your own sponsorships and accolades.
Marriage is almost just as important as your future.
You have a future, and that girl doesn’t. Learn from your father’s mistakes.”
So the world hasn’t suddenly turned upside down. And my grandfather is still the same steely, emotionless guy.
“Excuse me?” my father huffs out in bitter anger before I even had the chance to say worse.
“I’m saying Troy should find a girl who can help him,” my grandfather explains like an arrogant shit, “not distract from his obligations, someone strong and useful.”
Rage pierces through my veins at his crass words.
And from the looks of it, Dad seems to agree—with me?
“What are you implying, Stellan?” he says, his voice low.
“That he shouldn’t marry weak, Son.”
My father crashes his phone against the mahogany so roughly my shoulders flinch at the bold and unexpected move.
“My wife was not weak!” Dad screams at my grandfather.
“Gustaf,” Stellan chides, his brows pulled together in distaste, “lower your voice.”
“I will not lower my voice when you come into my house and disrespect my family like this.”
“Your family?” My grandfather laughs all dry. “I am your family.”
“Then act like it,” my dad warns. “Or I suggest you leave.”
The way Stellan’s eyes twist is bone-chilling. “I gave you this house.”
“And then I bought it from you,” Dad says with a nasty smirk, “which makes this my house.”
My eyes dart between the two of them, astounded, speechless at how they’re speaking to each other, how my father is speaking to my grandfather, the one person Dad always obeys.
With a harsh tap over the wood, Stellan flies out his chair, storming out the room then—by the violent slam of the front door—out of the house.
Feeling like my feet are bolted in place, my eyes stay glued to the empty hallway. Still confused by my grandfather’s sudden appearance—in complete shock at the exchange I just witnessed—I shift around to face the table again.
When I focus back on my dad, the way his eyes have begun to roam around the grey walls, his brows creased in vacancy and a strange undertone of regret, my throat tightens.
Then he pops his gaze on me so abruptly that I nearly leap off my seat. His forehead softens. “She loved this house.”
What?
I don’t know why, but the sudden random comment—stacked on top of the eleven years Dad’s carried himself like Mom never even existed—makes me roll my eyes. “Which is why you changed everything about it?”
“Yes, dammit!” He smacks his weight against the arm of his chair, springing out his seat in frustration like that was an icebreaker, and I just failed to see it.
“I couldn’t stand to look at anything in here without being reminded of her, Troy!
” he continues before I’ve muttered another word.
“Her flowers! Her bookshelf! Her kitchen! Her Christmas ornaments! That damn tinsel she left over the staircase until February that drove me nuts! Her smell!” My father slams a palm over his leg with an agony I’ve never seen him show.
“When she died, I cleaned everything in this entire house myself. Did you know that?!”
I didn’t.
“I scrubbed the sinks, the showers, the bath—” his voice cracks, not able to finish the word that haunts us both, “—any and every surface, until my own hands bled and every inch of this place no longer had even a trace of orange peel. And do you want to know what every. Corner. Of. This. Fucking. House. Still. Smells. Like? Her.”
He sinks onto the floor with dread, staring at the empty coffee table where a picture of Mom used to shine.
“I removed her from our home, and yet, there isn’t a single room where her memory collects dust.” He grunts like he hopes that pushes out all the pain.
“I’d fucking sell this place if I knew she hadn’t loved it so much. It’s pathetic.”
“That’s not pathetic,” I say, my voice, my brain, all of it wired in shock at the things he’d never told me.
Then he laughs at himself, maybe not exactly a genuine laugh, but one that you release when a situation is so depressing crying wouldn’t even fix.
“I moved on because I couldn’t think of anything else that would work,” he says, and I can hear the unfamiliar desperation in his voice. “What was the point of hockey, what was the point of running a business, what was the point of anything once she was gone?”
Then you should have given a shit when she was alive.
The words almost leave my mouth but I stop myself.
What’s the point? My anger won’t change the situation, nor will it bring back the one person we wish could be here.
And we stand there—in the living room that feels colder all of a sudden—for some more moments, both remembering the shelves and space around us Mom brought life and color into, both still confused at how to move on.