Page 112 of Boiling Point
The words should have stung—once, they would have opened a vein—but now they just hung there, as inert as the oxygen hissing at his nose.
“How long?”
He shrugged. “Six months, if the next round of treatment works. Less if it doesn’t.” He shrugged again, softer this time, the bones of his shoulders shifting under the fabric like driftwood.
“Mother knows?”
“Of course I know. Everyone knows.” Mother’s voice pierced from behind me.
I hadn’t heard her enter. I stood, but she moved past me to the side of the bed, elegant even in her quiet. She rested her hand, featherlight, on the blanket at Father’s knee. She didn’t look at me. Her gaze flicked to his face and lingered there, searching for a sign that he needed her, or perhaps permission, some unspoken signal. They operated like an old ballet, every gesture second nature after decades of choreography—gracefully intertwined, even, or especially, at the end.
“Callum, you mustn’t exhaust him,” she said, her voice measured and velvet.
Father gave a sardonic grunt. “Let the boy talk, Eleanor. It’s not as if conversation will kill me. We’re well past that stage.”
I nodded at the IV pole, its plastic tubing curled toward the crook of his arm. “Is that chemotherapy?” My voice was steadier than I expected.
Father’s eyes flicked to the rig and back. “No. The poison comes next Thursday.” He turned toward the nurse. “Remind me which cocktail we’re on now?”
“Just some vitamins and fluid to keep you hydrated, Lord Branleigh,” she answered without missing a beat, her tone gentle yet businesslike. “Should help keep your strength up for the festivities.”
I watched her check the drip, her hands quick and competent, skin freckled and papery, her wedding band spinning loose on one finger. The line ran clear, tinged pale yellow—the color of weak tea. For a moment, I caught the edge of his forearm beneath the sleeve—like flaky parchment.
“How much longer?” he asked.
“Half an hour, give or take.”
“I’d like a few moments alone with my son.”
“Of course, sir. Ring if you need me, and I’ll come straight in.” She smiled at me. “He’s a bit of a troublemaker, this one. Don’t let him overdo it.”
Father barely acknowledged her, but I did. “Thank you.”
Mother watched the nurse’s departure, then checked her watch—a slim Cartier, so thin it was more an idea than a timepiece. The gesture was subtle, but it landed like a gavel brought softly to the bench. “It’s nearly one. I must go down for luncheon,” she said, her words brisk for efficiency. “Miss Clark will think we’ve all abandoned her.” She smoothed a crease from the blanket, then turned to me. “Will you come, Callum?” The question hung like an ornament, bright and fraught with the knowledge of what I would choose.
I tried to wipe the hesitation from my face. “If it’s all the same, I’ll stay here a bit longer.” The old instinct—deference, or something that mimicked its lines—kicked in, but she only nodded, lips pressed into a thoughtful seam. “But please save me a place.”
“Of course,” she said. “The time alone will allow me a chance to get to know your young lady a little better,” she added with the softest edge. Her tone, while light, allowed no counterpoint. She smoothed her skirt and swept from the room, heels thudding softly on the carpet.
The door softly snicked shut behind her.
Father let his head sink a notch deeper into the wedge of pillows. One hand lay slack on the blanket, the other gestured to the chair at his bedside. “Sit.”
I obeyed, and we considered one another across the expanse of white linen, the air between us thick with the muffled hiss of the oxygen concentrator. I waited out the silence, let it build until it threatened to smother us, years of practice finally serving some small purpose. He broke first.
“Well,” he said at last, “have you found what you were looking for?”
I realized, too late, that I hadn’t the faintest idea how to answer.
His tone was equal parts indulgence and acid. “All those years chasing your own blueprint. Carving out a life nobody had crafted for you. Cutting ties with everyone who ever supported you, just to prove you could build something entirely your own. So, answer me, Callum, was it worth all the trouble?”
He watched me with a hunger that startled me—a rabid need to balance the ledger before the world closed out his accounts. I looked for the familiar tics of manipulation, the old tells, but there was nothing left in him but directness—raw and crumbling, stripped of power.
I should have lied, told him something comforting. I should have said yes, I have everything I could ever want.
“I don’t know,” I said, surprised by the truth of it. “I thought so, once. But now…” The words stuck. What did I want now? For Gabrielle to be safe and whole and somehow delivered from theshadows I’d cast over her. Maybe even for my father to look at me and see a man, not a disappointment in a tailored suit.
I stared at the faint trace of his features reflected in the window glass. Not so long ago, I’d have met his parries flourish for flourish, carving clever wounds to savor in private. Now, all I could manage was honesty, leached of venom.
