Again, I pause outside the living room entrance and soak in the quiet. Any other time, I’d say the space was empty. Except this silence feels spiteful. I glance at the cups in my hands. Kona blend can solve a multitude of problems.
I’m not sure it’s up to this one.
Malcolm is at the fireplace, elbow propped on the mantelpiece, fingers rubbing his temples. Darien Armand is standing in the center of the room, his backpack at his feet.
I don’t know what to make of this. I never knew my parents; they died before I was old enough to have even a fleeting memory of them. I don’t understand the intricacies of a father-son relationship. I really don’t know how to bridge the gap between these two men.
I know ghosts and coffee, so I will start there and hope something happens along the way.
I of
