Chapter 8 #2
I always enjoyed the Kensington Charity Galas before—pleasant enough, full of LA and Hollywood elite, the food divine since no expense was ever spared.
It bored me, yet I liked seeing the family together.
Asher makes it sound refreshing, thrilling even.
But if my father’s there, I can’t be. The thought of facing him ruins it.
It doesn’t matter that I “won’t have to talk to him.
” That promise feels like bullshit. I’ll show up and they’ll guilt me into conversation. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
“Listen, you fucking pussies,” I say, voice cracking with the mixture of bile and regret I didn’t know I still stored.
“Why aren’t any of you giving him more of a hard time?
He was gone from our lives for twenty-two fucking years.
His absence burned each of us differently.
I get that he was grieving Mom. I get that he started drinking because he couldn’t bear losing her.
But how do you explain never once trying to get help?
Just packing up and leaving us in the lurch?
Cam—of all people—you forgave him too easily.
You were the oldest, you should’ve been allowed to be a fourteen-year-old kid, not picking up his slack—giving up football, running the family. ”
Cameron shakes his head, hurt flickering in his eyes.
“You don’t remember it right, Roman. I helped, okay, but I never quit football to take care of you all.
I cooked, I cleaned—Rosa helped too. Grandparents did most of the parenting.
” He half-smiles. “Without that, I wouldn’t be the amateur chef I am today. ”
I blink back familiar tears—anger and shame mingling—“Bullshit,” I say. “You answered all our questions, even though you had no answers either. You became our counselor, our emotional rock. You couldn’t show your own grief because you had to be strong for us.”
“I chose that role,” Cam insists quietly. “No one forced me. It felt right, and I didn’t mind.” He lays a hand on my arm. Warmth rushes in, along with guilt. “What’s this really about, Rome?”
I avert my eyes. My throat tightens. “I just—he hasn’t earned our forgiveness.”
“Rome,” Max says, his tone gentle but firm, “Dad deserves a chance. Give that to him.”
Words slip out before I’m ready. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” My voice thins on the last words. “If it weren’t for you, we’d—” I trail off, mind rattling. Dammit. What was I going to say? Something so cruel. Something I wish I could swallow back.
Max’s eyes harden. “We’d what? Finish it, Roman. Say it.”
My pulse pounds. I stare at the ground, wanting the earth to swallow me. The words, though unspoken, echo in my brain.
Max steps closer. “You were about to say I caused all this. That if I hadn’t been born, Mom would’ve survived, Dad wouldn’t have gone off the rails, and we’d all be different men without that wound we all carry. Wasn’t that it?”
I can’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe not in so many words—but yes.”
Cameron’s face goes slack. “Roman. You weren’t going to say that, were you?”
I feel the weight of their stares. I choke on the truth. “I—” I break off, voice barely a whisper.
Connor, ever the reserved one, clears his throat.
“That’s out of line. It wasn’t Max’s fault.
Mom chose to carry him instead of getting treatment.
And you’re basically saying our mother shouldn’t have given birth to him—wish he’d never existed.
” His words sting, yet I know he’s right.
The conflict inside me twists tighter: guilt at blaming an innocent, relief that I didn’t actually say it, shame for thinking it.
I glance at Ansel, Max’s staunch defender, expecting him to pounce.
But he just gives me that look—the one that says “I’m disappointed in you”—and turns away.
“I’m out,” he says, voice flat. “Need to get away from this bullshit before I regret staying.” He points at Cam.
“Cam, no more frou-frou drinks. Get the Macallan.” He looks around.
“Who’s in?” Every hand except Cam’s shoots up, including mine before I even realize it.
“Okay, everybody, let’s go raid Cameron’s bar. ”
As the brothers drift back toward the house, I stand alone for a heartbeat, my body humming with conflicting impulses: the urge to follow them inside for the scotch, the urge to bolt and never show up at the gala.
A tight ache blooms in my chest. I hate them for wanting reconciliation, hate them for forgiving Dad so easily so that I’m on an island alone.
I hate myself for secretly craving reconciliation.
With a shaky breath, I follow, half-resentful, half-relieved, uncertain which feeling is stronger.
“Roman,” Kalen calls, reminding me he’s the only brother I haven’t heard from tonight. “Come on in. We’re on to the good stuff.”
I shake my head but can’t help feeling touched they still want me around after the awful things I nearly said to Max.
I never spoke them aloud, but thinking them was bad enough.
And Max hasn’t done anything wrong. But if he hadn’t been born, Mom might still be alive, Dad might never have abandoned us, and we’d have grown into different men, without those wounds or the fear of abandonment.
But would that life have been better? Maybe we all became driven professionals because we had something to prove.
If we’d been coddled in a “normal” family, perhaps we’d never have pushed ourselves so hard.
Who knows what trade-offs we made? Take Connor: he’s an A-list, Oscar-winning actor adored worldwide, but only because Grandpa shoved him on stage to conquer his shyness—which only deepened after Dad walked out.
Without that trauma, would he ever have acted?
I shrug. I’m terrible at these Sliding Doors scenarios—tweak one detail, and the whole world changes, often not for the better.
Still, I’m grateful Max exists. I hope he doesn’t think I regret his birth, because I don’t.
Connor was right: wishing Mom hadn’t died is the same as wishing I’d never had Max as a brother.
I step back inside to find them clustered around Cameron’s bar, finally drinking something real. Kalen hands me a neat Scotch. This is the true Kensington order—Grandpa sticks to Old Fashions, Cameron prefers fruity cocktails, and the rest of us are Scotch men.
I'm about to do something that feels like swallowing broken glass - apologize to Max. The words sit heavy on my tongue, bitter as aspirin. But would an apology even do the trick? I said what I said, each syllable a bullet I can't call back.
Before I can force the words past my clenched jaw, my phone buzzes. Miranda from Verde, her text practically radiating panic through the screen. Some A-lister throwing a tantrum that's escalating by the minute.