2. War
CHAPTER TWO
war
Dallas, Texas
December
I stand in the doorway of my father’s study, biting my tongue as he rakes my sister over the coals. Again.
Tuesday’s anguished face is clearly displayed on the oversized screen mounted to the wall, dressed up like she’s at a fundraiser or something—as are the others in the frame. Suits. Gowns. The ambient noise of partygoers. What catches my attention, though, are tears. Tears blurring eyes identical to my own.
Despite being twins, Tuesday and I have never been close. For thirty-three years, our parents manipulated us and found ways to pit us against each other. Even so, we tried to do what they asked, but Tuesday’s effort has never been enough for them.
Meanwhile, I’ve benefited from this arrangement.
Tuesday’s words to me when I called to check on her in October, when all this ugliness came to a massive head, echo in my mind. I hear them daily. “ You’re right, War; we are family. I wish you’d kept that in mind before you determined I was worth less to you than the company... What I need right now is space and time. Please don’t contact me.” My gut twists at all the ways I’ve let her down, hurt her. I don't begrudge her for wanting nothing to do with me.
Tuesday thinks I don’t see how our parents, and my father in particular, treat her, but it’s so much worse because I do. I’ve just been too much of a coward to defy him, and I hate myself for it. Our entire lives, I’ve played the role of the perfect Phillips heir. Backing my father’s plays, putting my wants aside to learn the business and be everything he expects.
By nature, I’m a problem solver. It’s my role in the company, and it’s something I pride myself on. When that asshole, Duncan fucking Wright, managed to increase the disdain my father has for his daughter, I had to find a way to protect her.
Even though I knew she’d hate me and see it as a massive betrayal, sending Tuesday to Trail Creek, New Mexico was the correct choice. She needed to get out of Dallas, away from our parents and Duncan. Hell, away from me. There have always been bigger and better things waiting for Tuesday, and sending her to New Mexico helped her realize it. As days passed into weeks, I watched her from seven hundred miles away, using the snippets she posted on social media to keep track of her. And what I saw was my sister bloom.
But what I’m hearing tonight is too much. It’s proof I haven’t done enough.
My father’s angry voice pulls me out of my head as he threatens to cut her off. The two volley back and forth; Tuesday balks and calls him out, but Warren Phillips ups the ante, promising to sell off the company we recently purchased from her new family.
Before I can speak up, a group surrounds my sister, a wall of support and love and everything I should be for her. The Davis family gave—gives—her things her blood family never has. As each person she’s pulled into her light steps up, another boulder lodges in my chest, a heavy reminder of my failings. You’re a disgrace, War.
Tuesday pleads with our father, offering to buy the company, promising to disappear. Then Dad says the words that break the dam inside me: “Your mistake is thinking I’d ever allow you a win.”
The way he sees it, we’re not his children—we’re assets, leverage in his endless game. And god help anyone who tries to step off his board.
With a steadying breath and a quick whisper to the universe that my father buys what I’m selling, I move into the room, pushing past my parents. “Tuesday, I’ll act as a proxy for you.”
Shock flickers across my sister’s face, replaced by a mix of hesitation and something that might be hope. Her hands, which had been wringing in her lap, freeze before she presses them together as if bracing herself.
“Wh-what? War, what are you saying? H-have you been there the entire time?” She falters, and the vulnerability of her words somehow cuts deeper than any of Dad’s words ever could.
Ignoring my father’s stern glare, I say, “I’ve been here long enough.” And I don’t just mean tonight.
My mother tuts from the expensive settee, her disapproval palpable. She doesn’t need to say anything; the narrowing of her eyes is enough. Her support of my father’s antics is quieter but no less poisonous, a reminder that her complicity in his unhinged plans means Tuesday and I only have each other—and I’ve left her alone for years.
The entire situation would be absurd, like something out of a soap opera, if it weren’t so disgusting. Our father agreeing to pay Duncan Wright, the lying, manipulative asshole who threatened to sue our company, a million dollars is bad enough. Trying to marry Tuesday off to him after he violated her privacy and attempted to blackmail her—all to salvage the company’s reputation and save face among his peers—is even worse. But never in all my imagined worst case scenarios and worst worst case scenarios did I see my father sending that prick to Trail Creek to try and make Tuesday come home.
Dropping by my parents’ house was pure coincidence, but I’m thankful for it. Who knows when I would have heard Mom and Dad’s twisted version of what’s happening here tonight.
As always, it comes down to money and image with Warren Phillips. He’s used both to twist and mold Tuesday and me into a caricature of a family. He cares more about what people think and his bottom line than he does for either of us. I’ve always been a better pawn than Tuesday, willingly shuffled along at his whim.
She’s so much braver than me. Seeing her hold her ground against our father reinforces that.
Tuesday’s nose wrinkles. “War, you can’t act as my proxy, and you know it. They’ll never let you.” Is she saying this to urge me on or preparing for me to crumble under the pressure?
“Don’t worry about me.” Doubt pools in my gut despite the confidence I’m projecting. Can I pull this off? If I fail her again, I’ll never forgive myself.
My father’s voice, ice cold, slips over me. “War, what’s gotten into you? You dare turn your back on your mother and me? On the company? After all I’ve given you?”
Straightening my tie, I smirk, letting the warmth leave my eyes. I put every bit of conviction I possess into my words. “ Don’t take it personally, Dad; it makes perfect sense from the business side. I’ve already messaged my idea to several board members, and they love it.” I get entirely too much pleasure from the way the color drains from my father’s face.
And yet, it doesn’t feel like the victory it should. It’s one thing to fight him with the weapons he taught me—manipulation and leverage—but what does it say about me that I can wield them so effortlessly? Shit, maybe I’m more like him than I want to admit.
“What idea?”
“To sell Davis Designs back to the Davis family with Tuesday as the purchaser.”
“Why would you do that?” He sounds like the snake he is, the words hissed from between clenched teeth.
I have to convince him I have the necessary votes in my pocket. Without missing a beat, I say, “Some of the more vocal shareholders are less than thrilled about bringing a person who sued our company back into the fold.”
Dad blanches, then barks, “How would they know about that?”
Outside, I’m nonchalant, but this is it. He’ll either buy the story—and for once, Tuesday will get the win she deserves—or he’ll call my bluff, and I’ll fail her again.
I dust a nonexistent piece of lint from the cuff of my jacket. “Perhaps someone let it slip that you and Duncan came to a less-than-savory, off-the-books agreement. Maybe that same someone raised concerns that we stretched ourselves too thin expanding into neighboring states and that it would be best for our ROI if we refocused on our local market.” Dropping the bored tone, I let an ounce of the anger that’s festered in me for years break through. “And who better to purchase our failed out-of-state venture than your daughter? Spreading her wings with the approval of her…” The next words taste bitter, like the lie they are. “Loving father. It’s a compelling story.”
From the screen, I hear a snort. Tuesday knows how much bullshit I’m spouting right now, but I can’t let it derail my momentum. Coughing to cover a laugh, I say, “At a ten percent increase, of course.”
“Of course,” Tuesday readily agrees, a smile tugging at her lips along with a flicker of something. Gratitude? She’s so used to standing alone against our parents; it’s no wonder she doesn’t know how to process me standing with her.
It’s dangerous, lying about already having board members on my side, but Dad is cracking. And when I do disclose what he’s done, the board will be on my side. I won’t let his ego and warped sense of family hurt Tuesday anymore, and if I have to pull a thousand strings, owe a thousand favors to make this go through, then that’s what I’ll do.
With a wave of anger I’m sure to feel the wrath of for months to come, my father storms from the room, my mother in his wake. I can’t pretend I care. Instead, I give my attention to the one person I should have been here for—the person I’ve let down and hurt more than anyone else.
I’m more than ready to balance the scale I’ve let tip out of whack. I owe her years’ worth of amends.
“Tuesday, Trail Creek looks good on you. It’s nice to see you with so many people who love you.” I mean it; she looks settled. A stab of jealousy flickers in my chest. I want that.
“Thank you. How did you do this? And why?” she asks quietly, her question simple but weighted.
Swallowing, I think of the answer I gave Bond Davis, the man who loves my sister, when he asked me a similar question. “Sometimes families make difficult choices that are hard to explain?—”
“But truly are in everyone’s best interest,” Bond and his father, Scott, finish.
The people who have become the family she deserves study me through Tuesday’s phone camera, their piercing stares cutting the distance between us to nothing. Leaning into the camera and covering my discomfort, I say, “What they said. And don’t worry about Mom and Dad. I’ll ensure the board accepts your offer, and they’ll be pretending none of this ever happened before the ink dries on the contract.” I will make this happen for her, no matter what it costs.
“Thank you, War.” Tuesday hesitates, her voice hitching as if unsure of her next words. “It might be nice if you came and visited. See why I love it here so much.”
My heart aches, and I quirk my lips in a half-smile. “I may take you up on that.” She doesn’t mean it, though. Not really. Not yet. But I planted a seed tonight. One I can hopefully help grow into more. I’ve missed out on so much. I don’t want to miss her wedding. The chance to be Uncle War. The chance to get to know my sister.
I slump into my father’s chair, staring at the now-empty screen. The truth is, I’ve always envied Tuesday, not for her struggles but for her courage. Helping her now feels like the start of making amends, but maybe it’s selfish. Am I doing this for her or me?
The thought gnaws at me, and I push it aside, grabbing a scotch from the cabinet and granting myself a healthy pour. I just fired the first shot, and I’m smart enough to know Warren Phillips won’t take it lying down. Tonight, I’ll let the alcohol dull the what-ifs swirling in my head. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with the fallout.
I focus on my form as I slice through the water like a blade. The last few days have been fraught with behind-the-scenes negotiation and promise-making to square away the deal I made with Tuesday, but it’s worth it. Getting everything settled for her is a small drop on the positive side of my karmic balance.
The board members and shareholders were less than impressed with Dad’s plan to bring Duncan back after the shit he pulled. They were, thankfully, content with the increase in the sale price. My father has been a spiteful dick, but I expected it. We’ve been locked in a brutal battle since the night I snaked Davis Designs out from under him. And supported Tuesday.
He’s threatened to fire me, disown me, and more. I’m getting a small taste of what Tuesday dealt with for years. Outright disdain, hostility, and snide comments about how much of a disappointment I am.
God, I’m such a fuck up. I should have stood up for her so long ago, but it was easier to keep my blinders on and pretend we were the happy family our parents paraded before shareholders and the Dallas elite. To fall into the role my parents expected me to play. I wore the mask well, and despite it being suffocating, I refused to remove it. But now that I have, I can see so much more.
Pushing my body, I swim faster. This is the only time my head clears, the only place I’ve ever found peace. I swam throughout high school and college. My parents allowed it because it looked good to have an athlete in the family, but once I graduated, my father did everything he could to squash my enjoyment of the sport. Reminded me of how time away from work was time wasted, and if I was going to take over Phillips Construction, I had to be better. Smarter. The biggest shark in a sea of them.
Today, though, I’m where I belong. Swimming like it hasn’t been ten years since I last trained. Swimming like my life depends on it. Harder than I ever pushed myself in a race. If I move faster, can I outrun my guilt and failures? My loneliness? Can the chlorinated water dilute my memories?
It’s funny how clarity can make you look back and realize how foolish you’ve been. Hindsight and all that. I’ve spent thirty-three years going through the motions of a life that is perfect on paper. Years being my father’s yes-man. The tailored suits, the corner office, the six-figure career—none of it matters. Not when I go home to an empty apartment, drink alone, and wonder if anyone would notice if I didn’t show up tomorrow.
I flip under the water, kick off the wall, and push myself beyond my limits. This is supposed to clear my head, not mire me deeper. Swim faster. Push harder. Outrun the thoughts.
What if I’d stood up for Tuesday years ago? My shoulders and thighs scream, but I press on, the laps endless as I work the self-loathing and doubts out of my body.
Lap thirty.
Would I be stuck fighting for a share of a family business I’m not sure I want? I suck in ragged gasps, and my left shoulder throbs, impacting my stroke.
Lap thirty-five.
Would I have more than a shattered relationship with my only sibling? My lungs burn, and my arms are leaden, but stopping is surrender. So, despite the discomfort, I push.
Lap forty .
The water isn’t washing away my guilt; no, it’s drowning me in it. Then, with one wrong pull, pain, sharp and searing, radiates down my arm. I grit my teeth, stubbornly refusing to give up.
One more stroke. One more lap.
It’s too much to fight, and I slow, drifting to the wall, chest heaving as I clutch my shoulder. Just a strain, I tell myself, as I knead the muscle. Hauling myself from the water takes three times as long as it should, and it’s then I know I’m going to need more than some ibuprofen and a good night’s sleep to shake this off.
But it’s no less than I deserve.