13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Stella

Home sweet home.

Well, more like back at the family house. It’s hard to call a house a home when you’ve lost the one person who made it feel that way. To say the halls have hollowed since my mother’s death would be a gross understatement. One even my father couldn’t disagree with.

Our car slows to a crawl as we approach the gates of Shaughnessy Heights. You need a six-digit code to get into the community, never mind the voice recognition needed to access someone’s driveway.

It’s overkill to say the least.

Our driver punches in the code and the gates slowly open before us. Snow-covered hedges come into view, their artificial shape and strategic placement meant to maximize homeowner’s security. And privacy.

Something I’ve learned over the years is rich people don’t have neighbours, they just have homeowners in inconvenient locations.

My air pods drown out Cody and Mo’s voices as I gaze out the passenger window, watching dusk descend upon the sky, making the hedge-shaped silhouettes stretch farther along the road in front of us. Past the gates it’s only a five-minute drive to our house and soon the familiar slope of our driveway comes into sight.

Pod lights flick on as the sky continues to darken, lighting up the winding stretch of road as we descend onto my father’s property. The manicured lawns gracing each side of the driveway are covered in a few feet of snow and the frozen crystals sparkle at us as we drive past. Our driver pulls to a stop just beside the marble fountain now doubling as an ice sculpture, with the fortress that is my family home looming before us.

I pop out my earphones just as Cody mutters, “Holy shit.”

Mo chuckles, “Wait till you see the inside.”

I’ll admit, I may have been a bit misleading with the “house” reference earlier, but it’s weird to think of my family house as a mansion. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that most people don’t have an indoor pool, a steam room, and two different gyms in their household, but calling my house a mansion just feels pompous.

Plus, that would ruin the surprise.

Mo tips the driver and we all climb out of the car. Cody almost trips himself trying to crane his neck back far enough to take in the stone arches towering above him. The sunset responds to the moment perfectly, the bloodred sky bringing out the smooth white exterior of the sprawling mansion.

I barely get a chance to appreciate the view before a deep voice pulls my attention to the figure standing under the stone columns barricading the entrance.

“You’re late.”

Even from ten feet away, I can see displeasure seeping through my father’s handsome face. He hasn’t aged much since I last saw him, his skin remains mostly winkle-free, and the blue cashmere sweater and dress pants look impeccable. His formal attire is fitted to perfection, casually outlining the same dominating build Mo has.

That is to say, strong and built to perfection.

“Unexpected glacial winds blew in and added a few minutes to our flight time.” Mo responds easily, as if my father’s earlier comment was a question instead of a statement.

Cody walks forward with an outstretched hand, “Cody Ellsworth, sir. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Jonathan O’Brien.”

Ignoring the handshake offer, Jonathan turns and blinks down at me, as if he forgot how to properly embrace his daughter after months of being apart.

“Stella.”

“Father.”

One more blink and that’s it. That’s all I get for a reunion.

“Have you eaten?” Jonathan directs the question at Mo, the undesignated leader of our group.

“Not yet.”

“I’ll get Margaret to prepare something for you.”

Taking the suitcase from my hand, Jonathan nods at the boys, “Leave your bags here. Stewart will see to them.”

He turns and leads the way into the foyer, the elegant chandelier hanging high and proud from the arched ceiling. Once upon a time, the chandelier cast a warm light on the massive room, but even the electric candles have grown colder since my mother’s passing.

“So, you guys are rich?” Cody whispers the question to me, his gaze widening as he takes in the spiral staircase to our left.

“My father is a very wealthy man, yes. My own state of affairs, however, is a very different matter.” I lean closer, enjoying the scent of Cody’s Old Spice deodorant.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His eyes flick to mine, and I’m surprised to see a hint of disappointment buried in the molten brown.

“It’s not the easiest thing to bring up in a conversation. Plus, we aren’t that close.”

My retort hits its mark and Cody pulls away, ending our conversation.

Jonathan marches us towards the dining room, floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unparalleled view of the Vancouver skyline. The city lights glow in the distance, the busy bustle of traffic one endless cycle.

It’s beautiful in an isolating way.

Margaret must have been messaged on the walk over because three plates of steaming food are already set on the table by the time we arrive. We all take a seat, my father taking the head position, with Mo and Cody on his right and me on his left. He watches Cody carefully as the varsity captain takes his first few bites, waiting for a sign of weakness via poor table manners.

Surprising us all, Cody picks up the appropriate fork and begins respectably eating his food. I spy Jonathan give a small nod of approval before turning his attention to me.

“How did your first semester go, Stella?”

Most parents are looking for the generic response, one that gives them an overall summary of the experience, like how you are enjoying it and did you make any new friends. Unfortunately, my father is not like most parents.

“Four As and one B. Actively participated in five clubs, two of which held extracurricular events that were off campus. Gym progression has been steady.”

Cody raises an eyebrow at the flat monotone I have spent the last two years perfecting.

Jonathan nods, “What class was it that dropped your academic standing?”

“International management.”

I jab a big piece of vegetable pasta into my mouth as a stalling technique. My father would rather cut off his own arm than hear someone speak with their mouth full.

“That is disappointing, Stella. Very disappointing.” He leans forward, his handsome features so much harsher than they used to be.

“What are you going to do to fix that?”

In my peripheral, I see Cody open his mouth to say something but Mo elbows him before he gets the chance. A silent conversation battles itself out across the table, the guest not yet understanding the patriarchy this household follows.

I swallow my food with a sigh, “I won’t let it happen again, father. The professor marked subjectively through essays, and he did not like my writing.”

“That sounds like an excuse. Do O’Brien’s make excuses?”

“No, we make results. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Good.” Pleased with my submission, Jonathan shifts the conversation to his eldest, “Have there been any advancements with MacNeil Incorporated?”

Mo takes his turn, answering the questions as straightforward as possible. Like the handshake Cody never received, small talk is pointless with my father. His only interests lie with an individual’s achievements and personal growth, two personality traits he believes can only be attained through an endless cycle of constructive criticism.

I look down at my now-empty bowl of pasta, the warmth of my uncle’s reunion quickly replaced by the chilling presence of my father.

Jonathan O’Brien has a way of stripping people to their most vulnerable, leaving them exposed like a patient on a hospital bed. Except instead of surgery, where doctors cut people open with the hope of mending, my father simply dissects. He rips open every insecurity, every failure, and lays it bare on the operating table so you can make one of two choices.

Lie there in despair.

Or start reassembling the pieces.

Cody

The most delicious dinner of my life was ruined by the supersized side of fatherly disappointment. Hell, Jonathan O’Brien isn’t my father but even I felt ashamed of my personal growth these last few months.

Watching him rip apart his children like some judgemental third-party observer was one of the most emotionally draining experiences of my life. It felt wrong on so many levels and that was before Mo elbowed my still-recovering ribs.

My train of thought takes a swan dive when hunger hits my stomach. I check the time and sigh. Almost midnight.

I’m contemplating texting Mo for kitchen directions when a knock sounds quietly at my door. I hop off the king size bed, walking across a bedroom that’s bigger than the first floor of my entire house, and open the door.

Stella smirks, “If I’d known you would give me a show, I would have come over sooner.”

I put my hands on the doorframe, bare chest and low-slung sweats doing nothing to hide my obvious flexing.

“Just trying to earn my keep.”

“And you are doing a marvellous job of it.” Stella licks her lips, and the action goes straight to my groin. Quickly dropping my hands, I clear my throat.

Just friends just friends just friends.

“What do you need, Stel?”

I keep my gaze trained on her face, steering clear of the bare legs peeking out of her loose pyjama shorts.

“Figured someone should give you the grand tour.”

My stomach lets out an obnoxious growl and her smile grows wider, “Start with the kitchen, shall we?”

“You realize it’s almost midnight, right?”

Stella gasps, “Midnight? That’s past your bedtime, Ellsworth. Guess I’d better let you get some beauty sleep. See you in the morning!”

She pivots and starts walking away.

I groan, “Stel, wait. Let me just grab a shirt.”

“Now that is a shame.”

“To your left we have my father’s sad idea of what an art collection is.” Stella waves towards the hideous paintings lining the west side of the East Wing.

Confusing, I know.

“Some of them are nice.”

Stella shoots me a look, “Don’t lie to me, Captain. I’m not an art expert by any means but even I can tell these are terrible.”

“I mean, they aren’t thatbad…”

Her glare has me laughing.

“You’re right, they’re terrible. How much did he pay for this one?” I point to a particularly ugly white canvas that has red arrows pointing in every direction.

Stella claps her hands, “I love this game. Guess.”

“Uh… five hundred?”

“Cody, nothing in this room is under ten grand. Up your guess.”

Ten grand?

My left eye starts to twitch as I do a quick calculation of the dozen or so art pieces scattered around the room.

“Uh… twelve grand?”

Stella smirks, “Fifty.”

“Grand?” Disbelief oozes through my tone as I stare at a picture of red arrows that costs more than my annual mortgage.

Holy shit.

She laughs and skips down the hall, making me break into a jog to catch up. We play this game for the next few minutes, Stella pointing at random art pieces and me failing spectacularly at guessing anywhere close to the right price.

We eventually reach the end of the hallway, coming to a stop in front of a photograph set in a simple black frame. It’s a picture of the Vancouver skyline, right along the edge of the marina. It’s the least extravagant piece we’ve seen tonight but it’s the only one hanging on this wall.

“You know the drill. How much?”

I take my time, calculating the average of the other pieces and considering the simple elegance this one has that all the others lacked.

“Two hundred and fifty.” It’s on the lower end of the average, but there’s something authentic about this one that screams quality.

“Zero.” Stella responds after a pause, making me thing she’s joking.

“You mean how many zeros?”

“No, I mean it didn’t cost anything.” She pauses again, studying the one and only piece I could afford in this entire room.

“My mother took the photograph. On their first date.” The corners of Stella’s mouth tug up in a sad smile, “She had it framed as a wedding gift.”

Raising her hand, Stella lightly traces over the blurred corner at the bottom, “That’s my father’s shoulder. The story goes, he went in for the goodnight kiss but ended up missing because my mother was too caught up trying to take the photo.”

She laughs softly, “My mother used to say she fell in love twice that night, first with the city and then with my father.”

“Was he different back then?”

I step closer, my feet sinking soundlessly into the plush carpet. Stella turns so we’re chest-to-chest, tilting her head to look at me. Her hair hangs loose around her face, the braid from earlier leaving the strands soft and wavy.

My chest constricts as I take in the delicate lashes framing her dark blue eyes.

Her mother’s photograph isn’t the only priceless thing in this room.

Stella sighs, “In a way. My mother brought out a different side of him. Not softer but… less harsh, I guess? He never stopped smiling around her. Even when they were arguing, my father would get this smile on his face, one that seemed to say he has never been happier.”

She smiles sheepishly, “That probably sounds dumb.”

I shake my head, “That makes perfect sense. He was a happy man.”

“Exactly. He was just as strict, but my mother was his counterbalance. She made sure we had equal amounts of discipline and fun growing up.”

A strand of hair falls in her eyes. Without thinking, I reach out and gently tuck it back behind her ear.

“I wish I could have met her.”

Stella’s breath catches and suddenly, I’m worried I have overstepped.

“I wish you could have met her too.”

She smiles, pressing her cheek into the palm of my hand. The tenderness in her expression has my chest tightening, the magnetic pull between us growing stronger. I gently pull my hand back as a sliver of moonlight creeps through the stained-glass windows lining the opposite wall, casting a rose glow around us.

We stand like that, trapped in a touchless embrace for an indefinite amount of time. The desire to kiss Stella grows with every passing second but I can see the past and tonight’s dinner weighing heavily on her mind.

I’ve watched Stella physically exert herself to the point of exhaustion every day for the past six months, but tonight I got to peek behind the hard planes of muscle protecting her surface. I got to see beyond the bubbly extravert who drags her roommate to every resident event Taber University has to offer.

I clear my throat, deciding not to disappoint us both by pulling the same stunt as last time, “We should probably head to bed, it’s getting late.”

An eyebrow quirks up, “Sounds like an invitation, Captain.”

That’s the second time tonight she’s referenced to my varsity title, and I’m starting to like it a little bit too much.

“Separately, O’Brien.”

At least for tonight.

Stella rolls her eyes, “Always have to be the responsible one, don’t you?”

I huff out a laugh, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze, “Someone has to be.”

We leave her mother’s photograph behind as we head back, hand in hand, to our separate bedrooms.