“Lucian,” she calls after me, bringing my escape to a halt. “I was thinking … if you’re up for it tomorrow. Maybe we could have dinner? Together? Nothing special. Just … catching up.”
On four years of ignoring each other? Two of those years I spent resenting her. The three of us have never eaten as a family. I either grab something on the way home from the office, or eat alone later, after everyone’s already gone to bed.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Fair enough. I’m going to go to bed after Roark’s bath. Can you make sure he gets to sleep?”
“Yeah. Where’s Anna?”
“I gave her the night off. Just trying to get …” Gaze cast downward, she shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“Trying to get what?”
“Back to being a mother.” It’s strange to hear those words from her, considering she spent the first year of Roark’s life avoiding the role. “I don’t want my son to be raised by someone else.”
Tight lipped, I nod in approval, though I haven’t been around Amelia much these days to know what kind of responsibility that might be on her.
“Anyway, let me know about tomorrow.”
“I will. ‘Night.”
“Your father is incredibly proud of you.” My mother stands in the doorway, arms crossed, while I sit hunched over the small bit of paperwork I’m hustling to finish so I can hang out with Roark, as promised.
“I’m sure he is. All the more reason to toss this shit aside.”
Sneering, she enters the room and saunters over to the liquor that’s set out on a tray. Glass clinks as she stands with her back to me, pouring a drink, and when she turns around, she’s carrying two, one of which she places down on the desk.
Plopping into the chair in front of me, she raises her glass. “Cheers to your successful negotiation.”
I raise my glass and nod. “Thanks.”
Seconds pass quietly, before her lips widen with a smile. “Amelia seems to be feeling better these days.”
“Seems to be.”
“If the two of you would like some time to get away, I’m happy to watch Roar--”
“No. That won’t be necessary.”
“Lucian, she’s trying. You have to give her that.”
“I appreciate her efforts, but I’m not here to play pretend. I didn’t choose this.” The only thing that solidified my decision to play, at all, was the paternity test results that came back positive that I was the father. For the sake of my own son, I gave the family shit a chance.
“And you think she did?”
“Why are you here, Mother? To lay another guilt trip on me?”
Lips pursed, the way they do when she’s trying to cap a smartass remark meant for my father, she sets the glass on the desk. “Consider having dinner with her tomorrow. The two of you are still married, after all. It’s important to build what you can before the real hate sets in.”
“Like you and my father? Why bother to stay together? You could be doing your own thing right now. Following your heart’s desire, instead of playing into his little games of power.”
“Because divorce is messy. And expensive. Besides that, the heart is a dangerous organ that isn’t meant to be free. Why else would God have built a cage for it?”
If there was any question as to where my lack of faith in love and relationships originated, I’m staring at half the reason right now. “No promises. But I’ll think about dinner. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish this so I can hang with my son.”
“Of course.” My mother gathers up the half-sipped glasses of liquor and exits the office.
I glance at the clock on my desk, and at my watch that reads twenty-to eight. “Ten more minutes.”
A cold, hard surface presses against my cheek, my jaw aching, and I open my eyes to white sheets of paper. Pain pulses inside my skull. Eyes screwed shut on the agony, I sit up and rub the sleep from them.
The clock reads almost eleven.
Shit.
I fell asleep. I don’t even remember doing so.
Shit.
Having grown up with a man who never played with me as a child, and never kept his promises, I make it a point to do both with Roark.
On my feet, the room spins for a second, and I shield my eyes behind my palm until it slows to a stop again. What the hell is wrong with me?
Stumbling out of the office, I stagger down the hallway toward Roark’s bedroom, the portraits of ancestors on the