Confront your father like a man

I don't move.

The kitchen is a wreck—sticky counters, overflowing trash bags, a pyramid of red Solo cups stacked precariously by the sink—but I can't bring myself to care. My father's words are still echoing in my head, bouncing around my skull like a pinball: Wrap this up. Like I'm a child. Like I'm an employee. Like I'm anything other than his son.

Briana's footsteps have faded, swallowed by the cavernous silence of the house. She's up there now, in his study, doing what I should be doing. Fighting my battle. Cleaning up my mess. And I'm down here, frozen in place, a warm beer in my hand and a cold knot of resentment in my chest.

No.

The thought cuts through the fog, sharp and sudden. I'm not going to let this happen. I'm not going to hide in the kitchen while my girlfriend smooths things over with my father like I'm some kind of helpless child. This is my house—well, his house, but my home—and this is my party, and these are my consequences. I should be the one up there, not her.

I set the beer down on the counter, the glass clinking against the granite. The sound is too loud in the quiet, a small rebellion against the hush that's settled over everything. I can feel the adrenaline starting to build again, that familiar surge of fight-or-flight that always hits when I'm about to do something stupid.

I'm going to do it anyway.

The stairs creak under my feet as I climb, each step a small betrayal. I know this house like I know my own body—every loose board, every squeaky hinge, every shadow that pools in the corners at night. I know exactly which step groans when you put your weight on it, and I avoid it without thinking, my feet finding the silent path through years of muscle memory.

The hallway at the top of the stairs is dark, the only light spilling from the crack beneath my father's study door. I can hear voices—low, muffled, indistinct. Briana's laugh, light and musical. My father's voice, a low rumble that I can't quite make out.

I stop at the end of the hallway, my heart pounding. What am I doing? I told her she could handle this. I agreed to let her handle this. And now I'm sneaking up the stairs like a jealous boyfriend, ready to burst in and—

And what? Save her? From what? My father isn't going to hurt her. He's not a monster. He's just... him. Cold and distant and impossible to please. The worst thing he'll do is make her feel small, the way he makes everyone feel small, and she's already proven she can handle that. She handled him better than I ever have, and she did it in under five minutes.

But still.

I move closer, my footsteps silent on the runner carpet. The door is slightly ajar—just a crack, just enough for the light to escape—and I can hear them more clearly now.

"—appreciate you taking the time to explain," my father is saying. His voice is different than it was downstairs. Warmer, almost. "It's refreshing to have a conversation with someone who doesn't immediately become defensive."

"Well, I think it helps that I'm not your son," Briana says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "I don't have all that... history. I can just listen."

"History." My father chuckles—actually chuckles—and the sound is so foreign that I almost don't recognize it. "That's a diplomatic way of putting it."

"I try."

There's a pause, and I hear the clink of glass. He's poured her a drink. Of course he has. My father, who never offers me anything but criticism, is pouring my girlfriend a drink in his study like she's an old friend.

I should leave. I should go back downstairs and let her work her magic. She's clearly got this under control. But my feet won't move. I'm rooted to the spot, caught between the urge to burst in and the sick, magnetic pull of eavesdropping on a conversation I'm not supposed to hear.

"Tell me," my father says, "how did my son manage to convince a woman like you to date him?"

I flinch. There it is. The casual cruelty, delivered with a smile. He's not even trying to be mean—he genuinely wants to know. That's the worst part.

Briana laughs, but it's not the performative laugh she uses at parties. It's softer, more genuine. "He didn't have to convince me. He's a good guy. Smart, funny, kind. He just... doesn't always see it himself."

"Hmm." My father's voice is thoughtful. "He's always been hard on himself. Even as a child. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"I've noticed that." There's a pause, and I can picture her tilting her head, studying him with those big blue eyes. "I think he gets it from you."

The silence that follows is heavy, charged. I hold my breath, waiting for my father's response. Waiting for the cold dismissal, the sharp retort, the reminder that he doesn't appreciate being psychoanalyzed by a college student in a Wonder Woman costume.

But it doesn't come.

"You're perceptive," he says finally. "More perceptive than most people I meet."

"I pay attention." Another pause. "It's a useful skill when you're trying to understand someone."

"And what have you understood about me?"

I lean closer, my ear almost against the door. This is wrong. I know it's wrong. But I can't stop myself. I need to hear what she says. I need to know what she sees in him, what she's learned in the few minutes she's been up here.

"You're lonely," Briana says, and her voice is gentle, almost kind. "You work too hard, and you don't have anyone to come home to, and when you do come home, it's to an empty house that's full of beautiful things but no one to share them with."

My father doesn't respond. The silence stretches, and I can feel the weight of it through the door.

"And then you come home tonight," she continues, "and the house is full of people, and music, and life—but it's not your life. It's your son's. And he didn't even ask you. He just... took it. Took your space, your things, your home. And that hurts."

"It doesn't hurt," my father says, but his voice is quieter now. Less certain.

"Okay," Briana says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "It doesn't hurt. But it bothers you. And that's okay. It would bother anyone."

Another pause. Another clink of glass. I can picture them sitting there, facing each other across the mahogany desk, the lamplight casting long shadows on the walls. My father in his travel suit, tired and rumpled. Briana in her costume, golden tiara on the desk beside her, legs crossed, red boots gleaming.

"You're very good at this," my father says.

"At what?"

"Making people feel... understood."

"It's a gift." She says it without arrogance, like she's stating a simple fact. "And it helps that you're not as hard to understand as you think you are."

My father laughs again—that same unfamiliar sound—and I feel something twist in my chest. Jealousy, maybe. Or resentment. Or just the painful realization that my girlfriend is better at talking to my father than I've ever been.

"You know," he says, "when I saw you standing in my living room, I thought you were just another pretty face. Another college girl who'd latched onto my son for his father's money."

"I'm not with him for the money," Briana says, and there's a slight edge to her voice now. "I'm with him because I love him."

"I believe you." My father's voice is soft. "And I'm glad. He needs someone like you. Someone who can see past his... defenses."

"He's not that hard to see past. You just have to be willing to look."

The silence that follows is different. Less charged, more... intimate. Like they've reached some kind of understanding, some kind of truce. I should be relieved. This is what I wanted, isn't it? For my father to accept her, to see what I see, to understand why I love her.

But instead, I feel cold.

Because I can hear the admiration in his voice. The appreciation. The way he's looking at her—I can't see it, but I can hear it, in the pauses between words, in the softness of his tone. He's not just accepting her. He's noticing her. The way everyone notices her. The way I noticed her, the first time I saw her across a crowded room.

And she's letting him.

I step back from the door, my heart pounding. This is ridiculous. I'm being paranoid. She's just being nice. She's just doing what she said she'd do—smoothing things over, making him see reason. There's nothing wrong with that. There's nothing wrong with any of this.

But I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something. That there's a current running beneath this conversation that I can't quite see, a subtext that's just out of reach.

I should go back downstairs. I should let her finish. I should trust her.

Instead, I push the door open.

The hinges creak, and both of them turn to look at me. My father is sitting behind his desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his tie loosened and his jacket draped over the back of his chair. Briana is in the leather armchair across from him, her legs crossed, a matching glass in her hand. The lamplight catches the gold of her bracelets, the shine of her boots, the curve of her cleavage above the red bustier.

They look comfortable. They look like they've been here for hours.

"Babe," Briana says, and her smile is warm, welcoming. "I was just telling your dad about how we met."

I stand in the doorway, feeling like an intruder in my own home. "I thought I should... check in. See how things are going."

"Things are going well," my father says, and there's no trace of the coldness from earlier. "Briana has been very persuasive."

"I haven't had to be," she says, glancing at him with a smile. "Your dad's a reasonable man. He just needed to hear the full story."

The full story. I wonder what that means. I wonder what she's told him, what version of events she's spun to make this all seem less like a disaster and more like a misunderstanding.

"That's... good," I say, stepping into the room. "I'm glad."

My father gestures to the other chair—the one next to Briana—and I sit, feeling awkward and out of place. The leather is cold against my back, and I can smell the familiar scent of my father's study: old books, expensive whiskey, the faint trace of cigar smoke from years past.

"I was just telling Briana about the time you tried to throw a party in high school," my father says, and there's a hint of amusement in his voice. "The one where you forgot to lock the liquor cabinet."

I feel my face flush. "That was one time."

"It was a memorable time." My father takes a sip of his whiskey. "I came home to find three teenagers passed out in the backyard and a fourth trying to climb the fence with a bottle of my best scotch."

Briana laughs, and the sound fills the room. "That's amazing. I can't believe you never told me that."

"It's not my proudest moment," I mutter.

"On the contrary," my father says, "it was one of the few times I saw you take a risk. Even if it was a foolish one."

I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying. Is this... approval? Is he actually praising me for throwing a party? The cognitive dissonance is almost too much to handle.

"I think what your dad is saying," Briana says, reaching over to squeeze my hand, "is that he understands why you did it. And he's not as angry as he seemed."

"I'm not angry," my father says. "I was... surprised. And tired. And perhaps a bit harsher than the situation warranted."

I blink. "You're... apologizing?"

"Don't sound so shocked." My father's lips twitch, almost a smile. "I'm capable of admitting when I've been unfair."

"Since when?"

"Since I had a very persuasive young woman explain to me that my son is not, in fact, trying to destroy my house out of spite." He raises his glass in Briana's direction. "She's quite the advocate."

Briana beams, and I feel something shift in my chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or relief. Or just the dizzying sensation of watching my father and my girlfriend get along like old friends.

"Thank you," I say, and I'm not sure if I'm saying it to him or to her. "Both of you. I know this wasn't... ideal."

"It's fine," my father says. "The house is still standing. The ficus will recover. And I've had a chance to meet the woman who's apparently been keeping my son from spiraling into complete self-destruction."

"Someone has to," Briana says, grinning at me.

I try to smile back, but it feels stiff on my face. The tension in the room has shifted, but it hasn't disappeared. It's just... changed. Become something else. Something I can't quite name.

My father finishes his whiskey and sets the glass down on the desk. "Well," he says, "it's late. I should let you two get some rest. We can discuss the details of the cleanup in the morning."

"Of course," Briana says, standing. "Thank you for being so understanding, Mr. Hartley."

"Please," he says, and his eyes meet hers, "call me Richard."

The room goes very still.

I watch the exchange, my heart suddenly pounding. It's a small thing—a name, a formality—but it feels like a line being crossed. Like a door being opened that should have stayed closed.

Briana hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, and then she smiles. "Richard," she repeats, and the name sounds different in her mouth. Warmer. More intimate. "Thank you, Richard."

My father nods, and there's something in his expression that I can't read. Something that makes my stomach clench.

"Goodnight," he says. "Both of you."

"Goodnight," Briana says, and she takes my hand, pulling me toward the door.

I follow her, my mind racing, my skin prickling with an unease I can't explain. We're halfway down the hallway when I hear my father's voice behind us.

"Briana."

She stops, turns. "Yes?"

He's standing in the doorway of his study, silhouetted by the lamplight. His face is in shadow, but I can feel his eyes on her, even from here.

"Thank you," he says. "For the conversation. It was... refreshing."

"Anytime," she says, and there's something in her voice that makes my blood run cold.

Then she turns and continues down the hallway, her hand still in mine, her red boots clicking against the hardwood floor.

I follow her, and I don't look back.

We end up in my old bedroom, the one I grew up in, the one that still has posters on the walls and a twin bed that's too small for two people. Briana sits on the edge of the mattress, her legs stretched out in front of her, her head tilted back against the wall.

"That went well," she says.

I stand by the window, looking out at the dark backyard. The party lights are still up, strung between the trees, but they're off now. Just dark shapes against the night sky.

"Yeah," I say. "I guess."

"You guess?" She laughs, but it's tired. "Babe, your dad was ready to murder you, and now he's inviting me to call him by his first name. That's a win."

"I know." I turn to face her. "I just... I don't know. It felt weird."

"Weird how?"

I hesitate. How do I explain the knot in my stomach, the cold prickle at the back of my neck, the way my father's eyes lingered on her just a little too long? How do I put into words the feeling that something shifted in that study, something I can't quite name?

"I don't know," I say again. "It's probably nothing. I'm just tired."

She pats the bed beside her. "Come here."

I cross the room and sit next to her, the mattress dipping under my weight. She leans into me, her head on my shoulder, her hand on my thigh. The warmth of her body is familiar, comforting, and for a moment, I let myself relax.

"I'm proud of you," she says.

"For what?"

"For standing up to him. For coming up there. For not just hiding in the kitchen and letting me handle everything."

I snort. "I didn't really do anything. You're the one who charmed him."

"Maybe. But you showed up. That counts for something." She tilts her head up, her lips brushing my jaw. "And now we have the whole night ahead of us. No party, no guests, no interruptions."

I turn to look at her, and she's smiling—that slow, knowing smile that always makes my heart skip. The tiara is still downstairs, but the rest of the costume is intact: the bustier, the skirt, the boots. She looks like a fantasy, like something out of a dream.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" I ask.

"Is it working?"

I kiss her instead of answering. Her lips are soft, warm, tasting faintly of whiskey. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat and pulls me closer, her fingers threading through my hair.

For a moment, everything else fades away. The party, the mess, my father, the strange tension in the study—it all disappears, swallowed by the heat of her mouth and the press of her body against mine.

But then she pulls back, her eyes dark, her breath coming fast.

"Wait," she says. "I should... I should probably get out of this costume first. It's not exactly comfortable."

"Leave it on," I hear myself say. "Just for a little while."

She grins, and there's a flash of something in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or excitement. "Oh, really? You want to fuck Wonder Woman?"

"I want to fuck you," I say. "The costume is just a bonus."

She laughs, and the sound is bright and free, and for a moment, everything feels right again. Like the night is finally going the way I wanted it to.