Page 84 of Making It Burn
One Mississippi.Two Mississippi.
I’m literally in a closet.
In the closet at work, and with my father.Hell, I’m in the closet about everything that actually mattered.
Ten Mississippi.Eleven Mississippi.
When had I become this person?The one who hid in supply closets, who lied by omission, who pretended the most important relationship in his life didn’t exist?
Twenty Mississippi.Twenty-one Mississippi.
I thought about Beau’s face when those footsteps had paused outside the door.Not scared exactly.Just...resigned.Like he’d accepted that this was how things would always be.
Thirty Mississippi.Thirty-one Mississippi.
What if I didn’t want this to be how things always were?
Forty Mississippi.
What if I was tired of hiding?
Fifty Mississippi.
What if—
Sixty.
I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, squinting against the fluorescent lights.The office buzzed with its usual mid-morning energy—phones ringing, people talking, the hum of productivity.Normal.Professional.Safe.I headed back to my office, nodding at colleagues as I passed, my mask firmly in place.
But the cold, uncomfortable feeling in my gut wouldn’t go away.
* * *
Happy Chen’s was tucked into a brick building on Cary Street, the type of place that had been there forever and looked it—red paper lanterns in the windows, a faded gold dragon painted on the door, and the smell of ginger and garlic that hit you the moment you walked in.
Caroline was already seated when I arrived, looking polished in a cream blouse and tailored pants, her blonde hair swept back in a way that probably took an hour but was meant to look effortless.
“Mason!”She stood to hug me, and I let her, even though it felt stiff and awkward.“Thank you so much for meeting me.”
“Of course.”I sat down across from her as a server appeared with a pot of green tea and two small cups.
“I know you’re busy,” Caroline said, pouring tea for both of us.“I really appreciate your taking the time.”
“It’s fine.”I wrapped my hands around the warm cup, watching steam curl up from the surface.“You said you wanted to talk about Christmas gifts?”
“Yes!Your father is impossible to shop for.He has everything, and whenever I ask him what he wants, he just says ‘nothing’ or ‘surprise me.’”She laughed, a tinkling sound that felt practiced.“I thought you might have some insight into what he’d actually like.”
I thought about my father.Frank Price, who wore the same cologne he’d worn for thirty years, who read the Wall Street Journal every morning with his coffee, and who’d worked seventy-hour weeks for as long as I could remember.
“A bottle of Macallan 18,” I said.“He drinks it on special occasions.Or a new set of golf clubs.He’s been complaining about his driver for months.”
“Perfect.”Caroline pulled out her phone and made a note.“See?I knew you’d have good ideas.You know him so well.”
Did I?
I knew his routines, his preferences, and the surface-level details.But did I actually know him?Know what he thought about, what he cared about beyond work, golf, and scotch?
“How are things with you and your father?”Caroline asked, like she’d read my mind.“I know he’s been busy with work, and I worry he’s not making enough time for family.”
