Evander
Two years of silence, and the first thing my father said to me on the phone was that he was getting married again.
I hadn’t even gotten past hello before he was telling me about her—the woman, the wedding, all of it already decided, as if my opinion had never been part of the equation.
My mother was still out there, still waiting for the man he used to be, the man who had stopped existing the day he threw me out for standing up for her.
He’d never once apologized for that. I doubt the word was in him.
Everyone on the outside thought Dorian Sinclair doted on his son. The magazine profiles, the photos at galas, his hand on my shoulder whenever a camera caught us together, all of it looked like affection if you didn’t know better.
I knew. Only I knew what I actually was to him:
