Page 86 of Cruel Offer
“The girl?” I glance at my father across the table and quietly set my fork beside my plate.
He and my mother are in town for business, and they invited me to join them at a dinner party at one of their friends’ penthouses. I didn’t want to go, but I felt obligated, especially since Mom is still upset with me for keeping Eliza all to myself when she was in town.
So here I am, surrounded by Mom and Dad and their rich friends, eating food that tastes like ash and watered-down whiskey. That assessment is probably biased, though. Nothing seems quite right since Piper left.
“The one I keep seeing you with on all the social pages,” my father says, raising his eyebrows as if it’s obvious.
My mother is at the other end of the table chatting with some friends, and I’m glad she hasn’t come back to her seat. She’d latch onto this conversation and hound me endlessly to bring my new girlfriend around, and then I’d have toexplain about our breakup. Or whatever you call it when you end a fake relationship.
I haven’t heard a thing from her since she left three weeks ago. We’ve had zero contact. Which is just as it should be. We’ve effectively cut all ties and she’s moved on.
“There’s no reason to meet her,” I say blandly. “She’s not a romantic interest. You know how those gossip rags blow everything out of proportion. She’s actually engaged to some tech billionaire.”
My father huffs amusedly. “Is that so? Because it looked to me like you’ve kissed her in public enough times for her to be a romantic interest.”
“You can’t believe everything you see on social media,” I snap impatiently.
He nods, but the twinkle in his eye remains. “It was an arrangement for appearances, then?”
I finish the rest of my drink and give him a steady glare. “Why are you so interested in my love life? You’ve never cared before. That’s Mom’s deal.”
He sets down his fork and knife and studies me in a way that’s rare for him. My father has a passing interest in pretty much everything I do, but this is definitely the most in-depth conversation we’ve ever had about my personal life.
“You’re getting older, son. It might be time to start thinking about settling down. By the time I was your age, your mother and I had been married for many years.”
And look at what a joyous union that turned out to be.
“I’m not like you and Mom. I’m holding out for happiness,” I say cruelly.
An immediate pang of guilt hits me, but I don’t apologize.Still, I know it’s not my father’s fault that I haven’t slept in days, that I can’t eat anything, that I keep reliving every moment I had with Piper over and over.
Dad just shrugs. “I can’t argue that logic. Happiness is important.”
This catches my full attention. It’s not the response I expected. I figured he’d chastise me for being rude. My father has always been a reasonably docile man. My mother’s really the only one that can rile him. I wonder if I might be missing something. Looking around the nearly empty table for the scotch, I point at my father. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
This is the most uncouth dinner party I’ve ever attended. And frankly, I’m surprised my mother is standing for it at all. Dinner was catered, but it was a serve-yourself affair, and there have been no domestics to serve wine or clear dishes from the table. Dessert is laid out on little plates along a side buffet now. I haven’t been to anything like this since I was a kid at a birthday party. These people must be nouveau-riche.
I recall my father mentioning something about the hostess being an old college friend, so that must be enough for my mother to put up with the unsophistication of this dinner. In any event, it’s keeping her occupied. I rarely have time alone with my dad, so I figure I might as well take advantage of it.
Finding a bottle of wine, I grab it and bring it back to the table. It has a twist cap, because of course it does, so I made quick work of it and then refill my glass and then my father’s. He’s watching with interest, clearly curious over my behavior.
There is an old-fashioned jukebox in the parlor in the next room. Someone started it up and people are filtering out of the dining room to go join the dancing and sing-along. A moment later, my father and I are left alone.
“Were you two ever happy? You and Mom?” I ask. I’ve never so eagerly anticipated the answer to a question in my entire life.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. Were you and Mom ever happy together? It’s a self-explanatory question. Were you ever happy in your marriage, happy as a couple?”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute, then takes a long drink of wine, looks around the room, and sets his glass down. “Yes. But I don’t know why you think we’re unhappy now.”
“Pfft,” I scoff.
“There are different kinds of happiness, Nate. And different…seasons, in relationships. Believe it or not, in our own way, we are happy. What’s this about, Nate?”
I shift my weight in my seat, the back of my neck prickling with discomfort because I’m afraid of how this conversation might go. But I need to know. Once and for all.
Hesitantly, coaxingly, lowering my voice, I ask, “Why didn’t you get divorced after Mom’s affair? I want to know. Growing up, it never seemed like you two even liked each other. But when you had an out, you didn’t take it. I don’t get it.”
