Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
ASH
Mom: Please don’t forget about your father’s birthday dinner tonight! He wants all his boys there!
I groan and let my head fall back so I can look at the kitchen ceiling.
My mom blasts me and my brothers with texts all the time, mostly about things that pop into her head—like if we’re eating enough fiber or if we’ve seen a news report on some wild boar on the loose in a town a hundred miles away.
Usually I can ignore it, but I can’t ignore this.
If I don’t show up, my dad will bitch about it whenever I do decide to come to a family gathering. But if I do show up, he’ll be pissed that I’m there.
There’s no winning. There’s just losing less, so I have to go.
“What’s up?” Jada asks when she enters the kitchen. She’s dressed for work in a pencil skirt that hugs her curvy hips and a bright, printed blouse.
“My dad’s birthday dinner is tonight and I forgot to put it on the calendar. Or I just blocked it out of my head,” I say.
“Shoot.” Jada frowns, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the pot I made. “I have work late today.”
“It’s fine—I’ll survive.” I stand up and stretch. “Dad isn’t big on his birthday so it’s usually just a casual dinner and not the big blowout parties that Mom likes to throw.”
“Wow, Delia showing restraint when it comes to a party?” Jada raises her eyebrows.
“Only my dad could bitch about her genuine, loving effort so much that she dials back.” I roll my eyes.
“Seriously, I can help you come up with an excuse if you don’t want to go. Maybe something about the bar opening and marketing?” She shrugs. Her sincerity is so sweet that it tugs at my heart, even though I’m mostly pissed at this upcoming party.
“It’s really fine. I have to suck it up or Dad’ll be even more pissed off at me than usual.” I back up against the cat tree in the corner, where CC has been sitting and watching me drink my coffee. He climbs onto my shoulder and sits.
“You don’t get along with your dad at all, do you?” she says, leaning her hip against the counter.
“He doesn’t like me. Never has.” I shrug the shoulder that CC isn’t sitting on and go to the fridge.
“What? He’s your dad. Surely he loves you.” Jada looks like I’ve told her my dad is from space.
“Technically, maybe. But not really.” I grab a cookie from Sarah Jane’s that I put in the fridge for safekeeping. “He has some duty as a father, like working and bringing in money. But he’s never given much of a shit about any of us besides JD.”
“Oh, Ash…”
The memory of Jada’s dad’s warmth when telling her that he was proud of her comes back to me, along with a stab of jealousy.
Even when my band’s songs topped the charts, I never got a nod of approval from my dad.
Just a tenth of the pride that Jada’s dad showed in that moment would have fueled me for years as a kid.
“Did you know he’s literally tone deaf?” I say. “All music sounds like noise to him. It’s pretty rare, apparently.”
“What? That’s wild.” She reaches over to pet CC, who butts his cheek against her fingers.
“Yeah. When I was just learning guitar—I was maybe six or so—I used to try to play for him. He’d always be annoyed, so I stopped trying to get his attention that way.
” I break the cookie in half and offer the other side to Jada.
“Then it motivated me to practice harder as a ‘fuck you’ to him. And to be different than my brothers. I didn’t want to fall into line. ”
I’ve had more time to think about the teenage me than ever recently, and the more I do, the softer I feel.
Was a lot of my behavior extremely cringy and annoying, especially to my brothers and mom?
Yeah. But I was fucking miserable a lot of the time and didn’t have the maturity to understand how to deal with that.
It’s still hard to deal with, even though I’m embarrassed to admit it at thirty-five years old.
Constant rejection from someone who’s supposed to love you isn’t something you can just forget about.
The nagging feeling of not being enough might follow me forever, even if it’s a tiny wisp of a thought in the back of my mind.
Jada murmurs a thank you and takes the cookie. She makes that nagging feeling fade and she doesn’t even know it.
We share the cookie and she heads off to work, leaving me to my own devices. I check my email and my mood plummets even more. A message from our manager (or former manager, at this point) requesting a meeting sits at the top of my inbox, starred.
The lawyer Dylan and I hired is still negotiating for us, occasionally asking us for files proving that we wrote the songs, or to sit in on a video call about the case. It’s swinging in our favor, inch by inch, but we haven’t spoken directly with Caro and Gordon yet.
Another email in the same chain, this time from Dylan, comes through.
He’s agreed to the meeting, so I can’t back out.
I check the calendar on the fridge, where I’ve penciled in a few Stryker Liquors-related things along with Jada’s events.
The date they proposed is the day after we’ll be in Nashville for Danika’s wedding.
I quickly reply to the email, agreeing to the date so I won’t put it off. Then, I dive back into my music to forget about it.
The song I’ve been working on is coming together.
Not feeling pressured to deliver it to anyone is making the process more freeing, the way it was before the band took off.
The progress I make keeps my mood up, even as the time for Dad’s dinner approaches.
I feed the cats, give each of them a few pats, and head to my parents’ house.
My brothers are already here, early. When I go into the house, I’m greeted by Bubba and Lady, who are holding either end of a long rope toy. I only hear male voices toward the kitchen. My brothers and mom are there, but Dad isn’t.
Mom doesn’t have a single hair out of place, as always.
Even the apron over her dress is clean, even though almost every spot on the massive island in the middle of the kitchen is covered in a dish.
She must have started cooking last night.
It’s a feast of everything Dad’s doctors suggested he not eat for his health.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Mom says, waving me over. She kisses me on the cheek. “You’re right on time. Let’s bring everything into the dining room.”
“Just us today?” I ask as I grab a plate piled with buttery biscuits and cornbread.
“Yeah. Rose is sick, Bianca’s in New York for her spa, and Katrina’s at a conference,” Wes says.
The way he says that Rose is sick sounds like she actually isn’t, but it’s a convenient excuse. I don’t blame her. Bianca travels a lot, so that’s not weird. Katrina, JD, and my dad had some conflict in the past, so JD purposefully keeps them apart unless absolutely necessary.
Once all the food is on the table and the dogs are secured outside of the dining room, Mom goes to get Dad. He lumbers in. He’s always been a big, broad man, but he’s lost a little weight since he’s retired. It doesn’t diminish the weight of his presence.
We tell him happy birthday and he murmurs a thank you before sitting down at the head of the table.
Old anger flares up inside me like a reflex. Why did he want us here if he barely acknowledges us?
Mom says grace, then raises her wine glass.
“To many more happy, healthy years,” she says with a soft smile. Dad, at least, gives her a small smile back and nods.
We drink to that, even though the idea of Dad ever having very healthy and happy years is up for debate. Then, we dive into the food. Fuck, it’s delicious. The kind of Southern meal I can’t get anywhere else, as authentic as they claim to be.
Mom asks Waylon how everything is going at the clinic, then Wes how things are going at the bar.
“And how about you?” Mom asks me. “How are you?”
I’m not sure whether she means in general, or just with the company. The company is the safer route.
“Good,” I say, and that’s true. “I’m in the marketing department now and it’s been my favorite so far.”
“They do good work,” JD says, breaking his silence. “That campaign for the mocktails you’ve been working on looks like it’s doing well.”
I don’t know what to say to that—is it sort of a compliment?
“And your band?” Mom adds.
I choose that moment to take a big bite. Mom still only knows the basics, and I haven’t updated her yet. At least I have good news.
“Things are going well with the legal battle. We have a meeting in Nashville in a few weeks, so hopefully we’ll be able to resolve everything. Might get our royalties soon,” I say.
“That’s great, Ashley,” Mom says with a smile.
“At least you’ll get a little something out of that experiment,” Dad says. The first thing he’s said this whole meal.
Nothing I do is ever right, is it? I’m working for the family business, which is presumably what he wanted me to do at some point. But he doesn’t have shit to say about that.
“Royalties pay out for years,” JD says. “It’s not insignificant.”
“I don’t need you to explain royalties to him,” I snap, then feel embarrassed. Then confused. Why is JD of everyone coming to my defense?
“Fine, I won’t say shit next time, then,” JD says. There’s the old him I expected. I’m still disappointed, though.
Fuck, I need to get it together. Why are my feelings being torn in a thousand directions?
“All I’m saying is that he could have avoided whatever legal stuff he has going on if he’d stuck with something reasonable.” Dad shrugs and butters a biscuit.
JD locks eyes with me, his jaw tight. I don’t want to draw whatever this is out any longer, so I just eat.
The brief dispute is awkward enough to taint the rest of the meal. Mom tries to fill up the silence with updates about her volunteer work and questions about Waylon and Bianca’s wedding coming up soon.
Once we’re done, Mom stands.
“Ashley and JD, you two will wash the big dishes. Together.” She gives us a pointed look. “Wesley, you’ll handle drinks. An after-dinner cocktail and some coffee. We’ll have it in the parlor. Waylon, please give Lady and Bubba a treat and a quick walk for a potty break.”
Those are the rules—Mom cooks, we clean up and get ready for dessert. But usually she doesn’t give us such direct instructions.
We can’t rebel against her, so we go to the sink.
Wes goes to the corner of the massive kitchen where my parents’ bar cart and coffee machine are.
JD starts washing, handing me dishes in silence to dry.
Mom expects us to talk it out, but I don’t know what to say.
I can’t even articulate my feelings right now anyway.
“Why’d you jump down my throat for coming to your defense?” JD asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
He scrubs some grease off a pan that held fried chicken, then hands it to me. I towel it off and put it on a mat to finish drying. He lets the silence sit, which gives me time to organize my thoughts.
“The words sounded sincere but I wasn’t sure if there was more to them,” I finally say. “Part of me still wonders why you’d come to my defense when most of our relationship has been nothing but conflict.”
JD nods, putting more soap on the sponge.
“I understand. And a lot of the origin of the conflict is my fault.” He scrubs another dish, his brows furrowing as he scrubs.
“The only thing I can say is sorry, even though that’s not nearly enough.
I was harsh on you when we were kids. I had a misguided sense of superiority when I should have realized you were hurting and lashing out because of it.
I can see it now with your relationship with Dad. ”
I rest my hands on the counter because I don’t know what to say. I never expected an apology from him, ever. Or that he’d see exactly what was going on, even in retrospect. I feel too exposed, even though I appreciate the fact that he’d say all this when he doesn’t have to.
“Thank you. But we were kids,” I say eventually. “It’s not like we were mature enough to understand that.”
“Yeah, but we aren’t kids now. We don’t have to be enemies.” He methodically scrubs a sheet pan with more focus than I’ve ever done in my life.
“You mean you want to hang out?” I ask, both of my eyebrows shooting up. “And do what?”
JD rests his hands on the edge of the sink, his brows furrowing. “I hadn’t thought that far, to be honest. I didn’t think I’d get to this point.”
I snort. “Wow, great.”
“Well, what would you want to do?” he asks. The back door opens and Bubba and Lady come trotting in. Bubba makes a beeline straight to JD, snuffling his hand. “What do you do on the weekends?”
“Uh, hang out with Jada. Work on my music. Sometimes we go to the movies or Sarah Jane’s or the park or something.” I give Bubba a pat on the side, then Lady nudges him out of the way for her turn. “What do you do?”
“Similar things, but with Katrina. We take Bubba for hikes.”
“Do y’all want to come to our place for dinner? Like just us?” Wes asks, finally dropping the act that he’s not eavesdropping. “Waylon and I do that all the time with our friends, but we can do brother shit, too.”
“Who’s doing what?” Waylon asks, coming into the kitchen. The dogs abandon us and go to him.
“We’re all hanging out because JD and Ash decided to stop fighting all the time,” Wes says, pouring water from the kettle into a French press with practiced ease. “So we should grill or something.”
Waylon blinks. “Oh. That’s great. We should really do that.”
I rake a hand through my hair, reaching new levels of relief that I didn’t know I could feel. Waylon’s initial iciness after marrying Jada was more painful than I want to admit. We exchange a look—Jada hasn’t come running to him, unhappy, so I guess he wants to mend that little rift, too.
The four of us, hanging out. We haven’t done that since we were children and were forced to be in the same space.
Maybe this could be a good thing. It might be exactly what I need to keep moving forward.