Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“William? Is that really you?”
Mom and Wren meet eyes, matching worry blooming faster than a hothouse flower. Their reaction worries me, and a moment later I can see why as my father, William Ford II (never Junior), stumbles into the room with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. From here, I can smell that it’s scotch.
It’s early for a drink, definitely not an after-work cocktail, but maybe he had a rough day? He looks as though that’s a possibility, his expensive black slacks wrinkled and his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. He squints at me through bleary eyes, and I begin to suspect this isn’t his first scotch.
“William? That you?” he repeats. It sounds like he’s forgotten that he already asked, and my concern ticks up a notch.
“It’s Wyatt, dear,” Mom corrects him, touching his arm gently. I might be William Wyatt Ford III, but I’ve always gone by my middle name, the same way my dad has always gone by Bill.
What the hell? I think, alarmed. Is this what Wren wanted to talk about?
In all my years, I’ve never seen my usually meticulously steady and stoic father sloppy drunk. I think I’ve only seen him tipsy at a party once or twice, and those were usually events like New Year’s or a birthday.
After all, he prides himself on his standing in the community as mayor and city council representative. He wouldn’t want to tarnish his reputation by being seen as something as mundane as a drunkard.
For a moment, I’m too shocked to even respond, but eventually words come. “Hey, Dad. Cutting out of work a bit early today?”
This a skill set us Fords learn at a very young age—the ability to say something without actually saying it. It’s all in the delivery, the tone, the subtle eyebrow lift.
“Wyatt,” Mom starts, her worry morphing into embarrassment. “Don’t make it worse. Your father has been hard at work.”
“Don’t need you to make excuses for me,” Dad snarls, jerking his arm away from Mom, who looks stricken.
Wren sighs heavily before calling out, “Leo, code D-A-D in the living room.”
Leo, one half of the couple who has cared for our home and us for decades, pops in immediately. He looks the same as the day I left, his dark hair still blacker than night and his eyes full of a degree of kindness I only ever received from him and his wife, Maria. “Oh, Mr. Ford, let me escort you to your office. You can have a minute to gather yourself.”
Leo wraps a gentle but strong arm around Dad’s shoulders, urging him toward the hall, but Dad’s feet don’t budge. “I don’t need to gather myself. Don’t you see my son here? Back from running away to do God knows what, only God knows where.”
I grit my teeth at being likened to a runaway throwing a temper tantrum when I left for valid reasons. But my anger morphs as I observe the power struggle, and I watch Leo subtly glance to Mom for approval, and she nods slightly. It appears to be a routine of “control the drunk” they’ve done before, and I’m left with a sour, bitter twisting feeling in my stomach.
What the fuck is going on here?
“Mr. Ford, I must insist. I believe there’s a call for you. Something about the council meeting?” Leo suggests more firmly, grasping Dad’s arm. I’m certain there’s no phone call and it’s simply a ploy to get Dad to agree to a moment out of sight.
“Leggo of me!” he snaps, not willing to play along, it seems. “I’m perfectly fine!”
Dad might be drunk, but he’s still strong. He jerks out of Leo’s reach, and the sudden movement knocks the glass out of his hand. It falls, shattering loudly on the floor. The sound’s like a hand grenade, shocking everyone in the room, and we all freeze.
“Okaaay,” Wren says firmly, the first to gather her wits. With a note of resigned frustration in her voice, she directs, “Leo, I got this.” She gestures to Dad with a look of disgust. “Can you get Maria to clean this up and then grab Wyatt’s bags from his truck?” She motions to Mom, cutting me a look so hard that she doesn’t have to tell me to stay out of this. “Mom, can you help me with Dad?”
He’s standing on his own, at least, a forlorn look of confusion on his face as he frowns at the mess of glass at his feet. It’s like he honestly doesn’t understand how the hard material in his hand suddenly got to the floor, droplets of scotch soaking into the cuffs of his pants.
Wren walks over and wraps Dad’s right arm around her shoulder, and Mom takes his left. “Dear, I think you were working so hard that you forgot to eat lunch again.” Still making excuses, or maybe finding ways to make Dad more agreeable, they manage to help him from the room.