Page 86 of The Story of You

We both had to suck it up. Father wasn’t budging.

The day before my eighteenth birthday, Father was home at the usual time—six-thirty—and I as dutifully, had his meal on the table. I’d read that dinner was the perfect—and therefore appropriate—time to bring up house business. I thought to give it a try. I didn’t hate what the magazines said. They were a tad disturbing, and there were things I could do without, but the general idea was appealing.

“What are your thoughts on a crockpot, Aleksander?” I had full leave to buy whatever I wanted, but there were limits on domestic items. Mother had never used one. I didn’t know if it was because she didn’t favor one or if Father hadn’t allowed it. It wasn’t an item in the magazines. How far did he want to go in his imitation?

He thought about it and then as though he’d recalled the right memory, his face lit up. “Had some crockpot stew at a barbeque once. Loved it. Think you can make that for me, butterfly?”

Butterfly.

I should have hated that. I wished I hated that. Instead, elation filled me and then I melted. It made no fucking sense.

“Of course. I found some great recipes for soup and some other sauces I thought we might enjoy.”

They were for Oliver. I’d read about the nutritional benefits of soups and other slow-cooked dishes.

“Great. Get the best one you can find. Spare no expense—we can afford it.”

He always said that. Back then, I chalked it up to our modest living. He was a cardiac surgeon who pulled in a generous wage, but our house was standard. Exceedingly handsome, but I could have fit the whole house inside the one I now call home.

My request had gone well. I could almost call the situation normal if I forgot about the one small and inconvenient detail that I was his son. I looked at Oliver in his highchair, playing with his food. He’s the place I always look when I need guidance. That’ll never change. His platinum blond tresses fell over his face as he smooshed each bite of potato I’d carefully cut for him, into pancakes.

“Baba, it’s pretty,” he said.

I smiled. Not all the way, but I felt the same amount of happiness as if I had. I didn’t want to show it, worried at what Father would say if he knew Oliver made me happier than he did. Conjuring up more than a weak or false smile was all I could manage with him and those were tinged with inner sadness.

Yeah, I could do whatever was needed for him. If that meant playing by Aleksander’s rules until he had a good education and was off raising his own family that was fine. Oliver was worth it. My life was for Oliver now.

I knew everything Father wanted. I knew what he desired. All I had to do was give it to him

I took a breath and signed a pact with the devil.

“I hope you’re taking me someplace nice for my birthday, Aleksander.” I tried to affect my mother. “Mrs. Brandywine has agreed to take the baby.”

Oliver was mine. He could have me, butAleksanderwasn’t going to share any part of Oliver. However, I needed a term that made him sound like ours. I settled on that one and buried my feelings about it. I had to be believable, not just to him, but to myself.

He froze. I had surprised him. A slow smile spread onto his face, and it reached all the way to his bright malachite eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of half-assing your birthday. You’ll see.”

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Oliver~ May 23rd 2009

Ishould know by now that Silas always has three eyes on me—the regular two plus the third one, his sixth sense, but I’ve been trying to hide my horror and my tears. Maybe I shouldn’t have read that all in one go, but I was captivated.

It’s like he knows which part I read. He can’t look at me. He pulls the cake out of the … the fridge? How long have I been reading?

I close the book and wait. Bewildered doesn’t cover it, but it’s close to how I feel. I watch him methodically set the cake down and then lean on his palms against the counter.

“I’m at the part where he f-forces you to be with him.”

“No. You’re at the point where I fall in love with him, Oliver.”

There’s no bitterness, only resignation. I hate his haunted eyes. “Baba, I hate it, but not because of anything you did. You had little choice, and you needed some peace. If it had to happen, it’s better that you loved him. It would have been worse if you hated every second.”

His tense demeanor softens. “I should have known you’d understand, Eaglet.”

“You can’t think that I would have felt differently about you for this.”

“No. But others would.”