Page 17 of Bared Betrayal
It’s beenyears since I last had Sebastian tracked. There was a time that I was obsessed with keeping an eye on him, ensuring he didn’t get into trouble. I’m pretty sure the professional opinion of every therapist around town would be that I’m trying to compensate for not being able to be there for him in a way that I’d want to.
Fuck you, Elenor Stone.
After the way our last conversation went down more than three years ago, I made the conscious decision to take a step back. Unfortunately, there is no amount of money, power, influence, or desire to be a better dad that will be able to make up for lost time. But reading that headline in the tabloids about Sebastian Stone’s fatherless childhood, the rage in my veins compelled me to call in a favor and find out where my son would be at lunchtime today—the same cafe I’m standing in front of right now.
I watch him through the window, standing in line. Even though we’re not on speaking terms, I can’t help but feel proud. He’s done so much with his life; I didn’t have to interfere once. I’m not sure how I feel about that, though, knowing my son never needed me in a way that would pave his future. It’s sad, really. For me.
He’s buying his bland black brew when I command a table outside, right within his path, just as he walks out. Sebastian stops completely, and the record speed of how his expression turns from bored to pissed off is staggering.
“What the hell are you doing here?” His distaste is as strong as the scent of coffee that escapes every time the cafe door opens.
“If I said I’m here because this place has the best coffee in town, would you believe me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“What are you doing here?”
I glance around us. It’s a force of habit, always being alert, making sure no one is being a dick by eavesdropping. “Can we sit down for a few minutes?”
“I really don’t—”
“I won’t take up much of your time.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, a reluctance that burns on his disgusted expression. “Fine. You have two minutes.”
“That’s all I need.” We both take a seat at one of the outside tables. Winter is almost at its end, and the sun is out today, the chilly breeze dormant. But my son’s cold demeanor makes up for it.
“I saw you got engaged. Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.” I’m not entirely sure about my assertions, but it seems like the right thing to say.
“I don’t want your well wishes, Gabriel.”
I hate it when he fucking calls me that. Especially when he spits it out like someone had just stuffed shit in his mouth. It takes me a few heartbeats to shake off the unspoken insult, and I contemplate whether now is the time to get a bout of verbal vomit and tell Sebastian everything I’ve wanted to say to him for fucking years. But it wouldn’t make a difference. Not to him, because he’ll never believe me. My part of the story, my point of view, is not something Sebastian would accept because it would prove that he had been lied to his entire life…and not by me.
“Listen,” I start, rubbing my chin and trying to pick my words carefully. The last thing I want is to start World War Three out on the fucking curb. “Be careful, you know…with the media.”
“What are you, my agent, now?” Hostility oozes from him in waves, and I’m pretty sure if it had a smell, it would be rancid.
“No,” I answer, clipped. “But I do know a thing or two about how the world works, Sebastian.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you here to give me a life lesson?”
“That’s not—”
“Well, you’re twenty-four years too late, I’m afraid. Maybe if you decided to actually be a fucking parent, I would be more inclined to listen to your unsolicited advice.”
For a second, I want to tell him. I want to tell him the truth. That my absence in his life wasn’t my choice. I didn’t choose not to be a part of his life. His grandparents, the family he is so fond of, did that for me. They kept him from me. But I already have a barely civil relationship with Sebastian at best. Blurting that information out will only add fuel to this fucking inferno. I didn’t tell him when he was thirteen, and I won’t tell him now. The past is best left in the past. There’s no need to relive it because nothing good ever comes of it.
“I didn’t come here to fight.” I came here to set the record straight, but like all the other times before, seeing him living an uncomplicated life made me change my mind. There’s no use spitting out truths when it’s too fucking late to make a difference. “I came here to say that I would like to pay for the wedding if you let me. It’s the least I can do.” My offer is genuine. An olive branch of sorts. Judging by how his eyes widen—eyes that reflect those of his mother—I just dug myself a deeper hole.
“Are you serious?” he blurts. “Your offer is a fucking insult.”
“Seb—”
“The least you can do? You think offering to pay for my wedding makes up for the fact that you didn’t give two shits about me or my mother? That you couldn’t be fucked to be there for me when my mother died?”
“You think you know everything. But you don’t know shit, kid.”
