Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 112(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
“Talk to him and with him,” encouragingly escapes. “Not at him.”
Puppet Boy casually extends the bag in his direction. “Give him this, and then give yourself the gift of really getting to know the little dude.”
Chapter 7
Wes
A Christmas intervention.
I can’t decide if this is better or worse than an alcoholic one.
I do know that a drink right about now would take the edge off.
And I also know they don’t give out chips for not being a terrible parent.
And I am.
I don’t mean to be.
It’s never been my intention.
Honestly?
I’m not even sure exactly when it happened.
My back hits the wall across from Wy’s bedroom on a heavy sigh.
I have accomplished world-renowned mergers.
I have the literal key to the city of Highland.
I have dined on multiple occasions with literal royalty.
How is it I’m failing so fucking miserably at this?
What if being his father is something I never succeed at?
What if…he grows up having me yet wishing he didn’t?
Or grows up having me but pretends he didn’t?
What if the second he’s eighteen he cuts me out of his life completely?
Only talks to his mother?
His grandparents?
His siblings?
Uncles?
Everyone except me?
Which is quite frankly exactly how it feels now.
How do I stop that from happening?
How do I prevent becoming the villain in his life that I have no doubt he’s already labeled me to be?
Another body shaking sigh slips free during my crossing of the short distance to knock on his door.
It’s odd how familiar this shit is.
“Go to the twins, dudes,” Wy calls back from the other side of the blockade, clearly mistaking me for the dogs. “I’m good.”
“It’s your dad,” I awkwardly announce on a tug to my shirt collar. “Can I um…Can I come in?”
An uncomfortably long lull occurs prior to him grumbling, “It’s your house.” Another painful pause. “Do what you want.”
My lips briefly press together as I crack it open just enough for my face to be seen. “It’s your room, Wy.” I swallow the lump of animosity wedged in my throat. “You don’t want me in it? I won’t come in it.”
He looks up and over from where he’s watching something – most likely surfing – on his device in his bed. “Do you need to come in for something?”
“Your uncle asked me to bring this to you.” The bag wielding arm wedges itself through the small space to be seen. “Said it was for your box.”
Excitement begins to light up his crystal stare only to immediately be smothered away with a kick of the chin. “You can just drop in my chair and go.”
I nod my understanding, step inside, and head for the dangling hammock seat near the window. However, about halfway there, I stop.
Force myself to face him.
Ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and ask, “What’s in it?”
Wy slams his back against his surfboard headboard in obvious annoyance. “Why?”
“Because I would like to know what you had your uncle get from our company.” I take a single step towards his mattress. “And I’d like to know why you didn’t ask me to do it.” A second shaky stride is taken. “Why you rarely ask me to do anything for you. Why you rarely tell me what’s going on. Or what you need. Or that you have a new friend. Or a girlfriend. Or fucking…anything, Wyland.”
“Why the hell would I?” he chomps back without an ounce of hesitation. “You don’t talk to me.” The object in his lap gets carelessly thrown to one side, video still playing. “You tell me it’s this way and that’s that.” One ankle is crossed over the other. “You give zero fucks to how I feel or what I think or even who I wanna be.”
The weight of his words effortlessly buckles my knees.
“Mom? Total brah.” There’s no denying the joy in his gaze. “She listens. She tells me shit she did when she was my age. Or…a little older. Mistakes she’s made. Still makes cause she’s not perfect.” A slight shrug is presented. “She talks to me about what might happen in a sitch. What might not happen on the flip side. Lets me wipeout and then instead of an ‘I told you so’ lecture, she just…encourages me to pick up my board. Be less hardheaded. Think about things. And ultimately go again.”
It's impossible to stop my shoulders from sagging.
That’s her.
Supportive.
Inspiring.
Forgiving.
“And my uncs? Duuuudeeeeesss.” Another wave of adoration conquers his freckled complexion. “Always pushin’ me to follow my own waves. Carve out my own name. Be me whoever me is whenever that’s who I feel like I am. They’re always tellin’ me it’s gnarlz if I’m into death metal or only wanna wear hot pink boardies or enjoy v-cheese or tof’ on pizza. They always remind me what I like and who I like can change and that change is…okay.”