Zombie Soap 2: Conspiracy

Twenty-Five

Taylor: Part I

"Why do you have to act like a child every time you're in the medical wing?"

Taylor hadn't been discharged for two seconds before Dad whirled on him in their suite. Not that he didn't see it coming, but had no energy for this.

He shrugged, attempting to sequester himself away in his room, but Dad barred his path, crossing his hands over his chest and glaring down at him. Taylor knew that mood; he recalled a few times as a teenager when he'd done something worth a scolding from his parents, and Dad would give him that look. His lips would become a straight, invisible line like right now, and electric energy would crackle inside his deep blue eyes. It was also an expression that preceded a grounding.

Could Dad ground him now, even though Taylor was thirty-one?

By the rage steaming from his ears and the fact he was head of the council, Taylor's guess was yes, he could and he would.

"Don't walk away from me," he growled.

And this was another, more rare tone Taylor knew. It was the same one Dad used the night he kicked Taylor out for being in a relationship with another man.

Taking a step back and casting his eyes to the floor, Taylor nodded. "Yes, sir."

Provoking Dad wouldn't lead to anything good, and as much as Taylor didn't want to be near him, he didn't exactly have anywhere to go this time. They were stuck together here, and there was no option but to obey.

"Dining room, now."

Taylor trudged to the table and sat, keeping his gaze on his lap. He picked at his cast as he waited for Dad to do the same, scraping at the plaster with his fingernail. Diego's name in wobbly print looked back at him, next to a stuck figure of a lion. Monica's elegant script was placed nearby, decorated with a heart. The only names missing were Jayson's, Eric's, and Jeannie's. And one of those people was dead while the others were now separated.

Their tight friendship was broken, shattered and scattered to places Taylor couldn't follow. It carved a hole in his heart, taunting him with the knowledge that the one thing he wanted to hold on to, he'd lost faster than water slipping through his fingers.

Dad's chair scraped the floor as he claimed a seat across from Taylor, and the table thumped when he dropped his hands. "Taylor, look at me."

His tone still carried an edge, but the sigh attached to the end of the sentence indicated he was tired.

Taylor brought his eyes up enough to acknowledge him before dropping them down again. Dad's features had softened somewhat, though not enough to hide the open disappointment.

After a decade of telling himself it didn't hurt, Taylor's chest ached. Even if he wasn't angry with the world or if he didn't hate his dad, this would hurt. Taylor spent his entire young adult life on the receiving end of his parents' disappointment, despite them never directly saying anything. It was there in their frowns, lowered gaze, and the tone that wished Taylor had been better.

Releasing a sharp breath, Dad asked, "What am I doing wrong, son? All I want is to keep you safe."

Was Dad seriously asking him this? And why did he get to sound remorseful and make Taylor feel guilty for his anger?

Glancing up, he met Dad's shining gaze. This was the look Taylor remembered as both loving and sad, but of the parent Taylor idolized as a child because his father would always understand and have his back. Once, a long time ago, there was nothing this man could do to hurt his son.

His throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow, much less make his voice work. His jaw throbbed a little now that the pain meds were wearing off, and his nose itched with the need to sniffle. Why was he such a crybaby?