The Dare (Briar U Book 4)
Chapter 36

By the time I leave campus after class on Thursday, I have two missed calls from Max. I know I can’t avoid him much longer, but boy do I keep trying. When I first confessed to him and my mother, I was kind of in a blind stupor of guilt and panic. Now that my head is clearer, I realize there’s no part of me that wants to have the conversation that’s coming. Especially not today.

I put Taylor through hell over this bullshit with Kai. The only thing I’m worried about now is giving her a perfect birthday. I know she’s never had a serious boyfriend before, and I’m taking that to mean all the usual clichés are still new to her. That means flowers.

An obnoxious number of flowers.

An ecological massacre of flowers.

At the florist in Hastings, I try to relay this request, which for some reason is more difficult than I expected.

“What’s the occasion?” the middle-aged woman asks. She’s got a Vermont hippie vibe about her, and the whole place smells like a head shop. A flowery head shop.

“My girlfriend’s birthday.” I walk around the store, studying the pre-made arrangements and bouquets in the refrigerators. “I want a lot. Something really big. Or maybe several.”

“What are her favorite flowers?”

“No idea.” I feel like roses would be fine, but then I’m thinking maybe something more unique. Less expected.

What says I’m sorry I dumped you because I was afraid you wouldn’t respect me anymore when you found out I was a liar and a criminal but also it turns out I love you so take me back? And sex with you is pretty fantastic and I’d like to keep having it?

“Favorite colors?”

Hell, I don’t know. She wears a lot of black, gray, blue. Except when she’s teaching. Then it’s the opposite. I feel like after two months of dating I should know this. The hell have I been doing this whole time? Eating her pussy, mostly.

Seemingly sensing my discomfort, the woman says, “Well, she’s a Taurus, so pink and green are usually a good bet. She’ll appreciate something earthy yet sophisticated and refined.” Hippie Lady weaves about the store between displays of flowers, touching them all, tilting an ear to them as if she’s listening for something. “Snapdragons,” she declares. “Foxglove and pink roses. With succulents. Yes, that’d be perfect.”

I don’t have the vaguest idea what those are. But I understand the word roses. “Sounds great. Something big,” I remind her.

The bell over the front door jingles as the hippie darts into the back room. I glance over my shoulder to see none other than Coach Jensen walk in.

“Hey Coach.”

He has a nervous aura about him, like the night of the family dinner. It’s odd seeing him that way, when in the locker room or on the ice he’s a stone wall of confidence. I guess women do that to us.

He lets out a heavy sigh. “Edwards.”

Yeah, relations haven’t warmed since the infamous fire. I get it. During the off-season Coach would rather not have to deal with his unruly band of misfits. Running into him around town is a lot like seeing your teacher at the mall during summer vacation. Once the season’s over and the semester ends, they don’t want to know us.

“Here for Iris?” I ask. “Taylor told me she and her mom share a birthday.” Which further supports my theory that Taylor is in fact the product of a Russian human engineering experiment to create some sort of super sleeper agent. She has neither confirmed nor denied.

“No,” he mocks, “I just like to come in a few times a week to gather petals for my bubble bath.”

I like to think sarcasm is Coach’s way of showing he cares. Otherwise this guy can’t fucking stand me. “You two got big plans?”

He turns his back, exploring the arrangements in the cases. “Dinner in Boston.”

“Well, you two kids be safe, and don’t stay out too late. Remember, arrive alive.”

“Don’t be cute, Edwards. I still got a trashcan with your name on it.”

My asshole puckers right up when he says that. “Yes, sir.”

We stand around in awkward silence for a few minutes, both of us pretending to browse the tiny shop while we wait for the florist to return. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Brenna’s boyfriend, Jake. He’s lucky they’re in a long-distance relationship while he’s playing pro for Edmonton, because Coach strikes me as the kind of man who might sit polishing a gun at the kitchen table when a guy comes over for his daughter. And then Brenna struts out the door after a kiss on his cheek with a pocket full of bullets.

Iris was easy as far as meet-the-parents horror stories go. I mean, what’s one little fire between family, right?

“What are your plans with Taylor?” he barks, so abruptly I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

“Dinner first. Just the two of us. Then meeting friends later at Malone’s.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, then clears his throat. “Well, don’t show up at the table next to us, you got that?”

“No problem, Coach.”

Finally the florist returns with a heaping armful of flowers in an enormous vase. Perfect. The damn thing is almost as big as I am. I’m going to have to put a seatbelt on it.

Coach looks from the flowers to me and rolls his eyes. The arrangement is so enormous and cumbersome I end up needing his help to get it out the door and to my Jeep parked at the curb. I’ve just got the flowers strapped into the front seat when across the street I see a face that doesn’t belong. And he sees me.

Shit.

He waits for a couple cars to pass before jogging over to us. My heart’s in my throat and I’m seriously thinking of hopping in the driver’s seat and peeling out.

Too late.

“Conor,” he says. “Finally caught up with you.”

Fuck my life.

A glance at Coach. “Hey there. Nice to meet you.” He offers his hand to Coach as they both look to me for a response.

“Coach Jensen,” I say, feeling like I’m going to choke on my own tongue, “this is Max Saban, my stepfather.”

“Great to meet you, Coach.” The thing about Max is, he’s so goddamn nice all the time. I don’t trust it. No one smiles that much. It’s fucking weird. Anyone who’s in a good mood that often is hiding something. “Conor’s told his mother a lot about you. He really loves your program.”

“Chad,” Coach says, introducing himself. “Good to meet you.” He slides me a questioning glance, which I can only take to mean he senses the awkwardness of this shitshow and wondering why the hell is he getting dragged into more of my personal drama. “Conor’s a great addition to the team. We’re glad to have him coming back to us next year.”

Ha. If only he knew. I can’t bring myself to meet Max’s eyes to read his reaction.

“Well, I’ve got to get going,” Coach says, leaving me out on this floating ice sheet alone. “Nice to meet you, Max. Have a good one.” Coach strides back inside the shop, and I’ve got nowhere left to hide or anyone to hide behind.

“When’d you get in?” I ask Max. I keep my tone casual, because he’s here now and I can’t avoid him anymore. The last thing I want is for him to see me squirm.

So I tamp down the anxiety. I got good at this when I was a kid, following Kai around through abandoned buildings and dark alleys. Getting into shit that scared me, all the while knowing I couldn’t show weakness or I’d get my ass kicked. It’s the face I put on every time I hit the ice, lining up against a guy ready to do battle. It’s nothing personal, but we mean to cause some havoc. Pain is part of the game. If we didn’t want to lose some teeth, we’d stay home and knit.

“Just this morning,” replies Max. “I took the red-eye.”

Fuck me, he’s pissed. In that quiet WASP-y way. The softer they speak, the more your life’s in danger.

“Stopped by your place but you’d already left.”

“I have early classes on Thursday.”

“Well,” he says, nodding at the diner a few storefronts away. “I was going to grab a coffee before trying you again later. Since we’re here, will you join me?”

Can’t very well say no, can I? “Yeah, sure.”

We grab a booth by the windows and the waitress comes around right away to fill our mugs. I don’t even like coffee, but I drink mine too fast, too soon, scalding my tongue because I don’t know what else to do with my hands and it stops my knee from bouncing.

“Guess I should start,” he says.

The second most obnoxious thing about Max is how he always looks like he just walked off the set of an early 2000s family sitcom. He’s one of those perpetually cheerful dads with an upstanding gentleman haircut, plaid oxford shirt, and a vest from an expensive outdoor brand, not that you’ve ever seen the man hike.

Maybe that’s part of it—I can’t take him seriously when he looks like a character from a show I never watched as a kid because we didn’t have cable. Those dads who ruined us for the real men missing from our lives. Kids like me were raised on lies told by TV writers fulfilling the fantasies of their own broken childhoods.

“Obviously, I came out here because we haven’t been able to connect on the phone,” Max continues. “I also thought perhaps this was a discussion we ought to have in person.”

That’s never good. Now I’m thinking I should have had this talk with my mom first. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that given my lack of cooperation, she had no choice but to leave me to Max’s mercy. Cut off financially, no more school, no more house. Set adrift on a raft of my own making.

“I know we haven’t had much communication over the years, Conor. I can take my fair share of the blame for that.” Not quite how I saw this beginning. “I want to start off by saying, while I certainly don’t approve of the actions you took, I can understand why you made the choice you did.”

What?

“I know how at that age emotions get the best of us, and sometimes when outside pressure is applied to just the right spot, we make decisions and act out in ways we might never otherwise. You made a mistake, a big one. You lied. To me, yes, but more importantly to your mother. I know from your first phone call how much that’s weighed on you. And what I find encouraging is that, while it took quite a bit longer than we’d have liked, you admitted your mistake. Now comes the hard part,” he says with a hesitant smile. “Taking responsibility.”

“Have to say, you’re taking this better than I expected,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t fault you for being more on the irate side of things.”

“I admit my initial reaction was surprise. Maybe a little irate came later. Then I thought back to what I was up to when I was nineteen.” The waitress comes back to refill our mugs and he takes a long sip of coffee, as I’m left to guess what sort of trouble Max might have found for himself at Briar in his day. “Point is, I wanted to say that we’re all entitled to a few fuckups.”

I crack a smile at hearing him curse. It’s like the first time you realize that Full House dad also did the raunchiest stand-up comedy.

“I’m glad you told us the truth, Conor, and as far as I’m concerned, we can all move on from the matter.”

“That’s it?” Seriously?

“Well, your mother can’t very well ground a twenty-one-year-old man from the other side of the country,” he says with a grin.

This feels like a trap. “I thought you guys would pull me out of school or at least stop paying tuition.”

“That would seem counterproductive, don’t you think? How does interrupting your college education serve as a constructive punishment?”

“I assumed there’d be some instinct to cut me off. Financially.” It’d be more than fair considering what I did to him. The fact is, my entire livelihood is wrapped up in Max’s bank account. He supports all of us. It’s not a stretch to think he might reconsider that arrangement.

“Conor, perhaps there’s some kind of wisdom in telling you to go find a job and work eighty hours a week to still not make enough to pay rent and finish school—if you were someone else. But nobody needs to tell you how tough it is out there or the value of a dollar. Least of all me.” He sets down his mug. “You and your mother have experienced enough hardship. It wouldn’t sit well inflicting any more, and the truth is, whatever cash value your mistake cost is an insignificant sum compared to the value I place on this family.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Max has never spoken to me like this before, either about family or the way Mom and I lived before he came along. I’m not sure we’ve said this many words the entire time we’ve known each other. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Family is the most important thing in my life.” He stares into his mug and his demeanor changes, a solemnness descending over his face. “You know, my dad died when I was at Briar. It was difficult for me, but more so for my mother. After that it was only the two of us and all the empty places where Dad wasn’t. When someone dies, everything becomes a memory of them not being there. Holidays and special occasions, you know? Then Mom died while I was in graduate school and I got twice as many empty memories.”

Something tightens my chest. Regret, maybe. A sense of kinship. It never occurred to me the ways in which Max and I might be similar. I mean, there’s a big difference between a runaway father and a decent one who dies too early, but both of us know what it’s like to watch our mothers struggle and be helpless to fix anything.

“What I’m trying to say is, when I met your mother, I had the utmost respect for how much she’d accomplished in raising you on her own. And I sympathized with how difficult it must have been for you. When Naomi and I married, I promised my first job would always be to take care of both of you. To make sure, as best I could, this family was a happy one.” His voice softens slightly. “I know I haven’t always lived up to that promise where you and I are concerned.”

“To be fair,” I say, “I never gave you much of a chance.” From the start, I saw Max as some tool in suit. Someone I’d never relate to, so why bother trying. “I figured you came for my mom, and I was the unfortunate compromise. Because you were from such a different world than us, you just saw me as a loser kid who wasn’t worth the effort.”

“No, Conor, not at all.” He pushes his coffee mug aside and sets his elbows on the table.

He’s got a certain magnetism about him, I can’t deny that. I feel like when he sits across a boardroom from someone, they can’t help but believe whatever he’s selling them will make them rich.

“Listen, I came into this thing with zero idea how to do it well. I wasn’t sure if I should try to be a father to you or a friend, and I failed at accomplishing either. I was so afraid to assert myself too much in the middle of you and your mother, that maybe I didn’t make enough of an effort to build a relationship with you.”

“I didn’t make it easy for you,” I admit. “I figured if you couldn’t stand me then I could be just as good at hating you. I think maybe…” I swallow hard, averting my eyes. “I didn’t want to get rejected by another dad. So I rejected you first.”

“Why would you think that?” He sits back, appearing genuinely surprised.

“I mean, look at us. We’re nothing alike.” Well, that might be a little less true now that I know we have some things in common, but still, I can’t imagine he’d have much use for me if I were a stranger off the street. “I know you have this idea in your head that I should be more like you, take an interest in business and finance, work at your company and follow your path, but honestly, that bores the hell out of me. It drains the joy from my entire being to even think about it. So I’m left with this feeling that I’m never going to be good enough. I avoided your calls this week because I was embarrassed and I didn’t need confirmation that everything I’d feared about myself was true.”

I slouch in the booth, hands in my lap, wanting to shrink into the space between the cushions and live with the dust. At least it’s out now. Whatever there is after this, it won’t be as humiliating as this moment. It can’t be.

Max is quiet a long time. I can’t read his reaction, and in each second that passes I take his silence as agreement. I don’t even blame him. It isn’t his fault he estimates success differently than I do. We’re just different people and trying to measure either against the other is pointless. I’d feel better if we agreed to stop trying.

“Conor,” he says finally. “I should have said this a long time ago—you have never not been good enough. I’ve never seen you as anything less than a funny, charming, intelligent kid who is becoming a remarkable young man. You’re right, there’s a paternal part of me who likes the idea of being a mentor to you, a role model. To bring you into the company and teach you to take over when I’m gone. If that’s not where your heart lies, I respect that. I probably should have taken the hint a little sooner, huh? But whatever you choose to do with your life and career, your mother and I will support you. As a team. As a family. Because we know you’ll make the right decisions for you. If I can help, I’m glad to. Otherwise,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, “I’ll stay out of your way. In either case, I want you to know I’m exceedingly proud of you.”

I laugh weakly. “Come on now, let’s not get crazy here.”

“I’m proud of you,” he repeats, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone.

I watch suspiciously as he goes to a website that has a photo of him sitting at his desk. One of those corporate PR shots. Then he places the phone on the table between us and zooms in. Behind him, beside all the awards and plaques, is a framed photograph of my mom and me.

My breath hitches slightly and I hope he doesn’t hear it. The picture is from their honeymoon, a couple days after the wedding. We all went to Hawaii, and on our last night there, Max took a photo of us watching the sunset. I’d never left California before that. Never been on a plane. I was in a shit mood the whole time because they were doing couple stuff and I had no one to hang out with, but that evening on the beach with my mom was my best memory from the trip.

“I’ve always been proud of you,” Max says gruffly, as my eyes begin to sting. “I’ll always be proud of you, Conor. I love you.”

“Well, shit,” I say, coughing to clear the rocks from my throat. “Guess I’m the asshole.”

He laughs while we both discreetly rub our eyes and make other manly guttural noises that are absolutely not crying.

“Not sure what to say now,” I admit. “Sorta feels like shit that we spent all this time being weird around each other.” I’m not about to be the guy’s best friend or start calling him Dad, but the last few years would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if we’d had this conversation sooner.

“Cheesy as it sounds, I’d appreciate it if we could start over,” he says. “Try to be friends?”

There are worse things. “Yeah, I could do that.”

I’m about to suggest we order some grub, but then I remember I’ve got a large child’s worth of flowers drying out in my front seat, and some more errands to run before I pick up Taylor for our date.

“How long are you staying in town?” I ask.

“Planning to head back tomorrow morning. Why, what’s up?”

“Well, it’s my girlfriend’s birthday tonight and we’ve got plans with her friends. But if you don’t mind sticking around a bit longer, maybe the three of us could have dinner tomorrow night? I was talking to Mom about my girl coming to visit me in California this summer.”

Max’s face breaks into a wide smile that he then tries to smother as he nods. “Not a problem. I can change my flight. You just let me know where and when. I’d love to meet her.”

I can’t help thinking Taylor would be proud of me right now.

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