Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
“Tell him,” Margot demands, her voice practically a shriek. “Tell him, or I will.”
“That’s not your place,” Dad flares. “It’s your mother’s alone. Not yours, and not mine.”
But Margot heaves another broken sob, fresh tears streaming down her face as she rips herself away from me before throwing the door open, exiting before anyone can stop her.
The heavy French doors swing shut behind her.
“Dad?” I hear the warning note in my voice.
He sighs and walks to the desk. “I’m going to have a scotch. Join me?”
Like I have a choice—it’s hereditary.
This is how Scott Brightly learned to deal with his problems. Have a drink, a nap, and hope they go away in the morning. Too often, they do, all cleaned up by someone else willing to get their hands dirty.
It’s a habit of privilege I hate to admit he’s passed down, because I just nod and watch as he pours. He hands me a glass and we stand together in silence.
He sighs, looking as old as some of the books in this room.
“There was no delaying it forever. I suppose it was always inevitable.”
“What, Dad?”
“Your mom said you found the letter. Why in God’s name that old man ever stuffed it away instead of burning it like an intelligent person…”
“The letter, I—shit. Will you just tell me? Or do I have to ask her what the big goddamn deal is? It didn’t go well when we brought it up.”
“It’s hard for her,” he says raggedly, drawing a hand down his face. “There’s a reason she didn’t get along with the old man. All that friction, the distance, they had their reasons, Ethan. We all did.”
Friction, yeah.
Like I could forget.
The way Mom turned into a short-fused grouch before we’d leave for our summers with Gramps in Portland. She resented our trips away like a root canal.
But she wanted his money, so she let it happen.
That’s what I assumed.
I figured they must have had an understanding. Perhaps they argued over money at some point, or me and my sister, or some combination of the two.
And fuck, I hated the fact that she put money over family, again and again.
Why couldn’t she just talk to her father?
Why couldn’t they make peace and sort out their crap before it was too late?
Dad takes a long drink, and I sort through my thoughts, turning them over until I know I’m in control. Enough to speak and ask the right questions.
“Why did she hate him?” I ask. “I know Gramps thinks he screwed up. He said it in the letter we found.”
Dad stares blankly at the windows, our washed-out reflections staring back at us, his eyes heavy.
“Before I say anything else, Ethan, I want you to know,” he whispers. “I want you to know I love you.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I shake my head.
“It means you’ll always be my son.” He finally looks at me, sadness in his eyes. “But biologically… you’re not.”
Boom. Headshot.
“What the fuck?” I rock back like I’ve been punched, almost spilling my drink on the carpet. “What do you mean?”
Dad sets his empty glass on the desk, the lamp’s orange light spearing through the glass. “Your mother should be the one explaining this, if it weren’t so hard on her.”
My brain short-circuits.
I don’t understand.
He’s my father.
He’s always been there, ever since I was a kid.
They were married at least a year, maybe a couple, before I came along.
Sure, neither of my parents were particularly doting or deeply invested in me or Margot, but—
Shit, Margot.
Does that mean she’s not my full sister?
Only half.
I can feel my ego shutting down, refusing to accept it, stunned into silence.
“So Gramps’ letter to Mom is—what?” I demand. “Some fucking fight over an affair she had? Why? He helped her hide it? Dad, what happened?”
The library door swings open then.
Mom stalks into the room, just as teary as Margot, but her eyes are redder, her face thin and papery like it’s about to tear.
For the first time in years, she looks her age through endless spa treatments.
She holds both hands out, but I back away.
“Honey,” she says pleadingly.
“Don’t.” My voice is harsh, but fuck this. “Thirty damn years and this is the first time you tell me the truth? All because of some musty old letter I found?”
“It’s not what you think,” she hisses.
“You have no clue what I’m thinking.” I look between them, my gaze harder than steel. Then my eyes flick to Dad. “You always knew?”
He nods soberly, his expression pained.
Then he reaches for the scotch bottle, sighing as he pours another glass.
All these cracks in their perfect, gilded exterior.
All these terrible lies they weaved into my life.
Mom reaches for me, but I knock her hands aside.
“Explain it. Right the fuck now,” I bite off. “Did you cheat on Dad? Do I even call him that now?”