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I knew that, so why does hearing him say it out loud hurt so goddamned bad? “And the house? This place? The family fortune?” I dig, punishing us both with every word. “I suppose it never occurred to you that I might want them either.”
“I couldn’t choose between you and your brother,” he says, shaking his head again. Giving me the same tired story he’s been flogging since he told us he was going to sign everything over to Patrick over a year ago. “My father did that and it ruined my relationship with your uncle. I won’t be responsible for—”
“My relationship with Conner is already ruined.” I take a step toward him before I can stop myself. “It’s been ruined for as long as I can remember.”
“You did that,” he bellows, coming out of his chair to jab a finger at me. My dad’s a big man. Every bit as big as I am. When he gets angry, the ground shakes. “You’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”
“You’re right, Da. I did do that,” I bellow back. Somehow, I’ve made my way through the door and to the desk. I’m leaning into it, into him, so close his finger is in my face. “You ever stop to wonder why? You ever ask yourself what the fuck happened to me? Why I’m such a miserable prick?”
“Every goddamned day.”
The words hang between us, his admission ringing in my ears, but he’s not through. I may have started it, but my father is the one who’s going to finish it.
“I’d rather flush your grandmother’s ring down the goddamned toilet than see it on that woman’s finger—not because she’s an absolute fecking nightmare, but because you don’t love her and I’ll be damned if I’ll sit idly by and watch you give it to her.” He drops his finger, his hand hitting the desk between us with a dull thud. “I don’t know why you’re marrying her but I won’t let you tarnish your grandparents’ legacy to do it.” He sits down again, the chair letting out a familiar squeak when he lowers his considerable frame into it. “As for the family assets—you might not like it and you might not believe me, but my answer stands. Your relationship with your brother is damaged enough. I won’t see it completely destroyed over something as trivial as money.”
He’s right. I don’t believe him. “When are you going to forgive me?” I ask him. “When are you going to stop being disappointed in me?”
He stares at me for a few seconds, his jaw working and pulsating while he struggles to get his temper in check. Finally, he shakes his head. “It’s not my job to forgive you, boy. That’s something you’ve got to figure out on your own.” He doesn’t answer my second question. Probably because the answer is never.