Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Before I can speak, Lo wipes his hands with a dishtowel and asks me, “How old are your friends?”
I hang on the fringe of most “friendship circles” that I accumulated in college. I always preferred the other guys from Studio 9, but in this hypothetical scenario where he isn’t my boyfriend—I know more than a few people who’d be willing to date the hottest celebrity in town.
I want to say, he’s mine.
He’s mine, and I’m not sharing him with any fucking man or woman. I grit my teeth once and play along, “Around my age, twenty-seven.”
“No,” Lo says flat-out. “That’s too old.”
My jaw tics. “It’s only a five-year gap—”
“And my brother married a young girl with a seven-year age-gap—it comes with too many complications. Gotta nip that before it starts.” He points at Maximoff. “Heed the advice, bud.”
He wants easy for his son.
I make his everyday easier, but if we were together in front of his family and in the public, I’d be one of the most complicated choices of his life.
But I remember I’m with a steadfast, unshakable guy. Maximoff stares right at me with resilience and finality that says, I want you.
Only you.
33
MAXIMOFF HALE
After dinner and birthday cake, my dad asks to talk in private with me. We’re on the back patio. I flick on the pool lights so we’re not swamped in darkness.
I take a seat on the nearest patio chair, and he sits on the edge of a lounge chair.
“What’s up?” I ask.
My dad has this severe-cut face. All sharp lines. No soft features. When he’s serious or contemplative, he’s even more uninviting.
I’ve never feared him.
Even now, as his jaw sharpens and he pours his intense focus through me.
“I haven’t brought this up in a year,” he begins, “because I thought you needed time to sort through things yourself. But we have to talk about your hair.”
Fuck.
I run my hand through the light-brown strands. “It’s getting long, yeah,” I say, sarcasm thick. Dreading where this conversation may lead.
“Maximoff,” my dad says, truly serious when he uses my full name. “Just explain to me what’s going on. Where’s your head at?”
I like that my dad does that. Asks me before going down a cavernous path assuming shit. He gives me the chance to explain my side. And I don’t waste it.
Squeezing a water bottle in my tight hand, I say, “I don’t want to look like Uncle Ryke. I’m so…fucking sick of people comparing me to him.” I swallow a pit in my throat. “It’s every other day, Dad. If I don’t fight like him, then I’m wearing green underwear. It’s just complete bullshit at this point.” I uncap my water. “And before you say, the rumors will never go away, I get that. I’m not trying to convince anyone you’re my dad. I have DNA evidence. That’s not what this is about.”
He frowns deeply. “Then what is this about?”
My chest hurts, just having to stare him in the eye and utter these words. But it’s been a year, and it’s time to say them.
“It’s about people knowing that I love you,” I say strongly. “That you’re a good dad. That you raised me, and I’d be proud to be like you. But the more I look like him and act like him, the more they dissociate me from you.”
Why can’t my successes be associated with the Hale family? Is it so fucking hard for the media to believe that addicts can raise a good man? A good son?
My dad shakes his head repeatedly. Like I see the world from such a skewed lens.
“Moffy, I can’t think of anything worse for you than you being more like me,” he says clearly, plainly, unmistakably. A cold dagger pierces my gut. “The fact that you’re more like Ryke is my greatest achievement as a father.”
My nose flares. I grip my water bottle harder. Trying to restrain emotion that threatens to rock me. I don’t agree with him. I can’t agree, but he’s sitting here telling me that I turned out okay. Maybe that’s a compliment, but I just see my dad tearing himself down to build me up.
“I want to be more like you,” I say. “You’re a great person. The fact that you and the media can’t see it is a goddamn problem.” All they see is a recovering alcoholic. They wait for him to fail. They’re shocked and surprised when he succeeds. It’s fucking aggravating.
“You didn’t know me at my worst,” he reminds me. “The media did. And I’ve lived with myself too long to be disillusioned that the bad parts of me have just magically gone away. They exist inside of me, and it’s a daily battle that I’m glad you don’t share.”
I pinch my burning eyes.
“So will you stop with this?” he asks.
I drop my hand and breathe in flaming determination. “It’s not about what you think. It’s never been about what you think.” It’s about everyone else. He may see himself as a villain, but I won’t add to the demonization of Loren Hale.