“That’s because I come home more than once a decade,” Tanner pointed out.
It was just like old times. Gray could remember the constant banter at the dinner table as he and his brothers ribbed each other mercilessly. As the eldest, he’d always tried to be the peacemaker. There were days when he expected Cam and Logan to fight each other to the death.
Until their father intervened, that was. One slap of his hands on the table was usually enough to quiet them down. And if for some reason they didn’t respond, raising his voice a couple of notches always did the trick. By their teenage years, they’d learned not to push him any further. Not one of them wanted to be told to meet him in his study after dinner.
“If you’ll all be quiet, maybe I could hear myself think,” Aunt Gina said, shooting them all a dark look. “And show some respect, Tanner. This is your father’s house. He deserves it.”
“Respect is earned,” Tanner said, his voice light in spite of his words.
“I’ll take it easy in there,” Gray reassured his aunt. She nodded and gave him another smile.
“Good luck,” Becca whispered, squeezing his free hand as Gray walked past her.
As far as Gray was concerned, he didn’t need it. He wasn’t a child anymore. He had his own home, his own car, earned more money in a month than his father had his entire life. That old man in the bedroom at the end of the hallway didn’t scare him anymore.
“To hell with it,” he whispered to himself, before he rapped his knuckles on the door. His hand remained in a fist when he pulled it away, as though his body was expecting a fight, the other still grasping the plate of food he’d made up.
“Come in.”
Gray blinked at the familiarity of that voice. He set his jaw strong, and curled his fingers around the handle, bracing himself as he arranged his features into a smile.
People thought it was strange when he told them he hadn’t spoken to his father in more than a decade. They wanted all the details of the fight that must’ve led to such a cut-off. But there hadn’t been a fight – not a single explosive episode of one, anyway. Instead, his relationship with his father had been the victim of a thousand paper cuts.
As a child, he’d dreamed of escaping this place. He’d build a tree house in the woods that bordered his father’s land to the north, fill it with comics and sodas and invite his friends over. In his mind, his dad would never find him there.
As he grew older, his plans grew more sophisticated. At first, they were academic. He studied hard, played football, did anything that would help him get into college. But where his grades were good enough for an acceptance, his sports weren’t good enough for a scholarship. And his father’s income was too much for him to receive any financial assistance without loans.
One thing he knew, he couldn’t be beholden to his father any more. So when his one way of relaxing – his music – proved to be his one-way-ticket out of town, he’d jumped at the chance. Left everything – and everyone – behind. A necessary sacrifice to gain his freedom.
Of course he saw his family still. His brothers would come to meet him in New York or L.A. when they could. Aunt Gina and Becca would see him play in concert in Virginia and D.C. There was one year when he paid for them all to fly to London to watch him play at a festival there. That had been a great week.
But his father never came. He refused to unless Gray personally called to invite him, but Gray knew that was a trap. His father only wanted the pleasure of rejecting his offer in person.
“I said come in,” his father shouted. “What are you doing, playing with the handle?”
Gray shook his head and pushed the door open, squaring his shoulders as he walked inside. The first thing that hit him was the smell. Though the room wasn’t a study anymore, the walls were still lined with old books, their musty pages turning the air sickly stale. Then there was the pine of his father’s soap – the same soap he’d used for as long as Gray could remember.
“I brought your dinner in.”
The old man looked up from his position on the bed. The years Gray had been away hadn’t been kind to his father. Grayson Hartson III’s hair was sparse, barely covering his shiny red scalp. His skin was wrinkled, almost rubbery in complexion. But it was his body that shocked Gray the most. Even through the sheet he could see how thin his father was. His arms looked like the kind of twigs Aunt Gina used to bring in at Christmas time to make up seasonal displays.
“The food’ll be cold with the time you took to come in,” his dad grumbled.
Gray swallowed. “You don’t want it?”
“I didn’t say that. Bring it here.” His father nodded at the table in front of him. It was on wheels – the kind you saw in hospital rooms. Gray carried the plate over and set it firmly in the middle.
“So you decided to visit?” his father said, leaning over to look at the plate. “Damn beef again. Your aunt knows I can’t eat that. Gets stuck in my throat.”
“You want me to get some gravy to help it go down?”
His dad sniffed. “I’ll just eat the potato. Get me a fork.”
Gray passed him the silverware, and watched as his father scooped a morsel of mashed potato between his lips. Time seemed to pause as he moved his jaw around, his withered throat undulating as he tried to swallow it down. “You want a glass of water?” Gray asked him.
“No,” his father rasped out. “Go back to your dinner. I’m fine here.”