Page 47 of The Score We Never Settled

“I’m good.” I step forward, but he doesn’t move a damn inch to give me space to get around him.

That’s fine.

I just broke some dude’s arm days ago. I can move a middle-aged prick out of my way.

Bumping into him, because I’m not going to be cornered in my own house, I close the door behind me and round his frame.

“Briggs,” he calls out after me as I take the first step. “We can’t go on like this forever.”

“I can.” My feet hit the gravel, and I make my way to my truck. “Don’t come here again.”

“This isn’t fair to your sisters. They’ve been playin’ between us for years.”

“Your fault.”

“Briggs,” he carps out, sounding a bit closer than the porch. “Be a man and face this.”

Face this.

It’s not because I’m scared to talk about feelings or the simple fact that I haven’t seen him in over nine years, but that I have nothing to say to him.

Nothing productive.

Nothing enlightening or nice to say.

He seriously has some Alzheimer’s-like symptoms to show up on my doorstep and demand I speak to him, but that’s a fucking Baby Boomer for you.

“You’re not gonna win her back, son. Not with the way you’ve been actin’.”

My hand freezes midair to my door handle, a mixture of disappointment and fury seeping through my entire frame.

I already know who he’s talking about.

Even though he didn’t follow along with me my entire childhood, Magnolia Ridge filled in the blanks for him.

It didn’t matter to the public that we never officially dated when Layla and I were in high school; we kept that part hidden well enough.

But it was my sister, Adeline, who kept him well-informed of my career, interests, and future plans.

Future plans that included and still include Layla Jean.

“Is this the part where you give me fatherly advice?” I crane my head over and give him the attention he doesn’t deserve.However, if it’ll speed this conversation up, I’m more than happy to give it to him. “Or the moment where we begin to start anew?”

His expression, for once, toward me isn’t void of any love or devotion that any father would shed toward his son.

No, it looks hopeful.

And it’s misplaced as hell.

“I was plannin’ on it, yeah.”

Misplaced as hell.

Yanking my truck door open, I climb inside and shut the door without another word.

It’s merciful, really, because I think I would have preferred my father to ignore me and not say a thing instead of bitching at me to be a man at eight years old. I was supposed to forget my mother’s death and act like she didn’t exist.

But she did.