Page 43 of I Blame the Alcohol

“That sounds like an excuse. Do O’Brien’s make excuses?”

“No, we make results. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Good.” Pleased with my submission, Jonathan shifts the conversation to his eldest, “Have there been any advancements with MacNeil Incorporated?”

Mo takes his turn, answering the questions as straightforward as possible. Like the handshake Cody never received, small talk is pointless with my father. His only interests lie with an individual’s achievements and personal growth, two personality traits he believes can only be attained through an endless cycle of constructive criticism.

I look down at my now-empty bowl of pasta, the warmth of my uncle’s reunion quickly replaced by the chilling presence of my father.

Jonathan O’Brien has a way of stripping people to their most vulnerable, leaving them exposed like a patient on a hospital bed. Except instead of surgery, where doctors cut people open with the hope of mending, my father simply dissects. He rips open every insecurity, every failure, and lays it bare on the operating table so you can make one of two choices.

Lie there in despair.

Or start reassembling the pieces.

Cody

The most delicious dinner of my life was ruined by the supersized side of fatherly disappointment. Hell, Jonathan O’Brien isn’t my father but evenIfelt ashamed of my personal growth these last few months.

Watching him rip apart his children like some judgemental third-party observer was one of the most emotionally draining experiences of my life. It felt wrong on so many levels and that was before Mo elbowed my still-recovering ribs.

My train of thought takes a swan dive when hunger hits my stomach. I check the time and sigh. Almost midnight.

I’m contemplating texting Mo for kitchen directions when a knock sounds quietly at my door. I hop off the king size bed, walking across a bedroom that’s bigger than the first floor of my entire house, and open the door.

Stella smirks, “If I’d known you would give me a show, I would have come over sooner.”

I put my hands on the doorframe, bare chest and low-slung sweats doing nothing to hide my obvious flexing.

“Just trying to earn my keep.”

“And you are doing a marvellous job of it.” Stella licks her lips, and the action goes straight to my groin. Quickly dropping my hands, I clear my throat.

Just friends just friends just friends.

“What do you need, Stel?”

I keep my gaze trained on her face, steering clear of the bare legs peeking out of her loose pyjama shorts.

“Figured someone should give you the grand tour.”

My stomach lets out an obnoxious growl and her smile grows wider, “Start with the kitchen, shall we?”

“You realize it’s almost midnight, right?”

Stella gasps, “Midnight? That’s past your bedtime, Ellsworth. Guess I’d better let you get some beauty sleep. See you in the morning!”

She pivots and starts walking away.

I groan, “Stel, wait. Let me just grab a shirt.”

“Nowthatis a shame.”

“To your left we have my father’s sad idea of what an art collection is.” Stella waves towards the hideous paintings lining the west side of the East Wing.

Confusing, I know.

“Some of them are nice.”

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