Page 88 of The Holiday Makeover

The most crucial piece.

I lifted my head off his shoulder and searched his pensive face. “Do you want me to?”

His hand tightened around mine.

“No.” He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

That truth hung between us.

And it was a doozy.

I sat there stunned, not sure how to feel. Hurt was part of it, but it didn’t paint the whole picture. Confused came closer.

I thought we’d drawn this line together. A line we’d both agreed we needed.

“Do you think, like your dad, that I’m not being supportive enough?”

His eyes flew open, fury flashing through them. “He said that?”

I didn’t answer.

“Damn him.” Tate pulled his hand from mine and dragged it through his hair. “No. I don’t feel that way. Not even close. Hell, I didn’t want to ask this of you.”

“But you are.”

His jaw flexed. “Because this special . . . this attempt to save my show . . . it isn’t going as well as Quinton anticipated.”

“Or so he says,” I couldn’t help but say. Quinton didn’t really come off as a stand-up guy. I mean, hadn’t he promised Tate I wouldn’t have to be a part of this?

Tate gave a tight, noncommittal nod.

That didn’t exactly comfort me.

He stared toward the door he’d just spent hours rehanging, like maybe the answer was hidden somewhere in the hinges. “These last few days, I hear people talking about me. About who they think they know. Who they thought I’d be. What I almost was.” His voice roughened. “But no one really talks about me. Not who I am now.”

My chest ached.

“You should have heard my dad today on camera,” Tate said. “He made it sound like I stole something from him.”

My eyes welled with tears. What was wrong with Dominic? I never thought he would stoop so low. Didn’t he see the hold he had over his son and how wrong it was?

“Tate, you know that’s not true.”

He gave a small shrug, and somehow that hurt worse than if he’d outright argued the point.

“Rory, I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . Quinton has made it sound as though without your interview, this entire special is dead in the water. And my dad is pushing for it.”

Of course he was.

I felt ill.

“And a part of me hates that I even understand why.” He stretched his neck from side to side. “I just want someone who knows me and loves me to speak for who I actually am. Not the version everyone keeps talking about.”

His eyes met mine, full of apology and defeat.

Would Quinton and his dad always have this kind of hold on him?

If so, where did that leave us?