Page 62 of The Art of Scandal

“You goddamn brat! You’re still holding grudges about shit that happened years ago? Grow up!”

Grow up. Do better.Don’t you fucking cry because some little shit hurt your feelings.A hundred old humiliations came back to Nathan all at once: that he was weak, that he was worthless. Nathan slammed his glass into the sink so hard it cracked. “Get out.”

Beto waved a hand. “There you go, quitting when things get hard. That’s not a solution.”

“I’m not a fucking problem. So stop trying to fix me.”

“Fix you?” Beto gestured frantically between them. “I’m trying to fixus! Everything I’ve ever done has been so you could become the man I know you could be. Is that wrong? Did wanting the best for you make me a bad father?”

Nathan heard the desperation in Beto’s voice and realized what his father really wanted. Absolution. He was a dying man, chasing down his sins, wondering if there was still time to be forgiven. But Beto had taught him how to hate himself. Those lessons were embedded so deep that Nathan was terrified he could never unlearn them. It wasn’t the kind of damage you healed with bygones over drinks. Nathan couldn’t give him that.

“No,” Nathan said. “That’s not what made you a bad father.”

Beto stopped pacing. The anger fueling him was gone, like a someone had yanked out the cord. “You told me once that I talkedatyou, not to you.” His lips twitched into a sad smile. “But you’ve always been a moving target, Nathaniel. I could never seem to…” He shook his head. “I’m gonna go.”

Beto walked to the door and paused with one hand on the doorknob. He finally looked at the drawing desk. “Abuelita used to call you her light. A bighearted little joker who could find something beautiful in any shadow.” He blinked, eyes shimmering. “But things have been so dark for this family, for so long. I think that when you gave up on us, we lost our light.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rachel didn’t hear from Nathan until Friday morning, the day of their MoMA trip. She told herself that he was probably busy with the latest publicity push for the gala, which was less than a month away. But after three days of silence, she was convinced that her attempt to slow the runaway train of their relationship had derailed it instead. Matt was avoiding her with another round of rural campaign stops that would last until Monday. He’d barely been gone five minutes before Nathan’s car pulled up to the curb.

“It’s a long drive,” she said, adopting an airy tone as she slid into the passenger seat. She was determined to hide how much his silence had upset her. The trip would take four hours if they were lucky. Stewing in tension the entire time would be miserable. “We should take turns.”

“I don’t mind driving,” Nathan said absently.

“Is something wrong?”

He paused as he pulled onto the road. “It’s not you,” he admitted. “I mean, it’s not us.” He fell silent, clearly debating whether to tell her the rest. “I think I need to talk to someone. Like a professional.” He paused. “Beto is dying.”

“What?” It burst out before she could stop it. Nathan gave her a pained look, like he didn’t want to repeat it. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t give a shit if he dies.” His voice cracked and she touched his shoulder.

“Yes, you do.”

Nathan didn’t argue. He swallowed hard and twisted his hands on the steering wheel. “He’s got six months, maybe. They’re not sure.” Rachel rubbed his arm. His muscles were rigid, coiled into a useless armor. “He came by my place last night. We got into it. He’s always been disappointed in me. Like I’ve failed at being his son.”

Nathan told her stories about his childhood, casting Beto as a neglectful tyrant whose rare acts of kindness only left Nathan frustrated and confused. But Rachel was slowly becoming fluent in the man sitting beside her. He rushed through softer memories because they made the thought of losing Beto hurt more, while focusing on the pain kept him numb.

“I’ve been so angry with him all my life.” He met her eyes. “But I don’t want to live like that anymore.”

“Do you think you can forgive him?”

“Maybe.” Nathan swallowed hard. “But I don’t know how.”

She’d forgotten this part of falling in love with someone, how hard it was to watch them hurt in ways you couldn’t heal. There was nothing she could say to make it easier, so she reached for his hand instead.

That small touch shifted the air between them. Nathan moved his arm to the back of her seat for the rest of the drive. Rachel drifted closer to him with every mile, until she was practically nestled against his side. They spent the next five hours trading intimate stories and lazy finger grazes to the low bass of Nathan’s slow jams playlist. It was kindling on a fire.

At MoMA, Nathan seemed more intrigued by the wispy curls at Rachel’s ear than the art. After her second sidelong glance, he started gazing blankly at installations. They stopped in front of Yves Klein’sBlue Monochromeand Nathan examined the large canvas with polite apathy.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing,” he said. “I mean, I know there’s some deeper meaning, but it just looks like blue paint to me.”

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