Page 98 of Gold Rush

I shake my head. “Just say the rules don’t apply to you, Dad.”

“I sincerely apologize for missing the dinner with you and Rory. We’ll reschedule. Hopefully, you two will still be together then.”

I don’t realize the fingers of my free hand have curled into a fist until my knuckles start to ache. “It’s never going to be enough, is it?”

“What?”

“Anything. I went to law school, like you wanted. I took a job at a firm ranked higher than Perry’s. I’m dating a member of the family you idolize. And you don’t really give a shit about any of it. You’re waiting for me to mess up.”

“Don’t act so innocent, Flynn. I expect you to mess up because you have, repeatedly. How many times did you come home drunk in high school? You practically flunked out of college your freshman year. Do you have any idea how many favors I had to ask for to keep you enrolled at⁠—”

“My roommate died, Dad.”

“That was a terrible tragedy, not an excuse. Character is what we display in the face of adversity, and you have fallen short time and again. Don’t you think I wish I could expect more from you? Don’t you think I want to count on my son to be reliable and responsible? You could have gotten into law school on your own. You probably could have gotten into Harvard Law on your own. But you had to complain and avoid for a year first, proving my point about your lack of discipline.”

I’m silent, which is rare. I’m usually in a rush to get through a lecture. Bored by his updates on golf or people he considers important. However I can hurry these conversations along, I normally will.

He’s right; I’m an adult. I have autonomy over my own life. I don’t have to listen to his criticisms.

“Flynn? Are you listening to⁠—”

“I’m done, Dad.”

He sighs. “Done with what, Flynn?”

“You. This. Keep the money. Don’t call me. Don’t expect me at lunch. I’m done listening and disappointing and attending any dinners you may or may not show up for.”

“Flynn, you’re⁠—”

“Bye, Dad.” I hang up.

He tries to call back a few seconds later, so I block his number.

It’s not nearly as satisfying as I always imagined it’d be.

31

The door opens while I’m seated cross-legged on the rug, attempting to lure Finch closer with a salmon treat. I glance from Flynn to the clock on the wall, confirming it’s not suddenly later than I realized. His Beers and Balls nights—which I can’t believe I know the name of, let alone adopted—normally last longer.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” His tone is somber as he sets his keys in the dish by the door and slips off his sneakers.

Finch stands, arching her back in a stretch, before delicately walking over to Flynn and rubbing against his ankle.

I drop the treat, relocating to the more comfortable couch. “I give up.”

“She knows playing hard to get will get more treats out of you,” Flynn tells me, walking over and sinking down on the cushion beside me.

Beneath his usual cologne, I smell cigarette smoke.

“More treats? She won’t even eat the treats I …”

Finch struts back to the rug, swallows the bite of fish, then continues padding toward the hallway—probably to go nap on Flynn’s bed—pausing briefly to sniff at the big box leaning against the wall by the bookcase.

“What’s that?” Flynn asks, nodding toward it.

“A climbing condo.”