Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
22
BEN COBALT
Iexpect my dad to lead me to his office, the den, or the library, but we never go inside. Once we reach the patio, he chooses the wicker-cushioned couch. I loved swinging on the hammock by the pool as a kid, but this couch was consistently one of my favorite spots. Because of the iron pergola. Vines of purple wisteria crawl up the four posts and hang down the iron slats overhead.
I’d stare up at the bees for hours and whistle at the birds.
I wonder if that’s why he chooses this place, the outdoors. Or am I reading too much into this?
Yeah, fucking doubtful.
My dad’s IQ surpasses most. Even my mom—who is viciously smart. He ranks high on every scale. Deduction. Memory. Ambition. His brain is an encyclopedia of random information, and he can speak even more languages than Charlie.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think how astronomically different I am from this man. We’re not different sides of the same coin. He’s an archaic Roman provincial coin and I’m a standard American penny.
“Let’s hear it.” I sink down on the cushioned chair across from him. “You’re so worried about me. I didn’t cry for Theodore. Something must be wrong, and I need to ditch Dr. Wheeler and see your therapist in New York.”
He arches a brow, leaning back casually. His ankle is propped on his knee, arm extended over the top of the couch. Everywhere Connor Cobalt goes, he has an aura as if he owns the earth, the air, the water—all of life’s necessities, and it’s easy to believe it’s true. And I don’t understand how I was born from him.
I’m confident, but not even remotely in that way.
He’s nonconfrontational and calm as he says, “You’ve already told me you don’t want to see Frederick. I’m not going to press you further.”
“Then what?” Baseball cap in my hands, I curl the brim in a tightening fist.
“When you were three, Tom stepped on caterpillar and you cried,” he tells me. “The next week, you stepped on an ant, and you were inconsolable for days. Even when I explained that an average garden ant would live around a year, when I gave you the rundown of their life cycle, it didn’t change your despair. When you were seven, you made sure no one squashed the spider in Jane’s room. Instead, you captured it in a cup and released it outside—”
I let out an annoyed breath, cutting him off. “Yeah, I don’t like needlessly killing things. It’s not a revelation. I shouldn’t be the only person who wants to protect the fucking—” I stop myself, trying not to drop a thousand fucks around my parents—“the planet and the things inside of it.”
“It’s not a revelation, Ben,” he says. “It’s who you are. The depth of your compassion has never waned over the years.”
Compassion. It’s not something my dad actually values. It’s like a genius telling you you’re good at finger painting. So I’m not deluding myself into thinking this is some grand gesture to tell me he’s proud of me. I don’t need that.
He has a son who’s his replica in mind. Charlie.
He has a son who’s his replica in body. Eliot.
He has a son who’s his replica in ambition. Tom.
He has a son who has surpassed him in raw talent. Beckett.
And then he has me.
I’m not a disappointment in his eyes. I know that. But I’m nothing special either.
I don’t have a reply for him, and I choose to let the silence eat the air.
He takes a moment before he speaks again. His fingers slide through his wavy brown hair, then fall to his knee. “We haven’t talked about that night, Ben,” he tells me, his concern slipping over me.
There it is.
It always comes back to me attacking Tate. He knows the full rundown about the drugs and Winona. I confessed about the Adderall last night to my dad since I let the cat out of the bag to my brothers, and he was extremely concerned—specifically about how I obtained the Adderall in the first place. It’s now another reason he wants me to change therapists so badly.
“Yeah, we did talk,” I reply. “I told you why I did it.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you’ve become Niccolò Machiavelli overnight?” he asks me. “When have you ever believed the ends justify the means?”
“Beliefs change,” I tell him. “Shouldn’t you out of everyone understand that? I’ve read about how you didn’t believe in the concept of love before Mom about a billion times in the press. And you’ve talked about it to us.” He’s been very open and honest, and when he tells us that he loves us—a man who loves few and sparingly—I believe him.
Because even among our differences, I’ve felt my dad’s love. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if he didn’t love me even a little bit.