Chapter 52 (Asher)
I watch from a distance as they lower him into the ground. My mother sits stoic on a chair near the front, large sunglasses framing her small face. The sounds of people weeping have my teeth grinding and it's all I can do not to walk over there and tell them all about the man they're wasting their tears on.
Turns out my father did us all the ultimate favor and passed away on his own the night of the shooting.
I didn't want to come here today, partly on account that Landon's still in the hospital, but Landon told me I would regret it if I didn't. He said I needed to say goodbye in my own way, not for my father, but for me.
And I suppose in a way he's right, I just can't bring myself to sit with a bunch of people mourning the loss of a man who abused his kids for years, sexually manipulated a mentally ill teenager, and then disowned his son when he needed him the most.
And had he not done the second—who knows how many unfortunate events could have been prevented.
I wait until everyone is gone and then I make my way over. A pamphlet from the funeral flaps in the wind until it lands at my feet. There's a picture of him smiling, but that's not what snags my attention.
It's the scripted print underneath his name that reads—Beloved Father.
Words that couldn't be further from the truth sit like a boulder on my chest and before I can talk myself out of it, I do a quick look around, unzip my pants, and let it flow.
“You know, if you shake it more than twice you're playing with it,” my brother's voice calls out as I tuck myself back in my pants. “Then you'll really give that woman a show.”
My eyes flit to a woman a few grave rows over, her mouth is parted in sheer horror as she gapes at me.
“Guess you didn't want to attend the service, either,” I mumble as my brother sidles beside me.
He looks down at the ground. “I thought about it, but in the end, I couldn't stomach sitting there listening to people talk about how great he was and how much they're going to miss him.”
“Same here.” I dig my hands in my pockets, trying to decide how to approach this topic. “I received a call from Dad's lawyer this morning.”
“Figured as much.” He mirrors my stance. “I'm assuming he left everything to you?”
“Yeah.” I shift my feet. “I'm not sure what to do about the football team, though. It's kind of a major conflict of interest when I'm trying to make it into the NFL myself. I think I'm going to sell it.”
He rubs his jaw. “Makes sense.”
There's an awkward shift in the air between us now and I decide to just get on with it. “I'm thinking about giving our mother a little extra seeing as he did renege on their infidelity clause.”
He snorts. “I'm sure she'll love that, given he made certain their prenup was ironclad in the event of his untimely death.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I'm donating a portion of it to a few charities.”
“How very philanthropic of you.”
“Preston.” The serious tone of my voice has him turning to face me. “I want to write you a check, because this money is as much yours as it is mine...but I'm trying to be a good brother here.”
I draw in a deep breath. “Bottom line—I'm afraid that if I do, I'll only be enabling you further. So, here's what I was thinking. Your tuition at Yale will be covered as well as your apartment and any other living and school expenses that you need. When you graduate, I’ll give you half of dad's money...but only if you stop gambling for at least two years. This way, you can use the money to start up a business like you always wanted to and—”
“Yeah, I'm gonna pass on that, brother.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “What?”
He looks over at his car. “I didn't come here to say goodbye to our father. I came here to say goodbye to you.”
I shake my head, uneasiness surging in my gut as I fire off questions at him. “Why? Where are you going? What about Yale?”
He fishes his keys out of his pocket. “I dropped out.”
“What the hell do you mean you dropped out?” I bark, my anger rising. “You need to graduate college.”
He starts walking to his car and I'm right on his heels. “Look, I know what happened this week really fucked you up.”
He opens his car door. “It's more than that.”
“Okay, so start talking and explain it to me then.”
“I can't.” He checks his watch. “I really need to hit the road.”
“I don't understand why—” I stop mid-sentence when I realize. “Fuck, you're in trouble again, aren't you?” I slam my hand on the hood. “How much do you owe?”
He slides into the driver's seat and sticks his key in the ignition. “Don't worry about it, Asher. You don't have to bail me out of this one. I got this.”
Before I can say another word, he hits the gas and drives off.