Page 82 of The Story of You
He shrugged.
“What have you been waiting for then?” There was nothing stopping him from taking me. Nothing. I needed him for Oliver.
“Other than you’re a minor, I’d rather wait until you’ve come around to the idea. You have until your eighteenth birthday to make a decision.”
I had a countdown now.
I tapped my fingers in the methodic rhythm again so that I didn’t wrap them around his throat. “I see. Me being your son doesn’t bother you, but me being a minor does.”
He wrinkled his nose. “It does. And I would rather have your interest. It would be nice if you could come around to the idea,” he said again since I hadn’t commented. “But simply obeying is enough.”
His green eyes focused on Oliver. He was going to use Oliver to get what he wanted. All my fears were coming true. I took a careful breath while Oliver grabbed my hand to play with it, trying to tap the fingers like I’d been doing. I watched Oliver play, disassociating a little.This wasn’t happening to me.
“I understand.”
“We’ll see. I think you want it too, but you’ve just never considered it because of the close-minded views of society. There’s something there. I know I can’t be imagining what I felt between us.”
Had I been giving off a signal? The times I wanted comfort sprang to mind. But that had to be different. I was just a young man wanting comfort from his father. That’s all. Wasn’t it?
Even now, I don’t know. Whatever the case, he was supposed to be the adult and leave misguided feelings untouched. At the time I was confused.
“No, I … that wasn’t … it wasn’t like that.”
“You were lying in my bed, Silas. You stayed for hours.” I tugged at my hair unable to come up with a sufficient counterargument. Satisfied I understood, he nodded. “Well done with Dr. Allen. I enjoyed that.” He was amused his dog had tried to bite him back. “Now, shouldn’t you be getting dinner started?”
He smirked and left the kitchen.
Once again, I’d lost. In the game of chess between us, I was in check.
And that was being generous.
Soon I would learn I was always the pawn.
* * *
Silas
Nothing happened for months and then two weeks before my eighteenth birthday, Father phoned home during his workday. “Get a sitter for Oliver. We’re going out.”
I slammed the phone down, but I did call the sitter. I guessed we were having another meeting about his proposition.
I knew it would be somewhere nice. I dressed in black slacks and a white button-down long-sleeved shirt. I used mousse in my growing hair. Oliver helped, handing me the comb. “Are you going to be a good boy for Mrs. Brandywine?”
“Good boy, Baba,” he said, smiling wide. He was a good distraction. I was reminded of what was at stake. I would do anything for Oliver. Even this.
Still, I had no idea what to expect. I prepared for battle, turning myself to steel.
We went to a fancy place. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. What was this? He ordered wine and let the server pour me a glass. I watched as he swirled his glass, mesmerized by the red liquid as it spun up to the bouquet. So proper. So sophisticated. I still admired him, and it broke my heart.
Lakshan claims my heart still exists, but I disagree. It might beat occasionally for him, for Oliver, and Darius, but it never recovered from Aleksander.
I loved him purely because I could then.
At that moment, I loved him despite it all and hoped his sickness would pass. Maybe I could convince him to see a version of Dr. Allen? What if loving him was the answer to all of this? Would it really be that hard? Maybe love would heal him.
I picked up my glass, mimicking him, swirling wine so it whirled like his.
“You swirl and then sniff the bouquet, like this,” he instructed, demonstrating. “You also want to check the legs.”
