Lost King by Piper Lennox (best self help books to read .TXT) 📕

“And you promise,” he adds, leveling his flat yet intense eyes with mine, “if you need help, you’ll call me?”

Not in a thousand fucking years, I think.

But I just want him gone, so I nod. “Yeah. Promise.”

He nods back with this “that’s all I wanted” look and slips his foot from the doorway. He steps onto the porch, hands in his pockets, waiting for me to shut the door.

With a long blink, I do. Then I twist the deadbolt into place, hard enough to know he hears it.

20

“Look, I said I was sorry. You don’t have to ignore my calls like that, son. Not exactly mature.”

I stare at the Bluetooth speaker like my dad can see the “fuck off” look I’m giving him right now. “Just didn’t feel like talking for a while. That a crime?”

While he sighs—it’s far more dramatic than he claims I’ve been, dodging his shitty apology calls for the last few days—I finish dicing the onions and check the time. Ruby gets off work soon, and I’ve timed dinner perfectly to finish twenty minutes after she arrives. Just enough time to get my hands on her. And in.

Dad’s talking again, though, which kills the mood big-time.

“...working Thanksgiving Day, but only until four, so.” He clicks his tongue, waiting. “You could fly out.”

Oh, wow. “Only” until four, huh?

Sad thing is, I would still call this a great deal. Better than nothing.

That is, if I believed even half of it. He always works later than planned. He always forgets.

And you, I remind myself, need to stop caring.

Meeting Ruby was like a reset for my brain or something, I swear. I’ve been noticing all these sad-as-shit aspects of my life I used to ignore: the multi-hour video game sessions, excessive espresso intake, and joblessness were all top-tier cringe on their own. But this whole “please pay attention to me, Dad” thing is, by far, the worst.

We’re two grown men. I’m not going to beg him to meet up on a goddamn holiday anymore. And I’m done falling for it when he says he will.

“I’m going to a cabin with Wes and some other people, actually.” Again, I stare at the speaker, this time in a sort of challenge. It feels like calling bluffs, even though I’m not bluffing. Just letting him know the father-son-bonding train has left the station.

“Oh. Well...that’s good. That you’ve got plans, I mean.” He clicks his tongue again, thinking. “I’ve ordered cleaning for the winter house already, though. Oh, you know what? If you and your friends want to—”

“They’ve already rented their cabin,” I interject. “We don’t need the winter house.” And I like the idea of chilling with people in a house where I’m not the host, for once. I’ve been thinking more and more lately about what Ruby said—my “Gatsby” complex. Much as I love having people over, it’s for all the wrong reasons. I should be around people I actually want to spend time with. Not because I’m afraid of spending time with myself.

“Want my opinion?” I ask, licking a burn on my thumb. “You should invite Kimberly.”

The line buzzes in his silence. After a full damn minute, he asks, “Kimberly?”

“Yeah. If you’re working Thanksgiving, that means she is, too. Right? And it’s not like she’s going to fly back to...where is she from? Montreal?” I spin the burner knob down to simmer and drop the lid over the soup, checking the time again. “Yeah, she’s not flying back at four in the afternoon for a holiday she doesn’t even celebrate.”

Dad laughs like he’s nervous. “She’s probably got plans here, son. And something about it feels...less than professional. Just the two of us up there.”

“That’s the point.” Jesus. How dense can a man be, missing all the signs right in front of his face?

“I suppose a—a casual invitation wouldn’t hurt.” His words sound kind of warped, like he’s speaking through the side of his mouth while chewing his cheek. Maybe things are starting to click.

I’m glad: Kimberly is the nicest, most patient, most absolutely relentless woman I’ve ever met, to put up with my father the way she has all these years. Why on fucking earth she wants him after seeing his life up-close this long, I’ll never know. But if I can help her out, I’m more than happy to.

Besides: I want my dad to be happy, too. True, I’m pissed he’s put work over me for years now, but I’m more worried about him putting work over himself, by this point. Dude hasn’t had a real relationship since my mom took off.

“Order tulips for the winter house,” I tell him, just before we hang up. “Those are her favorite.”

He laughs. It sounds bewildered, either because he has no idea how I know that, or he can’t believe his own stupidity for not knowing.

“Knock, knock.” Ruby’s face appears on the television. She’s smiling into the doorbell cam, holding up a white cardboard box. “I brought dessert.”

I laugh, taking note of the Gret’s Pie Shop sticker sealing it shut. “Door’s unlocked, come in.”

From the foyer, I hear her shout, “Stop! Leaving! The house! Unlocked!”

“Trying. Old habits,” I call back, untying my apron to go greet her. She gets to the kitchen right when I’m lifting it off over my head, but bites her lip and stops me.

“Leave it on. I like a man in bakery attire.”

Her fingers traveling up into my hair melt every bone in my legs. Fuck.

“Twenty minutes until dinner is ready,” I tell her hoarsely. My hands fumble with the buttons of