Page 84 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

“Start with ‘sorry for thinking you’re a cheating whore, Mom’ and go from there,” Cameron suggests.

“Maybe don’t phrase it like that,” Kayla recommends, smacking Cameron again with the addition of an ‘act right’ glare worthy of Mom.

“I’m not that stupid,” I tell her, but at her look of challenge, I have to admit that they would have no way of knowing that. Especially after my behavior last night where I very much did unthinkingly call Mom that in a roundabout way.

“Start with I’m sorry and go from there. Be open and honest like you were with us. They love you, Kyle. They want to fix this too.”

I sincerely hope she’s right.

I ring the doorbell of my childhood home and Ira answers the door. “Kyle, good to see you.” He looks past me, probably checking to see how much yard I destroyed with my motorcycle this time. But I drove my truck, and I don’t think I’ll do that again. I’m leaving childish antics behind and growing up, starting now.

“Thanks, you too. Mom and Dad around?”

“In Charles’s office. Please knock. They’ve been in discussions all morning.”

Discussions.

The word comes back to me, and I can’t believe I forgot it. Mom and Dad used to say they had something important to discuss and would disappear together for a little while. My brothers would teasingly tell me they were talking about giving me to another family, but for a while, I thought there was a kernel of truth in the joke. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that was my parents’ code word for sex.

I don’t think Ira’s talking about the same thing, though. I imagine my parents are actually talking… probably about me, and maybe about giving me to another family for real this time.

Still, I knock three times on the door, just in case.

“Come in,” Dad’s voice calls out.

I take a steadying breath and open the door. Mom and Dad are curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace, her legs stretched out long over Dad’s lap. He’s got the folded-up newspaper laid on top of her thighs and a pen in his hand. They’re doing the crossword puzzle together, another thing I’d forgotten they like to do.

They both glance at me. Mom’s eyes are pink and puffy like she’s been crying. Dad looks ready to throttle me where I stand.

I’ve never felt like the disappointed glares and lectures I’ve received, many in this very room, were as warranted as they are now, but this time, I’m not the wayward kid who fucked up and doesn’t give a shit. I’m the man who hurt the people I care about and who needs to make amends.

“Can we talk?” I ask, knowing full well that if they kick me out, it will be justified.

Dad narrows his eyes but ultimately flicks them toward the chair across from them, silently giving me permission to sit. It’s not much, but I take it, appreciative that he’s willing to talk.

I sit, my hands clasped between my spread knees, and look from Mom to Dad and back. “First, I want to say that I’m sorry. There is no excuse for my accusations or the way I blew up like that. I apologize.”

Dad’s grinding his teeth so hard that I can see the muscle in his jaw ticking, but Mom sniffles, fresh tears tracking slowly down her face as she brokenly asks, “What would ever make you think something that awful?”

I stare at my hands, picking at my cuticles. “I don’t know. I overheard what you were saying about Dad being gone, and Anders being here, and in my fucked-up mind, it clicked together like puzzle pieces, but I wasn’t thinking about… you. I was only thinking about myself.” I trail off, not able to adequately explain what seems so outlandish now.

“And me,” Dad corrects. “You were thinking I would willfully and knowingly choose to parent my children differently, to the detriment of one over the rest.”

“Okay, but didn’t you? I’m sorry for jumping to some awful conclusions, but can you blame me? You have treated me differently my whole life. I’m not smart like Cameron, or competitive like Carter, or ballsy like Chance, or stoic like Cole, or a beast like Kayla.” I throw my hands out like punches, one after the other as I mention my siblings, and then slam my palm to my chest as I add bitterly, “I’m just the disappointing fuck-up who never did anything right, which you took every opportunity to remind me of.”

“You’re not a fuck-up, noun. You choose to fuck up, verb,” Dad says snidely. “Two very different things.”

I huff out a humorless laugh, surprised at the way he can still cut me so easily. “Gee, thanks. Guess it’s all clear now, huh?” I glare at him as I flop back in the chair, throwing my arms up in surrender before letting them fall to the armrests.

“Why do you have to make everything so difficult?” Dad demands.

Mom moves her legs as Dad abruptly stands and paces toward the cold fireplace. He places his hands on the mantel, staring at the family picture above. I don’t remember taking the picture, but we’re all gathered together, standing in front of Mom and Dad with arms wrapped around one another and big smiles on our faces. I can’t be more than three or four in the picture. We look happy. Maybe then, we were. Maybe then, I was.

“I did my best,” he spits out. “And if it wasn’t good enough, then I apologize. But I had the weight of the whole company, this entire family, and thousands of other ones on my shoulders and was doing my best to keep it all on-track.” He doesn’t sound sorry. He makes it sound like my feelings were minor and inconsequential compared to the super-duper, fucking important things he was oh-so-busy doing.

“But you left me behind to do it!” I shout, standing up too. “I didn’t care about the fucking company! I didn’t want the money! I wanted a father!”

I’m glad there’s a table between us because we are rock against rock, one immovable force against another, ready to smash each other in our desperate bid to make ourselves heard. My chest is rising and falling too fast, my breathing jagged as the pain I’ve shoved down, ignoring it for my whole life, rushes up to be set free.

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