Another, maybe smaller, part of me believes my dad is better. He’s okay. And he can handle the loss of his great new therapist.
My parents were my support not that long ago. When we held a funeral service for Ripley’s birth mom. Tina had no family, none that cropped up or cared, no one to pay for burial expenses.
I know she might not have wanted to be found and that’s why our PI couldn’t locate her. But I wish I could’ve done more for her while she was alive.
It’ll never feel like enough.
She’s buried in the same cemetery as Cassidy Keene, Farrow’s mom. And when Ripley is older, he’ll have a place to visit his mom, if he wants. They were both in their mid-twenties. Too young to die. Younger than Farrow is now.
It got to me at the burial plot, and I almost started crying.
My dad hugged me for a while, and I didn’t even question if he was doing well. He felt like my pillar, and I held onto him.
But I know I’m afraid of knocking him down again. Which is why I lean towards don’t rock the boat.
My dad is unknowingly making this hard by inviting his therapist to breakfast. Kaden’s breached the circle—okay, he was invited in—and I’m still eyeing him five tables away.
Farrow got a late start and is back at the villa with Ripley. He should be down here soon, but until then, my table is packed with four other men.
Uncle Ryke, Uncle Connor, Uncle Garrison, and my dad have been in a deep conversation about their youngest daughters. Something about the girls being teenagers. I don’t know—I’m not really listening. My focus keeps traveling to Kaden, who’s sipping his cappuccino across the courtyard.
I think Connor notices (he notices almost everything), and my dad follows my uncle’s observant gaze from me to Kaden and back to me.
Quickly, I divert my eyes back to the bread and apricot jam.
They all give each other a look that I can’t read and the air strains at our table of five.
My dad picks up cranberry juice. “You should go talk to him, bud.”
I go rigid. “What?”
His face weighs with seriousness. “My therapist,” he explains. “You should go talk to him. It might help.”
“Help what?” I glance to Connor. Please, let this make sense.
He sips a coffee, brow arched. Can’t read him at all. No help.
I glance at Garrison, my youngest uncle and the father of Vada Abbey. Growing up, he was always like a cool older brother. He even tattooed Batman on his neck, which he did to piss off my dad.
He bites into a breakfast tart and makes a face at me. A face that says, “Don’t ask me. I know nothing.”
I turn to Ryke. “Help what?” I ask again.
Ryke winces. “Look, Mof. You drank for the first time, and that has to be a big fucking deal for you.”
That.
Fuck.
My shoulders strain, muscles tight. So I told all my family what happened at the bachelor party, or at least, I told Janie. She took it hard and blamed herself for supplying the drinks, but I explained that it’s no one’s fault.
Let’s just chalk it up to the Hale Curse and move forward.
We hugged, and I asked her to spread the news through the family gossip network. She said she had me covered. It worked like a charm.
Didn’t have to confront anyone about it. Thought I could skid on by.
Now here I am.
“No,” I say to them and then grimace. “I mean, yeah, it is a big fucking deal. But no, I don’t need to talk to a therapist.” I dunk a teabag in a mug, hoping everyone will let this conversation die.
My dad frowns. “There’s nothing wrong with talking it out with someone—”
“I got that,” I say into a nod. “I just don’t need professional assistance on this. I have Farrow, you know.”
My dad pauses, and I think he might tell me Farrow’s not good enough. But then he says, “I’m happy you have him.”
That drives through me, not in a great way. I hear my dad’s voice, saying that since I have Farrow I don’t need him. Giving himself an out to drink.
I want to help him.
I just don’t know how anymore.
34
FARROW KEENE
Radio clipped to my slacks and wire rounding up my neck, comms chatter fills my ears even though I’m technically off-duty. Did I mention how much I love Kitsuwon Securities?
Back at Triple Shield, the Alpha lead would’ve taken my radio upon departure. Now I don’t have to guess what the hell is happening in security or grovel to Thatcher for details.
As of now, the families are eating breakfast, so there’s not a lot of movement outside unsecure locations.
After clothing Ripley in shorts and a graphic tee of a surfing dog and embroidered lettering that reads beach boy (he looks cool as shit), I balance my baby on my hip.