11. Cassian
Cassian
Some things never change, including the fact that my dad can’t cook. The man has been making food for himself for most of my life, and yet he still manages to undercook the rice and overcook the beans.
“Maybe while you’re laid up anyway, you can take some cooking classes,” I say, shoving another forkful of runny frijoles charros into my mouth.
My dad pins me with a look. “My cooking hasn’t killed you yet.”
I grab the hot sauce and douse my plate with it, then hold it out to him. “I just arrived. Still plenty of time.”
His scowl deepens, but the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly as he takes the bottle from me. “I’ve missed you, Cass.”
“Well, don’t get attached,” I say. “I’m only staying until you get rid of those crutches.”
He snorts and recaps the sauce. “Trust me, son. I’m counting the days.”
I grin down at my food, because even though the beans are the consistency of glue and I’ll be picking rice out of my teeth for days, it tastes like home. I didn’t realize how much I needed this until I got here.
“You didn’t tell me Vivienne is at the house,” my dad says, breaking me out of my reverie like a splash of cold water.
I take my time meeting his eyes, going back over his words for a hint of what he’s thinking.
He not only has the vision of a hawk, but also the uncanny ability to read between the lines in most situations.
It makes him an excellent estate manager and a shit father.
For once in my life, it would be nice if he were like any other oblivious parent.
“Didn’t know I needed to,” I finally say.
Dad’s gaze bores into me, but I keep mine fixed on my dinner. Let the old man think what he wants.
“I trimmed back most of the ivy on the south side,” I say before he can press the issue. “I’m hoping to have it done by the end of the week.”
Nodding, he says, “Be careful on the front. Lady Wilson likes it done a certain way.”
“Of course she does,” I mutter.
My dad points his fork at me. “You need to show more respect, son.”
“And you need to stop thinking they’re better than us.”
“I never said they were. But keep walking around with that chip on your shoulder, and it will come back to bite you one of these days.”
“Never met a chip that could bite,” I say, popping a tortilla crisp into my mouth. It’s storebought, thank god.
He shoots me an unamused look. “If your mother were here—”
“But she’s not, is she?” I toss my silverware onto my plate with a clatter. “Why do you always do this? Why do you make everything about her?”
“I wasn’t.” His sigh is long and heavy. “All I was going to say was that if she’d been here, your edges might be a little softer.”
I temper my glare, because I know he’s trying, but it sucks to be on the receiving end of it, and my day’s been shitty enough without all of this. “I like myself just the way I am. Having a mother wouldn’t have changed anything.”
Dad watches me for a few beats, probably trying to decide if this is worth arguing over.
My mum left when I was two, when she realized that he would never be able to give her the life she wanted.
I guess living in a thatched cottage on someone else’s land doesn’t do it for everyone, and she decided she’d rather leave her kid behind than stay.
Shaking his head, he turns back to his food. “Just make sure you’re careful with the ivy. Climb down often to see it from the ground. I have a sketch of what it should look like around here somewhere.” He reaches for his crutches, but I stop him with a hand on his arm.
“I’ll get it later, Dad. Just eat.”
The next few minutes pass in silence, broken by nothing but the scrape of our cutlery against the red-and-yellow ceramic plates, which have been in this kitchen as long as the beat-up wooden table we’re sitting at.
My dad’s chair creaks as he leans back and pulls a knife out of his pocket.
The motion brings back so many memories.
On instinct, I reach for the box on the fireplace mantle behind me and hand it to him.
Inside are a variety of chess pieces, all in various states of completion.
He rifles through it, then plucks out what will eventually be a bishop and starts carving.
I watch the tiny shavings silently fall onto the table, mesmerized by how quaint it all feels. Back in the city, even the silence is loud—sirens, music, traffic. There’s always something making noise, even when it feels quiet. Everybody’s in a hurry. It feels like a different world out here.
“I saw her earlier.” My dad’s voice breaks through the stillness, making me jump. There’s something hypnotic in the air out here; it lulls you into a state of serenity.
“Saw who?” My body tenses, afraid he’s once again bringing up my mum.
“Vivienne.”
I can’t tell if that’s relief or apprehension working its way through my muscles, but it’s certainly not pleasure.
Shifting back in my seat, I cross my arms. He’s not going to let this go until he has his say, so I may as well let him get it off his chest. “Glad your broken leg hasn’t affected your eyesight. ”
He sniffs loudly and picks up another piece from the box, tossing the other one back in. “She was riding up on the ridge. Looked damn pretty as ever.”
“I’m afraid she’s engaged, Dad. And much too young for you.” I give him an exaggerated wince. “Sorry.”
A half-finished pawn comes flying my way. I catch it easily and drop it back in the box with a chuckle. “Kind of walked into that one, old man.”
“You ever going to tell me what happened? The two of you were as thick as thieves once.”
I roll my eyes, wishing—not for the first time, and likely not for the last—that I’d stayed in the city. “You’re thinking of me and Bash.”
“I may be old, but I’m not stupid, Cassian. I know something happened between you and Vivienne. You can try to deny it all you want, but the two of you used to be close.”
“And now we’re not. End of story.”
He shakes his head as if he can’t believe he’s been stuck with such a knob of a son. “Did her fiancé come with her?”
My nostrils flare of their own accord as I pick at a loose splinter on the table. “No, she’s by herself.”
“She shouldn’t be at the house alone.”
I scoff and tip my chair back on two legs.
This is exactly the kind of thing I should have expected from him.
He’s stuck a hundred years in the past, before his own parents were even born, when men “protected” women and you could trust your neighbors.
The man doesn’t even use a computer and says that horses are better predictors of the weather than some bloody app.
I bought him a smartphone several years ago after I got a big bonus at work.
My guess is it’s still stuck in the drawer of his nightstand.
Since then, I’ve pretty much given up on him ever joining the real world.
“She’s fine, Dad.”
He flicks a wood shaving toward the table, but it misses and floats to the floor instead. “She’s exactly the kind of woman men like to prey on.”
An abrupt laugh rips from my chest. “Trust me, she’s tougher than she looks.”
“I thought the two of you weren’t close.” He says this without looking at me, but I feel the weight of his attention anyway, as if each word is being carefully loaded with ammunition before being shot at my heart.
“We’re not.” I set my chair legs back down with a loud crash.
My dad keeps his eyes on the piece of wood in his hand. “Then how would you know?”
“God, Dad. Would you let it go?”
“I’m not going to let it go. People change.” He gestures toward me with his knife. “You’ve changed.”
“And you haven’t,” I mutter, before standing up and stacking the plates.
“Well, since we’re not talking about me, I guess that doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Ignoring him, I carry the dishes to the sink and run the hot water. I just have to let the old man talk, and then I can get out of here. If I’m lucky, I can still sign up for a fight in town tonight. Hitting someone will be the perfect way to get my mind off everything.
I grab the soap from the cupboard and drizzle a little under the tap.
There’s a strange satisfaction in watching the suds form.
Bash hired a housekeeper shortly after we moved into the townhouse, and she comes a few times a week to wash dishes, do laundry, and tidy up.
It’s been forever since I scrubbed anything, and plunging my hands into the soapy water actually feels therapeutic.
“I want you to stay at the house with her.”
Dad’s voice startles me. The plate slips from my wet hands and drops back into the sink, causing bubbles to sail upward. “Shit,” I say. Fortunately, it didn’t break. I turn around so I can read his lips this time and pray I misunderstood him. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.” He doesn’t look up, his whittling suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
“No, I didn’t. The dishes were banging together.”
“You don’t need to be a nuisance. Just spend the night up there. Keep an eye on things.”
“Absolutely not.” Is the man insane? Turning back to the sink, I shake my head. There’s no way in hell I’m sleeping at the manor. I would rather feed myself to a python.
“I would feel better if someone was there,” he says.
“Then stay there yourself.” I slam a plate into the ancient drainer, which has rusted in spots.
My dad snorts. “I can barely hobble to the bathroom. I’d be no match for that staircase. Besides”—his words are emphasized by the thud of his knife hitting the table—“she’ll be much more comfortable with you than with me.”
I fight the urge to laugh, because he couldn’t be further from the truth if he tried. I’m confident Vivienne would be more comfortable with Donald Trump than with me. “Trust me, Dad. Viv doesn’t want me at the house any more than I want to be there.”
“It’s not about what anyone wants. It’s about safety.”
“I told you. She can take care of herself.”
He sighs, and for the first time, I’m struck by how old he sounds. I glance over my shoulder and notice the lines around his eyes and the increase in gray hairs at his temple. Not only is he aging, but he’s doing it alone.
“The point is that she shouldn’t have to,” he continues. “You don’t import a million-dollar breed mare from Germany, then treat it like a pack mule.”
I stop scrubbing. “Did you just compare Vivienne to a horse?”
He smiles and runs the pad of his thumb over his knife blade. “Somehow, I don’t think she’d mind.”
He’s right about that. Viv would consider it the highest honor. She loves her horses more than anything, except maybe Bash. And now Landon. Bile rises in my throat, and I press a clenched fist to my lips to keep it down.
A loud clatter provides the perfect distraction, and I turn around to find my dad halfway out of his chair, one crutch under his arm and the other on the floor. Drying my hands on a towel, I rush over and grab it before the old codger decides he’s Superman and tries to get it himself.
He brushes away my attempts to help him to his recliner. “I’m not dead yet, so you’ll just have to wait on your inheritance.”
“You’re insane.” After he’s settled, I prop his crutches against the wall.
“So you’ll grant me my dying wish?” he says, looking up at me with narrowed eyes.
“Not a chance. What do you want to watch?” At least the guy has a TV, even if it’s less than a third the size of the one Bash put in our living room.
He grabs the remote from my hand. “Not until you promise to stay with Vivienne.”
I groan and turn back to the kitchen. “Let it go, Dad.”
His hand clamps down on my wrist, and despite the hours I spend in the shop, the gym, and the boxing ring, I’m not convinced I could beat him in a fight. Years of manual labor have strengthened his muscles beyond anything you can get with a membership.
“Please, Cassian.”
I press my tongue into my cheek and shake my head. I should have known this would be a losing battle. His stubbornness has thirty years on mine, but I have to try, for the sake of my sanity if nothing else. “The family wouldn’t like me staying up there.”
“Pssh.” He waves away my excuse. “You’ve stayed with Bash plenty of times.”
An incredulous laugh slips out of me. “This is a little different than spending the night with my best friend when we were kids.”
“No one will even know,” Dad says, turning on the TV and flipping through channels. I haven’t been able to convince him to get Netflix, which he claims is nothing but trash television. He’s not half-wrong, but who wants to watch the news all night? Mateo Cordero, that’s who.
“What are the odds that you’ll let me finish the dishes and forget we had this conversation?”
He lets out a loud belly laugh, the kind that always makes me think of long summer nights around a bonfire, sparks flaring up before dying out. “Go ahead and try it.”
I shut my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. From the minute he brought up Viv, I should’ve known this was coming. Regardless of the situation, he always thinks he knows what’s best. Most of the time, he’s right. This time, though, his meddling is going to kick me in the ass.
Once the dishes are done, I pull my phone out. There’s an unread message from Bash.
Bash: Hey, Viv got the crazy idea to stay at Belgrave until the wedding.
Why the heck did he wait until now to warn me?
Me: Yeah, we ran into each other earlier.
Bash: Keep an eye on her, will you?
Me: Dude, she’s twenty-two. She doesn’t need a babysitter.
Why does everyone think Viv needs watching and that I’m the perfect candidate?
Bash: Just do it. You owe me.
Me: What the fuck do I owe you for?
He never replies, the little shit. And three hours later, I’m throwing my backpack onto the passenger seat of my car and driving up the road to the manor, praying Viv has already gone to bed.