Chapter 9
NINE
As far as I was concerned, there were three types of people in the world. Diamonds, turds, and those who were both. They could be great, or they could be terrible. Most people fit into the middle category.
My father fell firmly in the turd category, just like Preston Martin Charles III.
I was busy packing for the retreat—I still didn’t know how I’d been talked into it—when my father called for his monthly chat. I’d been distracted, wondering if I should take two pairs of underwear for each day, and I’d answered the phone without looking to see who was calling.
“Nathan,” my father said by way of greeting. That was it. Just my name.
I scowled at the phone as I held it away from my face, as if it were the phone’s fault he was such a pain, then adopted my most “you can’t hate me because I’m too bland to hate” voice. “Father.”
I’d taken to calling him that as a teenager.
Father. He wasn’t a dad. Not like the dads of other kids my age.
He never showed up for school events except when I was on the football team and made it fairly far into the playoffs.
I wasn’t one of the best players, but I wasn’t one of the worst. He stood next to the fence—Andrew Cooper was too important to sit on bleachers—and watched the plays.
We won. After the game, all he said was “you didn’t play much. ”
I shrugged. By then, I knew the routine with him. “No, I agreed. I’m only half good.”
“You could be better if you applied yourself.”
That had been his typical mantra. You don’t apply yourself, Nathan. You don’t put in a full effort. If you did, your life would be easier.
I did apply myself. He just didn’t see it, and he certainly didn’t care about the things I applied myself toward. When I called him to tell him my first book had been picked up by a publisher—one of the big ones—he’d been noncommittal.
Are they going to put money behind advertising it? What sort of book? Is it a finance book?
When I told him it was a horror book, he’d immediately lost interest and said it was a nice hobby. Of course, that had been followed by the sentence I dreaded most. When are you going to get a real job?
I’d stopped telling him about my writing career right then and there.
My mother would have been proud of me. Actually, she would have been beside herself with joy.
She would have told all of her friends. Horror—movies and books—had been something we both loved.
My father called it drivel. The only thing horror was better than in his book was romance, which was for empty-headed women.
My mother had loved romance books too. He’d told her over and over again that romance was for people with their heads in the clouds.
That hadn’t stopped her from reading it, though.
Like me, she simply stopped talking to him about it.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked when the silence had stretched for too long.
Only then did I realize I’d been lost in my head, a sea of annoyance flowing around me.
“Sure, but not too long,” I replied. “I’m packing.”
“Oh?” Now he sounded interested. “Are you finally moving to the city? That’s great.”
The city. There was only one city he could mean by that. New York City. The city was as much of a part of him as his fancy-schmancy degree and architectural business.
“No,” I replied. I no longer braced myself for his disappointment.
It didn’t matter. The only reason I hadn’t gone no-contact with him was because, if my mother had been alive, it would have made her sad.
On her deathbed, she’d insisted that there would come a time when I’d realize my father was a good person with a few rough edges.
She’d always made excuses for him. I would never do it again.
I did keep up contact for her sake, though. I just didn’t get emotionally invested.
“I just bought a house in Savannah,” I replied. “The Landings.” Why did I throw in that last part? I couldn’t be sure. I had a sneaking suspicion it was because I knew what his response would be.
“Oh, I’ve heard of that. At least if you’re going to stay down there, you’re going with a quality place. I’ve heard good things.”
And there it was. I knew he would appreciate the fact that I’d chosen The Landings. I wanted to scream that I didn’t do it for him, but I didn’t. Instead, I said what I knew would irritate him.
“I have friends here. It seemed like the thing to do.”
“Well, why you did it isn’t important. It’s a good choice.”
Silence.
“Did you need something specific?” I prodded when the quiet became annoyingly awkward.
“I’m just curious what you’re packing for if it’s not a move. A work trip? North, perhaps?” He sounded weirdly excited at the prospect.
“No. Actually, it is a work thing, but it’s a writer event. We’re going to a retreat at a campground.” I grimaced at the word. My father was not going to appreciate hearing about a writer’s retreat. That was not real work in his book.
“I see.” His voice was laced with disdain. “Well, that sounds fun.”
“I’m really looking forward to it,” I lied.
“How long will you be there? I was thinking, perhaps, I can come to visit you.”
The silence that followed was deafening. “Um… you want to visit me?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. You’re my son. It’s not as if you visit me. I guess I’m going to have to be the one to make time in my schedule.”
He left off ‘even though you spend all your time futzing around with your computer and I have a big, important job.’
“I’m not sure if I’ll have time in the next few weeks,” I replied. “I have a lot of events scheduled.” I’m also secretly in a relationship, not that you’ll ever know about that. “Maybe in the fall or something.”
“Nathan, I would like to get down there before then.”
“Well, I’m not sure when I’ll have time. Let me check the schedule, and I’ll get back to you when I have an opening. You’re just looking for one day, right?”
“I was thinking maybe a week.”
I almost fell off a cliff. “A week?” All the time we’d spent together since my mother’s death didn’t equate to a full week. “What’s going on?”
Suddenly, he sounded defensive. “What makes you think something is going on?”
“You’ve never wanted to spend a week with me before.”
“Don’t be melodramatic. Of course I have.”
“No, you haven’t.” If he wanted to lie to himself, that was on him. I was not going to sit here and listen to him lie to me, though. “Not ever.”
“Well, things change.”
“And what’s changed this time?”
“Nothing you need to worry yourself with. I just thought it would be nice to spend time with my son.”
What a load of crap. He was probably gearing up for another long spiel about how I was a terrible kid and I’d disappointed him on every level. He would try to get me to do something productive with my life, even though I’d never asked the man for a dime other than for my college tuition.
“I’ll have to get back to you,” was all I managed. “I have to look at the schedule.”
“When do you think that will be?”
I gave him the answer he wanted. “Just as soon as I can.”
brODY FOUND ME STANDING OVER MY suitcase shortly after seven o’clock. We left for the retreat tomorrow, and I wasn’t yet packed.
“I came over for a drink,” Brody complained when he saw the mess. “How are you not ready yet?”
I pinned him with a dark look. “Um, how are you ready?”
“I’m always ready.”
“Yes, you are a bit of an uppity pain. You probably put your packing list together weeks ago.”
Brody’s cheeks flushed with color, but he didn’t respond.
“Sorry,” I said automatically.
It wasn’t Brody’s fault I was annoyed. No, that was because of somebody else entirely.
“My father called.”
“Ah.” Understanding dawned on Brody’s features. He had a difficult father too. He knew how it went. “What did he want?”
“He wants to come visit.”
“Seriously?” Brody’s nose wrinkled as he considered it. “That doesn’t sound like him. What do you think he wants?”
“Nothing good.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that I would get back to him once I have a look at my schedule.”
“And are you going to get back to him?”
I snorted. “No. He’ll forget all about me in five minutes and schedule something else. It will be fine.”
Brody’s hesitation caused me to drop the boxer shorts I was eyeing. “What?” I demanded.
“It’s just, my father has always been as bad as your father. It’s one of the things we bonded over.”
“So?”
“So my father and I have been getting along better lately.”
True. Brody and his father weren’t spending time together every Sunday bonding over football and beers, but they had been making an effort to spend more time together of late. It seemed to be going well.
“We don’t all get a new father when we hit the age of thirty,” I replied on a sigh. “He’s never going to change.”
“Okay.” Brody held up his hands in supplication. “I get it. Trust me. I understand. What I don’t understand is this.” He gestured toward the open suitcase. “How can you have two pairs of boxer shorts packed, and that’s it?”
“I have a brand-new toothbrush ready to go too.” I grinned at him, knowing my disorganization would drive him crazy, then sighed. “It’s not a big deal. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to pack for a camping trip.”
“It’s not real camping,” Brody pointed out. “It’s cabin camping. That means anything you would take to a hotel is on the menu.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but that’s what Bree told me when I started panicking about packing.”
“Is she sure?”
“No, but she pointed out that we’re going to be thirty minutes from downtown. If we forget something, stores will still exist.”
Weirdly, that made me feel better. “Bree has it together when she wants to, doesn’t she?”
“She really does.” He grinned. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“So sappy.” I flicked his ear then moved around him. “So, I’m thinking we need to pack one pair of underwear for every twelve hours. Does that sound about right?”
Genuine confusion had Brody’s forehead creasing. “Um… what are you planning on doing with this underwear?”