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They are my family; they know me.
“Yes, will you stop fucking asking me,” I snip, lifting my glass of brown to my lips.
I’ve cut drinking almost entirely out of my life since I stopped partying. I’m not necessarily sober; I still may have a social beverage, but aside from that, it’s merely a numbing device, and I’m trying to go the other direction.
Tonight, however, I could use the liquid courage.
I’d take anything that would burn through the persistent qualm surging every time a man who looks familiar enters the front doors.
“When did he say he was going to be here?”
I’m restless as hell, dread creeping in slowly. All three of my brothers share knowing glances, unsure who should comfort me next.
“We just got here fifteen minutes ago, dude. Take a deep breath.” Ivan cups my shoulder firmly, and I do as he suggests.
A few moments pass, and a man in a black fleece jacket and grey trousers who looks a whole lot like my father makes his way towards our table.
“Is that Dad?” I croak, emotion as traceable as ever.
When he nears closer, my suspicion is confirmed.
James Parker, wearing his usual uniform, places himself at the head of our table. Age wrinkles his skin, darker and more prominent than I’ve ever noticed, yet still showcasing the strong features of his face.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
A sunken worry finds itself harboring in the pit of my stomach.
I may be here to meet my biological father, but the man in front of me will always be my dad. I’m not doing all of this to replace him. I could never.
Looking at the rest of his boys, he then zones in silently on me. With a smile that seems so hard for him to crack, he answers.
“You think I’d miss this moment?”
He’s looking at the little boy he raised, not the confused, conflicted grown man I’ve built myself into.
“I should’ve told you, I’m sorry.” My head hangs low at seeing tears in his eyes.
Guilt seeps through me. I don’t know why doing this alone was something I considered.
“Son, before you meet your dad, I want you to know that you’re every bit a part of this family. Everything your mother and I did when it came to adopting you boys was, and will always be, our proudest accomplishment. We just wanted you boys to have the best lives you could.”
Nodding, I swallow the lump in my throat, though confusion itches inside my brain. I chalk it up to the uncertainty of the moment.
After what feels like a comfortable dinner with family, another round of drinks is delivered, and the air grows thick again.
Even Duke sips lightly on a neat bourbon.
With my patience thinning, and the tap of my leg quickening under the table, a man finally enters the restaurant, swiftly walking from the front door in our direction.
From here, I can’t make out who he is, but in my gut, I know it’s him.
Headed straight to me, decked out in a pristine suit. Mr. Holland created the word swagger. Even at his age, he’s catching eyes left and right. The confirmation of his identity hits me before he reaches the table, and my heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach.
Arthur Holland, Greenway Airlines’ biggest donor, is my father, and he’s here.
Snapping my head to my family, the shock that’s beaming from me ends there. Royce, Duke, Ivan, and my father all watch as the man they’ve networked, fundraised, had a multitude of dinners with places himself in our orbit yet again.
This whole time—thirty-one years, or for as long as I can remember, Mr. Holland has been around. I mean, he even presented me with a full scholarship to college, and I was oblivious enough to think I’d won based on my GPA alone.
