Page 25 of The Betrayer
“The only thing I needed was you. In school, in college, at the company, and tonight especially.” The anger rushed out of Paul’s tone in a harsh exhale, his body collapsing with it. Now he just sounded sad. “I needed you tonight, Dad. I told you, in every way I could, that I needed you here tonight.”
“You did just fine without me,” I pointed out. “You didn’t need me, so why should I interfere?”
“That’s not the point.” Paul’s jaw clenched again. “I needed you up there for me, to support me, to do this with me. To show me you care about what I need. To show me you care about me.”
Paul’s words stopped me still in shock, but my son looked seemed as surprised as I felt, blinking for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed, and I knew that look from when he was a kid—it was Paul at his most stubborn, when he was doubling down on whatever he believed or wanted to go after.
“You’ve never been there for me, Dad. I needed you, not just tonight, but so many other times. And you were never there for me.”
If his first words had been a physical blow, these were a punch to the gut. Anger welled from the place in the center of my chest the words had struck, goading me forward. I managed to pull myself back before I shoved him, before Paul knew what I had almost done.
“You know what? You seem to have a selective memory,” I snarled in return. “I’ve given you everything you’ve ever wanted—the best schools, science camps during the summer, trips to Europe, and an Ivy League education. All on the back of what I poured blood, sweat, and tears into to build. And now you have a cushy job people labor their entire lives for. Instead of complaining that I didn’t pay enough attention to you growing up, maybe you should just be grateful for what you have.”
My voice grew louder, and people nearby were starting to look, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t believe Paul was saying these things, accusing me of being a bad father in everything but the actual words.
My son, for his part, clenched his fists as tightly as I did. “You’re still not getting it—”
“I don’t have to get it,” I snapped. “You’re being ridiculous, and I’m not going to listen to this anymore. I’m leaving.”
Paul shouted my name once when I stalked out. Forgoing my usual pleasantries, I pushed through the crowd and the door out.
For a long moment, I stood there on the steps down to the sidewalk, taking deep breaths of the chilled air, letting the sounds, smells, and bright lights of the city wash over me. I wanted them to wash away the anger from Paul’s words, but that would take time.
He and I had never fought like this. Sure, we’d had our clashes and brawls, especially when it came to running the company, but nothing like this. I’d never heard such vitriol from him, and I had no idea where it had come from, so out of the blue.
I had never been there for him? That was bullshit, and Paul knew it. I’d always been there for him in some way, but apparently, it had to be in the exact way he expected or he wouldn’t be happy.
I let out a huff, unable to remember the last time I’d been this angry.
Or this hurt.
At least I knew the remedy for it, temporary though it might be. Looking both ways down the crowded sidewalk, I sought a deep-red dress and blonde hair, but I didn’t see them. Maybe if I texted Steffanie, I could repair what Paul had done and salvage some small part of the evening.
Who knew? I only knew I had to get out of there.
When I took out my phone, a string of angry text messages from Paul took up the entire screen. Letting out a slow, angry breath I replaced the phone in my pocket, turned right on the sidewalk, and walked. I didn’t know where to, but away from here and away from my son.
