Tessa Ever After (2 page)

“Hey, baby. How was your day?”

“Good! Miss Melinda had us make our own turkeys for crafts today. Lookit! Mine has all kinds of colored feathers and one of those gobbler things.”

I laugh at her description. “I love it! We’ll have to put him on the fridge when we get home. Why don’t you go grab your coat so we can go.”

She spins and runs off without a second glance, and I stand to my full height and see Melinda leaning against the wall next to the door Haley just disappeared behind. “Hi, Tessa.”

“Hey. I’m sorry I’m late again, but I ran behind with a client.”

“Tessa . . .” And from the look on her face and the soft tone of her words, I know what’s coming. I’ve been bracing for it for the last five months, wondering when it would finally come. “You know how much I love Haley, and I realize what an adjustment period this has been since your brother moved away. These last few months can’t have been easy for you. But I have a family, too, and six o’clock is the start of their time.”

“I know. God, I’m so sorry, Melinda.” I glance to the door Haley is hidden behind and lower my voice so she doesn’t
overhear. “It’s taking me longer to get into the swing of things than I thought it would since Cade left. I can’t apologize enough.”

“I know you don’t do it on purpose, honey, but the fact remains that it keeps happening. I think I’ve been more than understanding, considering how long it’s been. I wanted to give you some leeway, since Cade helped so much with pickups. I haven’t implemented the tardy fees, but going forward, I’m going to have to.”

I nod my head, my lips pressed in a thin line. It’s not the fees—while they’re exorbitant to dissuade parents from being late, I could swing it if I needed to—it’s the fact that she even has to have this conversation with me. I feel like a kid in the principal’s office, and whether or not I’m barely twenty-two, I haven’t been a child in a long, long time.

“I understand.”

She pauses and shifts her weight from foot to foot. “I hate to even suggest this, but maybe you can find something closer to your work? Make it a bit easier to get there before closing? I could give you some referrals . . .”

I’m shaking my head before she can even finish, knowing I will do anything—
anything
—to keep Haley here. It’s the only day care she’s been in since she started going when she was only a baby. And after all the upheaval—her uncle leaving in the summer, and then starting pre-K this year—I don’t want to force any other changes on her.

“I’m not going to do that. I’ll make it work.”

Just then, Haley comes running out of the walk-in coat closet where all the kids’ cubbies and coat hooks are, her long, dark hair flying behind her, her eyes sparkling as she smiles. She’s . . . remarkable. The best thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, and
ever since Cade left, ever since I’ve been truly on my own, I feel like I’m failing her.

I always thought I had a good grip on the majority of things in her life, shouldered the bulk of it, but since my brother moved away, I’ve become blatantly aware of exactly how much he was helping, how much slack he was picking up. It sent me into a tailspin.

And I’m still trying to find my way out.

jason

It’s nights like these that make me want to shoot myself in the face.

Smells from the kitchen waft into the formal dining room where my mother, father, and I sit, our conversation stilted as it is every Tuesday evening. The clank of silverware on dishes is the only sound in this too-big room, filled with knickknacks you can’t touch, paintings that cost more than some people make in a year, and furniture you feel like you shouldn’t even sit on. My childhood home. If you can call a museum a home.

As if my mother has a bell under the table signaling when we’re finished with the first course, the newest maid comes sweeping into the room to clear our soup bowls, only to return moments later with salad plates. I hate Tuesday nights. Having to come back here and listen to the two people who view me as merely a means to an end . . . well, I think I’d rather get kicked in the balls repeatedly than be forced to suffer through this week after week.

Alas, they pay the bills . . .

“I saw Sheila at the club yesterday,” my mother says, her voice dripping with disdain.

Dad hums, briefly looking up from the
Wall Street Journal
spread out in front of him. Bastard can’t even spare twenty minutes without his attention focused elsewhere. No wonder my mom had a fling with the gardener.

My father doesn’t say anything, but Mom takes it as a cue to continue. “It’s obvious she got Botox. And, if I’m not mistaken, she got those saline lip injections, too. Honestly, if you’re going to have work done, at least be a little more discreet about it. She could—”

And just like that, I zone out, filling my mind with a hundred different things, just so I can get through the next half hour with my sanity intact.

It’s not until the main dish is in front of me—duck confit, I’m told—that I register my father clearing his throat, the room otherwise silent. I glance up, finding both my parents staring at me.

“What?”

My mom tsks, shaking her head. “Hardly the way to speak to your parents, Jason.”

I roll my eyes, because they’ve been a lot of things to me in my twenty-four years, but parents haven’t been one of them, despite how desperately I crave them to be—though I’d never admit that aloud.

“Your mother’s right. You’d think you’ve forgotten just who pays your bills.”

“Oh, believe me, I haven’t forgotten. How can I when you remind me every week?”

My father’s eyes don’t leave mine as he takes a sip of his bourbon before placing the glass back on the table. That stare has been known to make both women and men weep. Having been on the receiving end of it more times than I can fathom, I’m unmoved, so I simply stare back.

“I think we’ve been very lenient and understanding about your . . .
education
.” The way he says it, the way the word almost seems to get stuck in his throat, like he has to spit it out, makes my shoulders tense. He doesn’t believe an art school—despite its being one of the top art schools in the country—could ever provide me with the kind of education I walked away from when I left his alma mater, a well-regarded university I had absolutely no desire to attend. Not that he had much of a choice . . . I left after less than a semester, ready to get loans if I needed to, when my grandfather stepped in and paid for my first year at the art institute. He always told me I should do what I loved, despite what my father wanted. Despite what my parents wanted
for
me.

One could say he and my parents had slightly different outlooks on life. And family.

Unaware, or just uncaring, of my stiffened posture, he continues, “We allowed you to take a year off after high school to do God knows what while living off our money. And since that little break, we’ve given you five years to complete your degree, which is laughable, quite frankly, especially for someone who ranked in the top five percent of their high school graduating class. We’ve allowed you to switch schools from a prominent and distinguished university to something . . . better suited to your tastes. And in doing so, we’ve been on the receiving end of judgmental whispers at the club.”

“Oh Jesus. Not
the club
. How did you survive?” After my grandpa passed away a few years ago, those judgmental whispers at the club were the exact reason my parents decided to foot the bill for the rest of my education at the school they deemed inappropriate. How would it look to have a
Montgomery
taking out loans for school?

“Jason Daniel, that’s enough,” my mother snaps.

As if I never spoke, my father continues, “We’re done, Jason. You’ve screwed around long enough.”

I wait for a moment for him to say something more, to clue me in on what he’s threatening this time. We’ve been here before, too many times to count, and I’m not in the mood to play games. “You’re going to have to spell it out for me, Dad, because I’m not sure what, exactly, you mean.”

“What I mean is we will allow you this semester. I had our lawyer do some digging and check your records at school—”

“Oh, that’s nice. Who’d you pay off to do that?”

“—and you have more than enough credits to graduate, if you’d just declare your major and apply for graduation.” He sits back, dropping his napkin on the table before he folds his hands over his stomach. He’s like an older version of me—dark hair with only a hint of gray at the temples, dark eyes that can turn cold in an instant, and enough height to feel prominent when walking into a room. I can only hope our similarities end at our appearance.

I’m doing everything I can to make sure of it. To make sure I turn out more like the man my grandfather was than the man my father is. And the fact that I’m striving to be as good of a man as the one my father loathed is just icing on the cake, really.

I try to see him through the eyes of someone else, someone who might look up to him, might even fear him, but no matter what I do, he’s still the same guy I’ve known my whole life. The same guy who paid more attention to the newspaper or his phone or his computer than he did to his only son. The same guy who was always too busy to attend even one of his son’s Little League games. The same guy who pushed for only the best out of his
child—not for his happiness, but for how it would be perceived by others.

And the sad thing is, I forgave him for all of it. I looked past it all and accepted it. I didn’t
like
it, but I accepted it. And then after my grandpa passed away, my father shut down the foundation my grandfather built from the ground up—one that provided homes for lower-class families—just so he could pocket more money, and that was it for me. I knew then he’d never be someone I could look up to.

When he’s sure I’m not going to say anything, he puts it bluntly, “Tuition will be paid through this semester. Your allowance for rent and necessities will continue until you’ve earned your master’s in architectural design. The paperwork has already been submitted; the . . . persuasions needed to admit you without a portfolio have been taken care of. While you’re completing your degree, I expect you to be at the firm, shadowing me and learning the ropes. I’m not getting any younger, and I’d like to retire sometime in the next decade. God knows it’ll take that long just for you to figure out what the hell you’re doing and not fuck everything up.”

“Lawrence . . .”

With a careless hand, my father waves off my mother’s rebuke, not sparing her a glance. “January second, Jason. Not a day longer. I’m tired of waiting for you to come around and stop this bullshit of playing computer games or whatever the hell it is they have you do at that arts and crafts school. It’s time you stopped acting like a spoiled child and stepped up to take your place at the company.”

TWO

jason

I stalk out the front door of my parents’ house, letting it slam shut behind me, muttering every swear word I can think of as I head straight to my car. Really, their ultimatum doesn’t come as a shock. In fact, I’m surprised it’s taken them this long to institute some sort of deadline. After all, it doesn’t look good in their circles to have a twenty-four-year-old son still in college—not unless he’s getting his MBA or doctorate.

And even now, even with them pushing me to get my master’s, they’ll still be embarrassed of everything I’ve done . . . of the path I’ve taken to get where I am.

While I know I’ve got it good—parents paying for my degree, as well as all my bills—it’s not what I’d pick if I were given a choice. Growing up, I’d have given anything to be part of either of my best friends’ families. Both Cade’s and Adam’s parents made it a point to be involved in the lives of their kids. Made it a point to talk about
more than getting straight A’s, college prep courses, what the stock of the company was doing . . . I can’t even remember the last time either one of my parents asked me a question that actually gave them insight into my life. Or asked a question and waited for an honest reply. The only time I got even a semblance of that kind of affection was with my grandfather before he passed away—a man my father couldn’t stand because he thought he was weak. Weak because he wasn’t running a multimillion-dollar firm. Because he “threw away” his profits to help others. Because he was an honest and decent man, something my father knows nothing about.