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My father has been in my face my entire life, and I’ve had no idea.

“Mr. Holland.” I rise in my seat a little taller, not wanting to show even a bit of hesitation.

“Hello, Son.”

I’m two scotches deep and still feel everything. This shit used to work much better than it is right now.

“I…I’m sorry. This is just all a lot to take in.”

My hushed tone is out of character, but I’m not sure what characteristic I’m supposed to pull from my hat in a situation like this.

“Apologies aren’t necessary.” Mr. Holland’s usual authoritative tone softens.

“I’m sure you have questions,” my dad looks at Mr. Holland, then back to me.

“Why?”

It’s the only question I’ve wanted to know; all I can conjure. Feeling bogged down with confusion, the weight of my world rests on my shoulders as I look over at the man who created me.

My brothers all sit in silence; their words aren’t necessary—the feeling of their support lingers.

His throat clears, and Mr. Holland adjusts his suit jacket, unbuttoning the top button to make himself more comfortable. His face holds no torture, no remorse, not even a sprinkle of emotion.

How can he be comfortable during a conversation like this?

“I was…” He pauses, an appropriate response swirling in his head before he delivers, “A womanizer.”

I wait for him to continue, but my body runs through stages of hot and cold.

I guess that’s one similarity I can check off my list.

But there’s also a difference. If I had been out here blowing my load in hundreds of women and knocked one of them up, being a father or getting rid of my child wouldn’t even cross my mind.

I’d be there. No questions.

I stare blankly, trying to simmer the frustration, but give him space to continue.

“When I made my first million, I thought I was the best man on earth. I thought—well, I didn’t think—I knew I could have any woman I wanted. My options were endless, especially with the name I was creating. I was on top of the world.”

Talking about himself is clearly one of his favorite pastimes, given his long-windedness.

As one of the biggest attorneys in Tennessee, Arthur Holland is a shark in the courtroom. The media’s nickname for him is Hole-in-one Holland, because he’s never lost a case.

I grow restless in my seat, lifting my glass of bourbon to my lips, wishing the burn would lacerate my throat so I wouldn’t have to continue this conversation.

“What I’m getting at is, I thought I was immune to responsibilities. I had the money to get rid of things, so I did.”

Get rid of things?

Is he fucking serious?

“Listen, Jett, I’m not innocent. I was young when I met your mother, and while I only ever saw her twice, the night you were conceived, and nine months later when you showed up on my doorstep, I did what I thought I needed to do in order to give you a real shot at life.”

“But what’s the difference between you and my dad? You’re in the same circles, the same city, couldn’t I have lived the same life with you?”

Beside him, James Parker’s shoulders deflate, weight and worry holding him upright. I hope he doesn’t think I would’ve rather have lived without him. I’d never take back being his son. I just don’t understand why?

Why abandon your son for someone just down the street?