Page 48 of Famous Last Words

“Sorry about your loss,” he says, almost reaching for my hand but withdrawing his almost immediately. “I went to her funeral, but you weren’t there.”

I press my lips tightly and sigh, not wanting to relive that painful time. “I was otherwise occupied. Dad didn’t mention anything until a year after it happened.”

He studies me for a moment, his expression somber. “Your father was pretty wasted that day. It was hard to watch. But I got why he was drowning himself—he’d lost almost everything, and then his wife passed.”

My fingers unconsciously clasp at the sleeves of my shirt, holding onto them as if they can protect me from the pain. I think about the unopened letter from my mother, stored away with other painful mementos.Dad left it after he died. I’m angry at him for not giving it to me before. Though . . . what if it’s just something that’ll make me feel even worse about myself.

“I didn’t know Dad’s drinking problem started then,” I admit with a shaky voice.

He lets out a bitter chuckle, his gaze turning distant. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, looking evasive. “Nothing. Forget about it.”

My pulse quickens, anger and hurt clash within me. “Clearly it’s something. God, there’s so much I didn’t know. It’s like everyone I trusted kept things from me,” I exclaim, exasperated. “Every single person I cared about deceived me at some point or another. I keep finding out things about my father that I never knew.”

He remains silent, looking guilty, and I suddenly recall a hazy memory. When he was in a coma, people had said the pilot was drunk.

I look at him sharply. “You were drunk while flying, weren’t you?”

His jaw tics, but he stays silent.

“As a matter of fact, I don’t understand why you even flew that plane when you barely had any experience,” I continue heatedly.

“Your father was a drunk for his entire life,” he finally mutters.

I throw my hands up, exasperated and ready to storm off. “Don’t change the subject and bring my deceased father into the conversation. This is about you and your crimes. Tell me the goddamn truth for once, Brahms. Did your drinking problem start before that accident?”

He shakes his head, almost sadly. “I don’t think you can handle the truth.”

That’s it. I’ve had enough of his lies and excuses. Without another word, I stand abruptly, my chair screeching against the floor. I stride toward the door, fuming.

“Seraphina, wait—” Brahms calls after me desperately.

I don’t slow down.

“I’m doing this to protect you,” he roars.

I pause in the doorway just long enough to glare back at him over my shoulder. “Protect me? Don’t make me laugh,” I spit out bitterly. “You’re only protecting yourself, like always.”

With that, I storm out, letting the door slam loudly behind me. My pulse is racing as I hurry down the hall, taking the stairs. I need to burn energy and put distance between us. I’m boiling over with hurt and anger.

I hear Brahms call my name once more as I round the corner, but I don’t look back. I’m done giving him chances to disappoint me all over again.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Brahms

The acrid sting of last night’s confrontation between Seraphina and me sits heavily on my tongue, like a morning after too many regrettable drinks. She didn’t know Thatcher was an alcoholic since . . . well maybe before she was born.

The realization that she was ignorant of her father’s addiction left me staggered. And maybe that’s one of the multiple things that Zane blocked from her. He protected her too much, but now . . . “Fucker, I can’t keep doing this. I need her,” I shouted, the rawness of my voice echoing in the music room.

Because of what happened last night, she’s been avoiding me. At least, Ellington took care of the property, and it’s now under a trust. The same trust I asked him to create when I realized she’s almost broke.

My therapist told me earlier that this isn’t going to fix anything between us. A heavy sigh escapes my lips, my fingers tapping restlessly on the armrest. It wasn’t about trying to buy Seraphina’s affection or ease the tension with a material thing. It was about lessening one burden in her life.

Fixing us, trying to win her back, is going to take a back seat for now. I rake my fingers through my hair, the tension building. The acknowledgment of my depression, anxiety, and the unexpected PTSD from the loss of Zane and that damned accident still feels raw. I never imagined I’d be this broken.

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