Stepbrother Billionaire(50)
Author: Colleen Masters

“Well, Self,” I mutter, raising the wine glass to the empty apartment, “It’s just you and me again. Let’s figure out what we’re going to do.”

I nearly lose my balance on the bar stool as a loud knocking rings out from the front entry way. That’s weird. Emerson just left five minutes ago, and besides, he has a key. We didn’t order any food, and there’s no way Riley’s swinging by to say hello after what I’ve done to her. So then who could possibly be knocking at this hour?

Cradling my wine glass, I stand and cross to the front door. Probably it’s just Emerson’s dry cleaning, or something. Billionaires have things like dry cleaning delivery, right? I step into the entryway and unlock the front door, swinging it open with my free hand.

There’s a man standing on Emerson’s front steps. He wears a dated but clean sport coat, a fair amount of stubble, and scuffed shoes that must once have been very expensive. His hands are clasped nervously in front of him, and his hunched shoulders give him a look of preemptive defeat. There are red splotches across his nose and cheeks, signature features of an alcoholic. The man is staring at shoes, and for a moment I can’t place him. But then, he lifts his face to me, and I feel the wind rush out of my lungs.

“Dad?” I breathe, paralyzed in the doorway.

“Hello Abigail,” he replies with heartbreaking formality. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. Well. I know it is, but…Can I come in?”

“Oh. Of course,” I tell him, stepping aside to let him in.

My dad shuffles past me into Emerson’s loft, looking as frail as I’ve ever seen him. I stare after him, utterly baffled by his sudden appearance here. I haven’t seen him since my masters program graduation ceremony, and even then he barely said hello before disappearing into thin air again. He’s not exactly an active presence in my life, so what the hell is he doing here, on one of the most intense nights of my life?

“Dad,” I begin, watching as he stands awkwardly in the middle of Emerson’s loft, “Why are you here?”

“Your grandparents. They told me what was going on,” he mutters, “I figured you might be in a tough spot, so I thought I’d come and try to…I don’t know. Help?”

“But how did you even find this place?” I ask.

“Your friend. Roommate. She mentioned you were with Emerson. This address wasn’t too hard to find,” he shrugs.

I take a nervous sip of wine and immediately feel horrible for doing so as my dad shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t,” I murmur, setting down my wine glass.

“No, it’s OK,” Dad assures me, “I’ve been sober for a solid six months.”

I bite my lip. Six months is always about how long he lasts between relapses. I don’t want to set him off. What I do want is to understand what possessed my father to track me down tonight. We haven’t had a real conversation in years. Really, not since his falling out with Deb. His endless cycle of relapses and recoveries has broken him own. He looks feeble, now. Broken. I hate to see him like this.

“So?” I prompt him, “Are you here to save me from the evil Emerson Sawyer? Are you going to tell me that Grandma and Grandpa are right, and that I should steer clear of him if I know what’s good for me?”

“No,” my dad replies, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“No?” I reply, taken aback. “But—”

“I’m not here to save you from Emerson,” my dad goes on, “I’m here to save you—try and save you—from yourself.”

“You’re gonna have to drop a few more bread crumbs if you expect me to follow this,” I tell him, crossing my arms.

“I know this is going to sound insane, coming from me,” my dad says, struggling with his heart-to-heart dynamic. “But when your grandpa told me what the situation was, it’s like I knew what you’d be thinking. You’d be thinking, ‘I should just give up on Emerson,’ and ‘It’s too hard,’ and ‘It’s not right to let someone help me, I need to go it alone’.”

I stare at him across the room, flummoxed by how spot-on he is. My dad and I have never once understood each other. He’s never even made the attempt to understand my experiences. We don’t talk. We especially don’t listen. But here he is now, speaking to what I actually have been thinking and feeling. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

“Dad…” I say slowly, “Are you telling me that I should stay with Emerson?”

“I think I am,” he says, as if surprised by the conclusion.

“But you hate Emerson,” I remind him, “You two nearly killed each other that day—”

“Please,” Dad says, holding up his hands for me stop, “let’s not go there.”

“Sorry,” I backtrack, “I’m just a little confused, here.”

“I never knew how to do right by you, Abby,” my dad says quietly, lifting his eyes to mind, “but that’s not your fault. It’s on me. When you were growing up, I never gave your needs the same weight as mine. Never thought about how things would effect you. I was totally blindsided by how much Emerson came to mean to you back then. I didn’t even stop to consider how wonderful it was that you’d found someone you could talk to, share things with. God knows I wasn’t helping you on that front.”

“Don’t say that,” I reply, a knot forming in my throat. “I’ve always loved you, Dad. You have to know that.”

“And I love you,” he says, crossing the room tentatively toward me. “I’ve just been pretty terrible at letting you know that.”

With great care, Dad takes my hands in his. He looks at me intently, and for the first time in my life I feel like he’s actually seeing me.

“Abby,” he says, “Do you love Emerson as much as you did when you were a kid?”

“No,” I whisper hoarsely, “I love him so much more, now.”

“Then don’t run away,” he says, squeezing my hands, “Stay and work through this with him. Don’t refuse him out of pride, or some idea of propriety. It’s OK to let people help you. Especially the people who love you more than anything.”

“But what if something goes wrong?” I ask earnestly, “What if we start to resent each other, or feel tied down, or change our minds—”