Page 42 of The Player (Close Quarters 5)

I jab at the numbers of my father’s landline. He’s had the same one for as long as I can remember and it’s imprinted on my brain. He picks up on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Sitting by the phone again?” I ask, trying to sound like I’m joking but it’s hard to do that. Whenever I talk to him, these days, there’s an air of resentment in my voice.

“Well, yes. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all week.”

Kylie’s right. Hedoessound sad...and old. The last five years have been hard on us all. My mother was the glue that held our family together. She bonded my eccentric father and my practical brother and ambitious me.

“Sorry, Dad. I’ve been busy.”

“You’re always busy.”

I try to shake off the resentment. “Running a successful business takes time.”

“There’s more to life than work, you know.”

That’s rich, coming from him. The man who was never around when I was a kid because he needed to lock himself away in his country studio to “create.” The man who missed birthdays, and anniversaries, and basketball games, and graduations. The man who wouldn’t listen to reason and, because of that, someone I loved died.

“What do you need, Dad?” I ask, choosing not to bite on the poorly executed advice.

“I want to talk to my son. Is that such a strange request?”

“I’m in the middle of organising Mum’s show. This really isn’t the best time.” I rake a hand through my hair, my stomach in knots. This is how I feel every time I talk to him. Because hearing his voice only makes me think of that night. Of that day it all went so wrong.

“Are you going to invite me to this one?” he asks, a tough edge to his voice.

“The gallery belongs to our family—you don’t need an invitation to come here.”

I can practically see his reaction on the other end of the line—dark eyes narrowed, thin lips set into a harsh line, like a slash of paint across a canvas. Growing up, our relationship was unusual. In many ways, my father was my idol. I loved his art and the fact that people respected him so much. Yet, he was also this remote figure who felt disconnected from me. He was absent for a lot of my life, wrapped up in his own world. I was desperate for his love and attention.

Now the tables have turned.

“It would be nice to be invited,” he says, stubbornly.

“Then consider yourself invited.” I don’t have time for this right now. He won’t come. He never comes.

He hasn’t attended a single one of the anniversary shows in five years. Why? Because I don’t make a song and dance about inviting him. He shouldwantto be there, regardless. This is his business as much as it is mine, and yet he acts like I should roll out the red carpet for him.

“You have to forgive me at some point, Rowan.” The heaviness in his voice is like a blade over my heart. “Or you might not get the chance one day.”

“Sorry, Dad. I have to go.”

I end the call, my whole body filled with ticking, agitated energy.Thisis why I avoid picking up the phone. I don’t know how to fix something that is so broken I can’t even begin to understand how it might be put back together.

I head back through the gallery and hand the phone to Kylie without saying a word. I need to get out of here.

Outside, it’s a perfect early summer day, almost mockingly so. Blue skies, fairy floss clouds, birds chirping. I decide to blow off some steam by going for a walk, but forty-five minutes later I’m staring at the entrance of 21 Love Street.

Clearly, I need to lock myself away for a bit. I can easily do the rest of my workday from home and at least that way I can close my door and block out everyone’s judgement. There are only a few things that make a bad mood settle into my bones—and my father’s attitude is one of them. But as I exit the elevator, my whole body suddenly lightens up.

I see the back of one very sexy body, blue hair trailing in a long swishy ponytail above a pair of frayed black denim shorts.

“Hey!” I call out.

Emery turns, a tentative smile blooming on her lips. She’s carrying a tray with four coffees and a bag of something wedged in the middle. “You’re home early.”

“I had to get out of the office.” I see a flicker of concern dart across her face and suddenly the scars on my heart feel that little bit more manageable.

---