Page 74 of Bookworm
“Yes,” I whispered. “I love him.”
“You’re kids. You don’t even know what love is.”
I snorted. “And you do? The father who sneaks around behind his back with Jasmine? Who tries pulling strings behind the scenes to secretly keep running his son’s life? If that’s your version of love, then I don’t want it.”
“Everything I’ve done for Adam is because I love him! I don’t know what Jasmine claims happened, but all I was trying to do was show her she could be part of our family.”
I paused, taking a breath, my dad’s words from the other weekend haunting me.
This is Adam’s father still. And if I love Adam, I’d have to find a way to deal with Elijah one way or another. I couldn’t just cut him out of my life unless I plan on also cutting Adam out, too.
And that wasn't an option.
“I don’t want us to hate each other, Elijah,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “But I also can’t build a foundation of mutual respect with you all on my own. I need you to try with me as well. We both love Adam, right?”
Elijah regarded me carefully, but gave a sharp nod in confirmation.
“Then let’s start there. It may be the only thing we have in common, but we both love Adam. If nothing else, can we remind ourselves of that when we come to an impasse?”
He lowered his hand, still holding his phone, to his sides with a sigh. “We both also love books,” Elijah grunted.
“Yes!” I threw my hands up in triumph. “Exactly! Maybe if we get to know each other we’ll find we have more in common than we thought.”
He gave a grumpy hmph in response that wasn’t all that encouraging. Still, it was more cordial than either of us had been in years.
“What’s one of your favorite books?” I asked, hoping to keep the good vibes coming.
“On the Road.”
I swallow my groan of disappointment. Of fucking course that was his favorite book. An overly cerebral ego-maniac’s journals about masculinity and sex in the sixties.
“Kerouac’s an innovator of American literature,” he added, his gaze darkening.
“Who needed an editor,” I muttered.
I fully expected Elijah to flip a lid over that comment. But instead, a small smile curved on his mouth. “Maybe. But that’s what I liked about it. That it was raw and unedited. That we didn’t see a culled down version of his rambling thoughts. Sort of likeThe Diary of Anne Frank. An editor would sully the reader’s experience.”
Huh. “That’s… kind of a good point,” I admitted. “Though I’m not exactly on board comparing the historic figure of Anne Frank’s diary to the partially autobiographic/partly fictionalized ramblings of Kerouac, I see what you’re saying.”
His grin widened. “Alright then. As long as we can keep our discussion topics to books, maybe we’ll be okay.”
“Maybe. And eventually if Adam and I get married, you know you’re going to have to make nice with my dad and Addy.”
He sighed heavily, but nodded. “Can we take this one step at a time, please?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
Then, looking down at his phone, he pressed his thumb to the screen. Seconds later, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out, looking at my screen to find his friend’s contact information at Stanford. “I thought I made myself clear?—”
“The job is real,” Elijah said. “And it’s a good enough and rare enough opportunity that you should at least look into it. Adam wouldn’t want you to ignore this opportunity. And even if youdon’t get the job, this Stanford friend of mine is a good contact for you to have. Consider this my olive branch.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Keys jingled in the lock and the door swung open, Adam entering the apartment, seeing us faced off in the kitchen. “Dad? What, uh, what are you doi?—”
I spun to face Adam, giving him my best reassuring smile. “We were just talking,” I said.
