Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108049 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
“I didn’t make it easy for you,” I admit. “I figured if you couldn’t stand me then I could be just as good at hating you. I think maybe…” I swallow hard, averting my eyes. “I didn’t want to get rejected by another dad. So I rejected you first.”
“Why would you think that?” He sits back, appearing genuinely surprised.
“I mean, look at us. We’re nothing alike.” Well, that might be a little less true now that I know we have some things in common, but still, I can’t imagine he’d have much use for me if I were a stranger off the street. “I know you have this idea in your head that I should be more like you, take an interest in business and finance, work at your company and follow your path, but honestly, that bores the hell out of me. It drains the joy from my entire being to even think about it. So I’m left with this feeling that I’m never going to be good enough. I avoided your calls this week because I was embarrassed and I didn’t need confirmation that everything I’d feared about myself was true.”
I slouch in the booth, hands in my lap, wanting to shrink into the space between the cushions and live with the dust. At least it’s out now. Whatever there is after this, it won’t be as humiliating as this moment. It can’t be.
Max is quiet a long time. I can’t read his reaction, and in each second that passes I take his silence as agreement. I don’t even blame him. It isn’t his fault he estimates success differently than I do. We’re just different people and trying to measure either against the other is pointless. I’d feel better if we agreed to stop trying.
“Conor,” he says finally. “I should have said this a long time ago—you have never not been good enough. I’ve never seen you as anything less than a funny, charming, intelligent kid who is becoming a remarkable young man. You’re right, there’s a paternal part of me who likes the idea of being a mentor to you, a role model. To bring you into the company and teach you to take over when I’m gone. If that’s not where your heart lies, I respect that. I probably should have taken the hint a little sooner, huh? But whatever you choose to do with your life and career, your mother and I will support you. As a team. As a family. Because we know you’ll make the right decisions for you. If I can help, I’m glad to. Otherwise,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, “I’ll stay out of your way. In either case, I want you to know I’m exceedingly proud of you.”
I laugh weakly. “Come on now, let’s not get crazy here.”
“I’m proud of you,” he repeats, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone.
I watch suspiciously as he goes to a website that has a photo of him sitting at his desk. One of those corporate PR shots. Then he places the phone on the table between us and zooms in. Behind him, beside all the awards and plaques, is a framed photograph of my mom and me.
My breath hitches slightly and I hope he doesn’t hear it. The picture is from their honeymoon, a couple days after the wedding. We all went to Hawaii, and on our last night there, Max took a photo of us watching the sunset. I’d never left California before that. Never been on a plane. I was in a shit mood the whole time because they were doing couple stuff and I had no one to hang out with, but that evening on the beach with my mom was my best memory from the trip.
“I’ve always been proud of you,” Max says gruffly, as my eyes begin to sting. “I’ll always be proud of you, Conor. I love you.”
“Well, shit,” I say, coughing to clear the rocks from my throat. “Guess I’m the asshole.”
He laughs while we both discreetly rub our eyes and make other manly guttural noises that are absolutely not crying.
“Not sure what to say now,” I admit. “Sorta feels like shit that we spent all this time being weird around each other.” I’m not about to be the guy’s best friend or start calling him Dad, but the last few years would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if we’d had this conversation sooner.
“Cheesy as it sounds, I’d appreciate it if we could start over,” he says. “Try to be friends?”
There are worse things. “Yeah, I could do that.”
I’m about to suggest we order some grub, but then I remember I’ve got a large child’s worth of flowers drying out in my front seat, and some more errands to run before I pick up Taylor for our date.