It Just Had to Be You

Chapter 2

Scott

"So, when am I gonna get it?" I demand. "You promised me last month already."

My father's eyes don't leave the business report he's reading on his iPad. The morning sun beams off the side of his face and he tilts the screen for a better look. He usually eats breakfast out here on the balcony. He says the view relaxes him and I guess I can agree with that. It's a quaint, little house we have. My mom's in a phase of trying out that minimalist shit, so we downgraded from a fourteen-bedroom mansion to this. It only has eight bedrooms, but the garden is impressive, stretching out for almost four acres. Just outside the Greek-style doors, the garden-facing facade features a semi-circular portico, which sweeps down via double staircases to a garden of neatly trimmed hedges. To the left, the pool area, which has the same neoclassical inspiration, has a domed pavilion with a stained-glass ceiling.

"My real estate stock dropped two points," my dad mumbles to himself. "Maybe I should sell─"

"Dad!" I slam my palm on the table to get his attention.

"Sorry, Scott. What were you saying?"

"I was asking about my new car. When am I going to get it?"

His eyes narrow like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. "When did I say I was getting you a new car?"

"Last month!" I reply with exasperation. "I told you I wanted the new Aston Martin Lagonda. You said yes. I thought it was a done deal."

Confusion is still written all over his face and I'm not surprised. My parents are always preoccupied with something or the other. They don't hear a damn word I say. I'm just background noise and 'Yes', 'Sure' and 'Of course, son' are completely automated responses. I learned from a young age that they would rather buy me anything I wanted than actually spend time with me. I'm not complaining. If I nag long enough, they'll buy me the moon to get me out of their hair. It is both a blessing and a curse to have parents who don't give a shit because at moments like this I want to pull my hair out with frustration.

They never listen to me. My presence means absolutely nothing to them. My dad is marginally better than my mom. If I disappeared for a week, my mom wouldn't even notice. My dad would at least call the cops by day four. They don't care where I go or what I do. The only thing they care about is status, what we look like to the outside world. My mom is exactly what anyone would describe as a trophy wife – blonde, beautiful, sophisticated, and she looks twenty years younger than her actual age. Technically, that's because of the Botox, but I'm never supposed to mention that out loud. And if she's the trophy wife, then I am definitely the trophy son. Captain of the football team, smart, irresistibly charming, and unbelievably sexy. I'm one helluva catch. Well, at least that's the persona I have to keep up in front of my dad's friends every time we have a cocktail party.

To the outside world, we're a perfect picture of a close-knit, loving family, but in reality, we barely speak to each other. My dad has a mistress who's about four years older than me. My mom is fucking her yoga instructor and I can bet that's where she is right now. And me? I'm a total douche to pretty much everyone. If there isn't a blowjob in it for me, there's no reason to be nice.

"What's wrong with your Audi R8?" he asks.

My face scrunches with the sheer stupidity of that question. "Uh...I'll tell you what's wrong with my R8. It's not a fucking Aston Martin Lagonda, Dad. And it's old."

The R8 was a gift for my sixteenth birthday. I chose it on a whim because I was going through an Iron Man phase. I was an impulsive kid back then. Surely, he sees that I'm more mature now and I've outgrown it.