Door is unlocked. I’ll be in the sunroom. – Dad

No face-to-face verbal contact in almost four years and that was his reply. I only messaged him that I wanted to talk in person and that I was on my way to his house with Maximoff. I can’t even be surprised by my father’s lack of enthusiasm. It’s not like I texted: I’m returning to medicine. You’re welcome.

I’m treating this interaction like a meeting with a college professor. That’s all it really is.

Maximoff knows this too.

It’s why he didn’t ask to change clothes to impress my father. He’s shirtless, still in the same drawstring pants that hang low on his muscular waist.

His ass looks great. But he wouldn’t catch me checking him out, even if I waved a hand in front of his face.

Because as soon as we enter the foyer and hallway, he soaks up our surroundings. Like he’s placing my younger self everywhere.

I watch him with a growing smile. He’s lost in the décor of Italian painters and overflowing vases of wildflowers. He looks up at the vaulted glass ceiling and down at the marble floors beneath his scuffed Timberlands.

Where his family home is warm and inviting, mine is a poster child for blue-blooded pretentiousness.

Maximoff glances at the dining room’s table set for twelve. “Did your house look like this when you grew up here?”

I toss my head from side-to-side. “Somewhat. Less paintings. Rachel is an art collector,” I remind him in case he forgot. He knows my stepmom moved in around the time when I went to college.

We turn a corner into an open living room, cigar bar, and upscale kitchen. I put a piece of gum in my mouth.

He zones in on the baby grand piano near a towering bookcase. “You can play?” he asks.

I leave his side and approach the piano. I look over my shoulder. “Can you, wolf scout?”

Maximoff gestures to me. “I asked you first, man.”

He can’t play. I pop a bubble in my mouth. “How badly are you hoping I’m a shit pianist because you are?” My fingers brush the keys.

“Who said I was a shit piano player?” he combats. “Maybe I’m the best there ever was, the goddamn best piano player of all piano players.”

My brows rise. “You’re definitely the most conceited pianist.” Every time I say pianist, he grimaces a little bit.

He nears me while I rest my knee on the velveteen bench. He skims my hands that hover above the keys.

“So you can’t play either,” Maximoff concludes since I’m prolonging this and he’s impatient as hell.

“And you just admitted that you can’t play,” I point out and sweep him in a slow-burning once-over.

He’s trying fucking hard not to smile. He licks his lips, eyeing my mouth. “I didn’t say that.”

“I love when you pretend to have amnesia.” I smile as he breathes out heavily in agitation, just wanting me to hurry this shit up. But I could bask in this moment for hours on end.

“Farrow,” he starts.

I bang on the keys harshly. Shrill chords jumble and pitch the air. I watch his smile take shape like he beat me.

“You like that?” I ask huskily.

His forest-greens pour through my brown eyes with so many yeses, and I’m tempted to draw closer—

“Farrow.”

That’s not Maximoff.

With no urgency, I retract my hands from the piano, the room deadening. Maximoff rigidly faces my father, and I glance over at the old man.

He stuffs his hands into khaki slacks, sporting a warm smile. His brown hair is tied back in a small pony, graying at his temples, and his forehead is lined with age.

Part of me almost wishes I could be a resentful bastard. Rub salt in his wounds before I give him what he’s wanted for so long, but I’ve never really enjoyed being needlessly bitter. That shit just isn’t for me, and if I can help it, I try not to be.

His eyes flit to the welt on my cheekbone. The one that Thatcher gifted me. My father doesn’t say anything about it, and I bet he’s assuming it’s from the hazards of security work.

“Let’s talk on the patio,” he suggests. “I’ll grab a few cigars—”

“No, we aren’t going to be long.” I drop my boot to the ground. My father contributes a lot of money to Philadelphia General, and they’ll easily let me restart my residency where I left off, so I’m not going to ask him to pull strings when my last name already will.

Nepotism. It’s real.

My father glances at Maximoff and hones in on his bandaged shoulder. “How’s that healing?”

“It’s alright,” Maximoff says, not intimidated. By anyone. He keeps eye contact until my father has to look away.

I’m about to speak, and then my father tells me, “If this is about Rowin, I hired him onto the med team because I’ve built trust with him. In thanks because of you—”

“Stop.” I shut my eyes for a long, annoyed beat. “Don’t tell me that.”

“Then tell me why you’re here,” he says, cordial. Non-confrontational. He ambles to the kitchen bar and yanks open the fridge. Maximoff and I follow so we won’t have to shout across the huge room.

I rest my sole on the rung of a barstool. “I came by to tell you that I’m finishing my residency.”

My father pours a glass of ice water for my boyfriend. Digesting my words slowly like he didn’t hear me well. He scrutinizes my earpiece and mic to my radio.

“This is my last week of security. I’m going back after that,” I explain. “I don’t need anything from you right now, but I’m doing this because I want to be a concierge doctor—”

“You will be.” His face brightens like I’ve given him all he needs to die a happy fucking man.

He never asks why I’ve had a sudden change of heart. I didn’t expect the why to be important to him, and that’s perfectly fine by me. He makes it easier to stay at a distance.

I pop another bubble. “That’s it. I’ll stay in touch for work.” I lower my boot off the barstool.

“Good. I’ll be available.” He pours a glass of water for himself, and he feels the need to tell Maximoff, “First-year doctors are filled with fear and doubt, and rarely do med interns run towards codes. But my son always did.”

I didn’t run towards codes thinking I’d bolster the family name. I ran towards them because I was confident I could handle the pressure. And I wanted to help. That’s it.

Maximoff curves his left arm around my shoulder. “You should be proud of your son,” he says so entirely that I can feel his pride for me. For so much more than just this choice.

My eyes are only on him.

“I am proud now,” my father tells Maximoff. “But not these past years—”

“Of course not,” I say.

He sighs. “Farrow, you don’t understand. You are gifted. More than me, more than your grandfather. You can’t waste talent like that—”

“Why don’t you tell Maximoff the story about how I came out to you?” I ask to make a point that I’ve never made before.

My father chooses this moment to take a sip of water. He clears his throat and glances at Maximoff with the shake of his head. “There’s not a lot to say.”

“Because you don’t remember.” I stand more upright. “It’s okay.” I hold out a genial hand. “It’s not a bad story. Shit, I actually like it.” I touch my chest. “You asked me about my crush. We talked for a few minutes, and things were easy. They always were, but eventually you’d forget about that boy. You’d forget we even spoke.”

“That’s not fair,” he says. “That was years ago.”

“Name one memory that doesn’t involve medicine.”

He lets out a deeper sigh. “Farrow…” He’s thinking. My life is entangled with medicine, but there are plenty of memories he could choose.

My first high school dance—he let me take his Bentley to pick up my date.

My mall excursion at twelve-years-old where I got my nose pierced—he signed the parental consent forms.

My second grade chorus recital—he made me blueberry pancakes as a good luck, do well thing.

He exists in memories that are void of medicine, but he has trouble coming up with one. He just never placed value on any of them. While he raised me, he looked through one lens and never widened the scope. I know how this ends before it even does. I tell him it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. We exchange a few more words about medicine.

And then I leave with Maximoff.

I’m not clairvoyant, but that I can predict.