“So I hear.” I push a bit of food around on my plate.
“She’s doing Europe next year.” Bristol takes a sip of her Sauvignon Blanc. “We’ve talked about getting her into a few of Rhyson’s shows on the tour.”
Invisible screws turn, tightening the muscles in my back and shoulders. This is exactly what we should not be discussing. Any talk about my music, about my work, could toss a lit cigarette into the pool of gasoline on the table. Am I the only one who realizes this? I look around the table, catching Grady’s eyes. He already wears a troubled frown.
“Maybe we should . . . this bisque is delicious.” Grady spoons some into his mouth. “Bertie made this, Angela?”
“Yes, Bertie’s a marvel.” Mother waves the question off with a slim hand. “Bristol, have you considered a full reunion tour of sorts? Celebrating the tour Rhyson and Petra did together when they were younger?”
Bristol bends her head over her plate, steadily lifting forkfuls of bisque, but I know she feels my stare, heavy as stones. If this family dinner reunion is actually part of some grand plan to re-infiltrate my parents into my career, into my life, I will fire my sister without blinking. I will write her off and ruthlessly, mercilessly cut her out of my life like a malignant tumor. She knows it too.
Bristol finally lifts her eyes to meet mine, shifting her gaze between my tyrannical parents at the head of the table and me.
Choose wisely, Bris, I silently urge her. We weren’t close growing up, but I’ve grafted her into my tight inner circle the last few years. I don’t want to lose her. She and Grady are the only family I have any real ties to. She’s seen what I do to family ties that choke. To protect myself, I’ll cut them.
“No, we haven’t considered that.” Bristol speaks into the waiting quiet broken only by silverware scraping plates and bowls. “Rhyson doesn’t want to go in that direction right now.”
“It’s a missed opportunity, if you ask me.” My father sits back a little to give our housekeeper, Bertie, more room to ladle another helping of bisque into his bowl.
“Everything is an opportunity, right, Dad?” I stop pretending I want lobster fucking bisque on Christmas Eve and slide it away. “Every person too?”
He and my mother exchange a meaningful glance, one I saw a thousand times growing up. The look that says Rhyson’s being difficult. That I need managing. What I needed was for them to parent me, not manage me, but they never bothered to do that.
“Rhyson, don’t read too much into it.” My father uses that cajoling voice I hate. “It was just an observation.”
“One I didn’t ask for.” Irritation sharpens my words, and I can’t dull them now.
“So you would miss a great opportunity that would benefit your career just to spite us?” My mother’s sarcastic laugh grates across my nerves. “Well, that’s wise.”
“I think I’m doing fine without your wisdom, Mother.”
“Is that so?”
“I would say so.” I lean forward, setting my elbows on the table to annoy her. “Both my albums went double platinum. I have six Grammys to show for it. I can write my own ticket, and I plan to.”
Mother’s eyes rest on my elbows like she wonders if farting and cartwheels are next in my dinner etiquette repertoire. She finally looks me in the eyes, her lips tight.
“You’ve coddled your brother, Bristol.” Mother delicately pats her mouth with her pristine napkin. “Despite the success he’s had so far, he doesn’t seem to grasp that it could all be gone tomorrow if he doesn’t make the right moves.”
“He is sitting right here,” I snap. “I run my career and my life, not Bristol. She knows that and so should you.”
“We’re only trying to help you,” my father cuts in, abandoning his bisque and leaning back in his seat. “You’re so self-destructive. Always have been. It comes with your gift, I suppose. That wild temperament. That’s why we had to keep the reins so tight on you, but you never understood that.”
“Working two hundred dates a year?” I fire back before he can reload with a second round of bullshit. “Hooked on prescription drugs? Your tight rein was strangling me, but you didn’t care about that as long as the checks kept rolling in, did you? You knew I needed to go to rehab but still pushed me to keep touring. Hell, you got me hooked in the first place. Thanks for all that help, Dad.”
I’m reminded that Emmy is hearing all of this, witnessing all of this, only when she gasps. Pity and horror fill her eyes. Great. I’ve fucked up her Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family drama. Batting a thousand, Gray.
“We should all calm down.” Grady looks between my red-faced father and me like he’s a negotiator and we’re both strapped with dirty bombs.
“Grady, maybe you can manage to stay out of it this time,” my mother says through tight lips. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for you.”
“That’s fucked up, Mother.” My words come out sharp as hot glass before Grady has the chance to defend himself. “The one person in this farce of a family who looked out for me, who had my best interests at heart, and you attack him.”
“We all had your best interests at heart, Rhyson,” my father says. “We just had different ways of arriving at them.”
“And your way could have gotten me killed.”
“Oh, spare me the melodrama.” My father tosses his linen napkin onto the table. “Our way would have saved this family the public humiliation of being dragged through court for a totally unnecessary step that set your career back nearly a decade.”
“With all due respect, Benjamin,” Grady says. “I wish things could have been handled differently, but I only wanted what was best for Rhyson. If we could all focus on the future and put the past behind us—”
“You just can’t stay out of it.” My mother shakes her head, narrowing her eyes on Grady. “How are we supposed to reconcile with our son if you’re always getting in the way?”
That does it. I stand to my feet to face the Machiavellis at the head of the dinner table.
“For the record, Grady is the reason I’m here,” I say. “And since you can’t show him any respect or gratitude, I refuse to endure this Christmas charade.”
I turn to Emmy, touching her hand and smiling ruefully.
“I’m sorry my family seems to ruin all the holidays for you. You’re very lucky Grady’s nothing like the rest of us.
Without another word, just a touch to Grady’s shoulder, I’m headed toward the door.
“Where exactly do you think you’re going?” my father’s voice booms from behind me. “You’re even more self-centered and arrogant than you were before, disrupting our Christmas this way. Walk out that door and you’re no son of mine.”
Son?
That word doesn’t even sound right on his lips, like a foreigner mispronouncing a new tongue. The right letters and syllables, but wrong to the point of grating on your ears. I turn by degrees to face him, years of pent-up rage slipping through cracks I’ve only spackled and plugged in therapy.
“Really, Dad?” I set my voice to deadly quiet. “That’s the threat? That I’m no son of yours? Didn’t you get the message that I didn’t want to be the son of a cold, heartless, mercenary bastard like you when I begged the courts to emancipate me?”
I think I’ve actually hurt him. Before he lowers the shade over his expression, I think I see pain. Am I evil for hoping so? How much of my life have I lived just wanting a reaction from him? He didn’t seem to respond to the things a father should, so our dynamic has always been off. Now, it’s so bad that even his pain satisfies me because it may be the only real emotion between us.
I can’t take this room anymore. It’s like being locked in a garage filling with carbon monoxide. My chest hurts. My eyes burn. I think I’m dying so slowly I don’t even notice. Without another word, I’m out of the dining room, through the foyer, and on my way up the steps to get my shit.
“Rhyson,” Grady calls from behind me.
I can’t even talk to him right now. I don’t stop.
“Rhyson, don’t go.”