Jack
No matter how old we were, being called to my father’s office always felt like being called to the principal's office at school. He would sit behind his big, imposing desk, while Phoenix and I squirmed in our chairs on the opposite side.
Nix was usually our designated spokesperson, but when it came to our dad, things usually went smoother if I did the talking. My dad needed to be reasoned with, on a cerebral level, not charmed on an emotional one. And as a general rule, the fewer words spoken, the better.
Dad was so upset, that he’d forgotten why he had come downstairs in the first place, and instead of putting the dirty wine glasses in the sink, he had carried them back to the office, and now had no choice but to set them on the desk next to his reading lamp, which he had switc
