My father is quick to answer. “Ryke asked me a simple question that day. Would you like to tell him, Ryke?’
“Fuck you,” Ryke sneers.
“I suppose not.” He takes a small sip from his drink, smacking his lips before he continues. “He asked me if I could take back the day that I f**ked your mother—take back having you—would I?”
My throat goes dry, not expecting that. I think I know his answer. Because even in his hatred, his bigotry and vileness—there is one fact that my father has never let me question.
He loves me.
And it’s a f**ked up love. Ryke is right. It does mess with my head. And it’s something I have so much trouble walking away from. Sometimes I don’t want to. Other times, it’s all I dream about.
My father’s eyes hold this unbridled clarity, unwavering from mine, the haziness of his drink gone to honesty. “I told Ryke that I would do it all over again. I have zero regrets, in this lifetime or the next.”
Zero regrets.
That’s what I pick out from that. Zero regrets. Not even when he grabbed me by the neck, not when he called me a shitty f**k at ten years old. Not when he made me feel like I was never good enough to be his son. Zero regrets.
Right.
No one says anything more at first. Ryke is probably worried that I resent him. He wished I wasn’t alive. But truth is, I kind of did too. Until I looked at Lily. Until I talked to her. I don’t think I could have survived this life without that girl.
I redirect the conversation to Hale Co., which my father only likes to discuss in small quantities. The company took a minor hit in comparison to Fizzle, but he’s still working on launching a new baby product. Something about cribs. It’s ironic that the world’s worst dad has a fortune from baby things, but since it was my grandfather’s business first, it makes the irony less valid. Unless he was an alcoholic a**hole too.
The burgers arrive when he says, “This marriage helps Fizzle, but do you know what would really benefit Hale Co.?”
Ryke freezes, the lettuce falling out of his bun.
I must be slower because I don’t get it. “What?”
My father cuts through his burger with a knife, juices oozing out. His eyes find mine. “It’s a baby merchandize company. Babies would help.” I can’t breathe. “Little Hale babies in little Hale onesies. It would be great goddamn marketing.” He takes a bite of his burger. “You can’t beat that.”
“No,” I say instantly. My blood feels like it’s on fire. I have been coerced into marrying Lily. I’m not going to have children because my father tells me to. There has to be a line somewhere.
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I said no. Not now. Not in a f**king year. Not ever.”
My father sets down his silverware and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Is this a new development?”
“No.”
“Is something wrong?” he frowns. “Are you sterile?”
“For fuck’s sake,” I snap. I didn’t think I’d have to discuss this with him. “I don’t want kids. It’s not because I can’t have them. I don’t want them.” I don’t want them to turn out like you. Or me.
Ryke stays quiet, but I can tell he’s processing. The only person I told was Lily. That’s the only one who mattered.
“You’ll change your mind,” my father says like he knows me so well. He picks up his knife again. “And it’s okay if it’s not anytime soon. Hale Co. can wait.”
We finish eating and after all the tense conversations, it’s hard to remember why we were here in the first place. One of the servers clears the last dish, and I ask the question. “Who’s the leak?”
“That, I can’t tell you,” he says.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Ryke growls, saying exactly what I’m thinking.
My father ignores Ryke. “The good news is that I have it under control, and it’s being handled quietly. If I tell you two, I’m sure you’ll cause a f**king mess that I won’t be able to clean.”
I don’t agree with him. I can’t. “I need to know,” I refute. “This isn’t some guy who did me wrong or f**ked me over in a small way.”
“You won’t change my mind, Loren.”
“Why’d you tell me to come here then?!” I shout, blindsided by all of this. We sat here for nothing.
“To have lunch with you and to tell you that you need to drop this. Let it go.”
I spring up from the table like my soles are on fire. “Let it go?!”
My father glowers. “Loren, you’re overacting.”
“Lo,” Ryke says, rising and resting a hand on my shoulder.
“Overreacting?” I let out a manic laugh. “I have a girlfriend at home who’s scared to walk out of the f**king house without getting assaulted. And I’m overacting? It took her a month to stop tossing and turning at night.” I grip the chair. “She has men mailing her goddamn plastic penises from prison and alleged sex tapes being rumored every day. This bastard toyed with her for weeks, texting her vile things before he finally leaked it. And you have his f**king name!”
My father is on his feet. “And what the hell are you going to do? Yell? Shout? Stomp your shoes and make noise?” His eyes grow dark. “There is nothing you can do that I haven’t already done. It’s over. Let. It. Go.….please.” His voice has softened considerably, and I pale.
Please. He doesn’t use that word, and I know what I have to do.
I have to trust him.
But I don’t know who he’s protecting—me or himself.
{ 46 }
LILY CALLOWAY
Garth must have been ex-CIA or a stunt driver on some Hollywood lot before becoming a personal bodyguard. He lost the paparazzi tailing us within two minutes. It usually takes me a solid hour driving in aimless circles, and I get so bored that I make stops at The Donut Man for jelly-filled pastries. Now that I think about it, maybe the donuts are the reason it takes me so long.
Lo has tried to conceal the location of his office from the press. For now, it’s the one place void of cameras peeping through windows or gates. Being here makes me feel normal again.
I kick my feet on his desk and lean back in the nice leather chair. Garth is broad-shouldered, his peppery hair receding and his forehead oily. He sits on the couch, currently transfixed by his mini-tablet. We don’t talk much other than to discuss where I want to go, which is fine with me. Talking can be overrated.
Lo’s office has more personality than our bedroom. Posters of his favorite science fiction and superhero movies line the walls: Battlestar Gallactica, Star Wars, X-Men (of course), Spider-Man (the Andrew Garfield version), and Kick-Ass.
We ate up a whole day just stocking the bookshelves with all his comics, organizing them by issue. When he told his father he wanted to start a comics publishing company, he probably expected Jonathan to laugh in his face, tell him to grow up, and find a serious job. But no, his dad signed a check and wanted a formal business plan the next day.
I thumb through one of the manuscripts out of the large pile. Lo has to read original comics (not all good) and choose which ones he wants to publish for Halway Comics. He lets me read them if he’s on the fence, but when I graduate from Princeton, I won’t be helping him with this side of the business.
I focus on the comic in hand. The art is surrealistic with a satirical edge. Some of the people even have dog heads. And some of the humans are drawn with animal feet. Lo can find the meaning behind most comics, but my brain just sees a dog-man with a big butt.
The comics I gravitated towards are more realistic and classical, like ones where the superheroes can spring from the page and fit in our world. Lo will try anything and everything, even panels that contain black dots and no words. I do love sexy superheroes, but those are hard to find in indie comics publishing. The most I’ve seen are sexy-clad characters that look like they’ll murder me in my dreams.
I sift through his pile and find a more realistic comic. Not superheroes, but it’s a noir strip with a detective as the lead. I flip through the pages to look at the pretty art.
Ahhh! I throw the manuscript on the floor and cover my eyes with my hands.
There is nudity in that comic book! And I’ve sworn off porn.
“Everything okay, Lily?” Garth asks.
“Yeah,” I croak. “I’m just gonna…go downstairs.” I bypass the dirty comic book on the ground and slip out of the room. I take the winding staircase down to the main level.
The first floor.
My dream.
I enter the store from the back (Employees Only) entrance and into the dimly lit space. Red linoleum booths hug the walls and windows, plastic wrap covering their cushions. The appliances and furniture are all hidden behind smocks, and I can still smell the fresh coat of warm gray paint on the walls. Red and gray and a bit of blue. I picked the color scheme, even after Lo warned me that the palette fit Captain America. We’ve been anti-Cap since he threw Wolverine out of an airborne plane.
I still love it.
Rows of low shelves create aisles and resemble a video store, but they’re going to be filled with comic books when the shipments arrive. The front area is sectioned with a small kitchenette for pastries and coffee. Not everything is here in the store yet. And it’ll be months before the place is ready to be opened for the public.
Lo pitched Superheroes & Scones to his father as a marketing strategy for Halway Comics. But I know the idea has nothing to do with his company. What he did was buy me something of my own, something I could look forward to after college. He found me happiness, and I think it’s worth more than any silly engagement ring.
A store that sells coffee, scones, and comic books.
It’s perfect.
And for once, we’re doing something good with our inheritance rather than wasting it away. For two people unwilling to let anyone in, sharing this intimate part of our lives—the nostalgic happiness of comics—has to mean something.
While we’re under construction, I can hide out in one of the plastic-wrapped booths with a comic, like my own secret getaway.
Someone knocks on the door, and I jump out of my skin. I can’t see the figure since the glass is shrouded in COMING SOON posters. It doesn’t even say what’s coming, and the building looks equally as closed and deserted with more ads all over the brick. For all anyone knows, this could be a future p*rn shop. Oh jeez. Now I can’t stop thinking about porn.
The rapping on the glass continues, and I take a tentative step towards the noise. The figure is shadowy and indistinguishable. But the shape looks tall enough to be a guy.
What if it’s the press? Or worse.
A stalker who stalked me here.
The knocking is louder and more persistent. I end up scurrying underneath the nearest booth before my heart abandons my chest. Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe he’ll just go away.
If it’s someone I know, they’d call me, right? I pat my pockets for my phone. Oh no. I left my cell on Lo’s desk, along with Garth. Well Garth is not on Lo’s desk (at least I hope not), but he’s definitely upstairs, consumed with his mini-tablet.