Page 16 of Pretty Heartache

“Laurel and I already talked with her about this. We’re planning on spending the entire summer in Paris. It’s not because we don’t want to get her one, it’s just that we don’t want to give her hope when going to science camp isn’t a probability.” There’s an edge to Lennon’s voice, and I see the annoyance in his glare.

Dressed in his usual all black suit, his face is set into a hardened expression—the same expression he gives the rest of the world. But not to his wife. Or his brothers.

Today is different. I see the frustration behind his fixed jaw and pulsing temple.

“It’s not like Lucy is asking for a castle.” I scoff. “It’s a telescope, Lennon.”

“That’s not the point.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You would understand if you had children of your own.”

I curl my hands into fists. The cuts from punching the mirror last night crack, and a sharp, blistering pain sears across my knuckles. Pressing my mouth into a tight line, I breathe out heavily through my nose, causing my nostrils to flare.

“Is this why you called me down here?” I ask, cutting him a glare. “To talk to me like Dad would and scold me as if I were still a fucking teenager? I must not understand anything because I don’t have children of my own, right?”

Lennon’s eyes widen, and his chest stills. He takes a moment before sighing and closing his eyes. He reopens them, this time looking at me with pity. If there’s anything us three Harding brothers have in common, it’s all in our desire to be the furthest thing from our father. But every day I look in the mirror, the more I see him staring back at me.

It makes me fucking sick.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

I don’t speak a word. I simply uncurl my fists while the pounding in my head continues.

“You look like shit,” he adds.

Straight to the point. My oldest brother never misses.

“Thanks,” I mutter, running my finger over one of the cuts.

“Do those cuts have to do with you punching a bathroom mirror at Harley’s Club last night?”

“What?” I ask, wondering how in the hell he knows where I got these cuts from.

He tosses me a piece of paper from his desk. I catch it, quickly reading over the list printed in black ink.

“What the fuck is this?” I ask, confused. I toss the paper back on his desk.

“I got a call this morning from the insurance company who cover Harley’s Club and its owner Jeremy Turpin,” Lennon explains. “Jeremy claimed you and his girlfriend snuck off into one of the bathrooms in his bar. He says you stumbled out with those cuts on your hand, and when he went in to open the bar up this morning, the mirror was shattered, and there was vomit all over the floor.”

“How would he know it was me? The mirror could have been broken at any time, and I’m sure dozens of customers go in there to throw up. The place is a shithole.”

“He has you on camera, Micah.”

“He has enough money for a security system, and so what?” I look out the window and shake my head before swinging my attention back to Lennon. “I can’t believe the insurance is even bothering to cover that place, or that Jeremy is worried about it, considering he’s losing the place. But I guess it’s whatever. I’ll pay the bill.”

“That’s not the fucking point.” Anger flares his nostrils, and he’s no longer trying to hide his annoyance.

I roll my eyes. We’re back to this again.

He leans forward and jabs his finger at the invoice. “Whether you like it or not, Jeremy is still the owner of that bar and is free to make an insurance claim if he wants. We haven’t closed on the property, and the bank sure as fuck hasn’t seized it yet. Don’t you think you were being a little selfish last night?”

“Selfish?” I raise my eyebrows.

“You put our company at risk! I sent you there as a courtesy to the owner. Instead, you’re caught on camera practically undressing his girlfriend in the hallway before leading her into the bathroom to fuck her. Then you walk out after destroying property, with your hand all fucked up.”

“I said I would pay for it, Lennon.” I narrow my eyes, tired of my brother looking at me as if I’m something that always needs to be fixed or taken care of. Like I’m some liability. All I’ve ever done these past three years is fought to get back on track. But it’s difficult to get back on track when you’re the reason for the derailment. I did this to myself. I’m the only one to blame.

“I thought we were past this.”

“Past what?” I ask, venom sitting on the tip of my tongue.

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