The Anti-hero (The Goode Brothers)
The Anti-hero: Part 1 – Chapter 5

Lucy smiles politely at me over the table. With her long, blonde hair curled at the ends, so it flows in flawless waves over her shoulders, she really is stunningly beautiful. Tall, thin, fit, educated, and probably most importantly, Christian.

If only I felt as enamored by her as my mother is. All throughout dinner, I keep trying to think of things to ask her to keep the conversation moving as my mom watches from the head of the table like she’s rating my skills on a first date—if that’s what you would call this.

When I showed up for dinner tonight, I was surprised to see Lucy’s Prius parked in the long drive. I silently cursed my sweet mother and her good-intentioned meddling. She’s clearly trying to get me to invite Lucy to the charity event next month.

At the head of the table, my father watches without a word, and I take his silence as a sign that he’s pleased with how this is going.

As Lucy talks, mostly about the big plans for her cycle studio expansion, I try to see myself with her. Our wedding photos would be flawless. Even our kids would be cute. My life would be picture perfect, as everything from the outside looking in would be exactly as it was meant to be.

But I don’t see much when I try to imagine Lucy and me alone. Even if I picture her naked body under mine, it lacks something.

Although, to be fair, sex has always lacked something for me. I like it. It feels good and scratches the itch from time to time, but that’s all it is—satisfying. And maybe that’s all it’s meant to be. For so long, I’ve been holding out for earth-shattering and mind-blowing, which would explain why I’m still single at thirty-seven.

“Adam, you should go to her studio,” my mother says as she pours herself another glass of sweet tea.

“Are you calling me fat?” I ask with a laugh.

Lucy’s reaction is a tense, humorless smile.

“Not that everyone who goes to your studio…”

“I was not calling you fat,” my mother says, shooting me a stern glare.

“That’s not what I meant,” I reply, trying to overcorrect. “It was a bad joke.”

“It’s okay,” Lucy replies with a smile.

Abigail sends me an awkward, wide-eyed expression that says, Good job, idiot. The rest of the family around the table sit in silence. Even they can tell how painful this date is.

It was an ambush date, really.

“When will we get to see you preach again?” Lucy asks, and I glance up quickly from my plate to stare at her in surprise. Then my eyes dash over to my father at the head of the table, sitting proudly with his hands clasped under his chin with a haughty smirk.

It’s been months since I’ve stood at the pulpit and delivered a sermon of my own creation. Often for special occasions or because my father had prior engagements, but it was never spoken about as if it would become a regular occurrence. And it certainly was never requested.

I clear my throat. “I’m not sure,” I reply to Lucy. “Hopefully, soon.”

She nods, looking pleased.

“Adam is a wonderful preacher,” my mother adds, and I scrutinize the woman across from me for her reaction.

When her eyes meet mine, there’s a sparkle there, and a certain excitement inside me starts to grow. Suddenly, I can see so much more of our future. I see her standing next to me on Sunday. Before my sermons, we can greet the congregation together. Serving meals on Thanksgiving. Praying together.

It’s promising, but it’s still from the outside looking in.

“Pass the ketchup, please,” Caleb says, knocking my shoulder, and as I glance over at the bottle sitting next to Lucy, it feels as if I’ve been abruptly snatched out of a fantasy. And for the thousandth time this week, I think about the pink hair and chipped black nail polish of the woman I shared a fifteen-minute meal with two weeks ago.

“Yes,” I mutter, grabbing the bottle and practically tossing it at my brother.

As Lucy strikes up a conversation with Briar, I try to refocus my mind on the possibilities of the woman across from me, but it’s like trying to start a fire with wet matches. Nothing comes.

Instead, I think about the way Sage fiddled with the ring in her lip. Or how her eyes twinkled in my direction as she passed me a bite of her breakfast.

Irritability swells behind every memory of her because it’s been two weeks and I still go back to that moment when I know in my rational mind that it means nothing and I will literally never see her again.

And yet…the pipe-dream fantasies of her feel a little less perfect from the outside looking in but probably a bit more fun the other way around as well.

Looking up from my empty plate, I notice Lucy’s is nearly empty too. She sets her fork down and places her napkin over what’s left of her meatloaf, and I seize my chance.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” I ask.

With a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, she nods. “Sure.”

“Go on, you two,” my mother chirps excitedly as she jumps from her seat to clean up our plates. Then I lead Lucy toward the front door. Once we step out into the warm spring night air, she shoves her hands in the pockets of her long, cotton dress.

“It was nice of your mother to invite me to dinner,” she says as we make our way down the long brick-paved drive.

“It probably should have been me. I’m sorry,” I reply. My hand itches to touch her back or arm.

“Did you want me to come to dinner?” she asks, glancing up at me.

I clear my throat. “Of course I did.”

When she doesn’t respond, I notice the way she nods to herself, and I wish I knew what she was thinking. Why am I so bad at this? Breakfast with Pink Hair was so easy—

No. Stop it.

“The truth is,” I reply, trying for sincerity, “I’m so busy I forget to have a personal life.”

She chuckles quietly. “Same.”

“But I really like you,” I say, forcing the words out in hopes they feel truer when I speak them.

They don’t.

Lucy stops and turns toward me. “I like you too, Adam…”

Her voice trails off and I sense a but.

My brow arches as I wait her out.

“But…” she says, finally, shuffling her feet and looking off into the distance instead of at me. “I don’t really know you.”

“Then have dinner with me again. We can get to know each other.”

“Will we?” This conversation is taking a strange turn as if she knows something I don’t. Something about me.

“Why wouldn’t we?” I ask, feeling confused.

She places a hand on my arm and leans toward me. “You’re a nice guy, Adam. Dating me would make your mother very happy, which is exactly why I think you would do it.”

When I laugh, she doesn’t…which means that it isn’t a joke.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“When was the last time you did something just because you wanted to?” she asks, shooting me a challenging expression.

“I’m walking with you right now,” I reply.

Leaning in, she adds, “Is that really what you want to be doing right now?”

Taking this as my opportunity, I let my hand drift over her lower back, tugging her closer before I press my lips to hers. They’re soft and pliable, making me want to slide my tongue between them or bite the bottom one just to hear the sounds she’d make. But I hold back.

When I pull away, staring down with a soft smile, she lets out a heavy sigh. “That’s what I mean. You’re a really good guy, Adam. Maybe a little…too good.”

Then she lifts to her tiptoes and presses her lips to my cheek.

“Please tell your mother thanks again from me.”

Without another word, she continues the walk down to her car, waving back before climbing into the driver’s seat and pulling away.

I watch her go, feeling blindsided and wondering how the hell someone can be too good.

“I like her,” my mother says as she dips her hands in soapy water to pull out a fork.

“She’s really nice,” I reply as I set the porcelain plate on the stack in the cupboard. I don’t have the heart to tell my mother that Lucy left without exchanging numbers or plans to see me again.

Because I’m too good.

“Stay for a drink.” My father lands a heavy slap on my back as I dry my hands on the dish towel hanging from my shoulder.

Another nostalgic ritual of my mother’s is to clean up the kitchen after Sunday dinner—regardless of the fact that my father pays people to do it for them. I make it a point to dry the dishes every time.

My brothers never stick around this long.

“Go,” my mother insists as she takes my towel. There’s only a casserole dish left, so I concede.

As I follow my father into his office on the second floor of the house, he shuts the door behind us. He’s pouring two glasses of whiskey before I even sit down.

Every time he invites me to his office after dinner like this, I’m anticipating the moment he finally breaks the news I’ve been waiting for—that he’s stepping down.

And putting me in his place.

My father is great at what he does. He’s a natural orator, charismatic and engaging. He’s changing people’s lives for the better.

But at the same time, he’s sixty-nine years old. He’s growing more and more out of touch with the next generation every day. Our demographic is comfortably fifty-plus, and if we don’t make a move to capture those under fifty soon, our legacy will die with them.

I take the seat opposite his desk and let my gaze drift to the mess of papers scattered across the surface. But I’m not focusing on anything as he starts talking.

We riff back and forth for a while, laughing about something said this morning at church or whatever ridiculous joke one of my brothers made at dinner. My dad and I share a somewhat shallow relationship that never delves too deep into feelings or secrets. Not that I think he’s hiding any. I’m sure as hell not. But I do pride myself on being the closest son he has, making him proud and doing what’s right.

“Damn good sermon this morning, Adam. You work hard on them, and it shows.”

“Thanks…” I reply, sensing the ominous but from my father’s tone.

“You put your heart and soul in each one, and I’m so proud of the writer you’ve become.”

A smug smile stretches across my face as I let his praise wash over me. If making my father proud was an art form, I’d have mastered it by now. Honestly, it feels more like a science than an art, something my brothers never cared much to attempt. I simply do exactly as I think he would, and it pays off.

And yet…I still get the feeling that there’s a catch to his comments tonight.

“I like writing them. You know that. But I can’t help but feel like there’s something you have to criticize.” I send him a crooked brow and half smile as I take a sip from my glass. “In short, cut the bullshit.”

He laughs, leaning back in his chair. “You’re writing them for you, not me.”

My jaw tightens and my heart starts to race. Is he implying what I think he’s implying?

“I’m writing them for the congregation,” I reply proudly.

There’s another low chuckle before he shakes his head. “Smart-ass.”

“Well, what are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say that…” He swirls his whiskey in the glass before throwing it back and emptying the contents. Here it comes. If I’m reading the situation correctly, my father is about to offer me the position I’ve been waiting for.

“I think your talents would be better suited for your own ventures. We’re giving the sermon-writing job back to Mark.”

There’s a beat of silence as I stare at him, waiting for the punch line of this joke.

My mouth goes dry, and suddenly, I realize my leg is bouncing. We sit in tense silence for a moment longer as his words fill the room like noxious gas.

“Your writing is so good, Adam, and I hate to see you waste that energy on sermons. Why don’t you work on your book? Or write for the podcast again.”

My knee is bouncing like crazy now. “Everyone loves the sermons. They relate to real people and real issues. No offense, but Mark’s sermons are based on antiquated values.”

“Mark’s sermons are based on the scripture.”

“And mine aren’t?”

His brow furrows, but he stays silent.

He can’t be serious. This can’t be happening, but I bite back my surprise. I refuse to let my father see me falter.

A familiar feeling starts to resurface. Something I’ve buried deep for years—my whole life maybe. I’m sure it has a name. Resentment. Bitterness. Spite. But I’ve never voiced it, and I’ve never paid it much attention.

Not since that night.

He’s my father. He provides for me and my brothers and has for years, but there’s a price for the luxury of his love, and that price is my pride.

“I’m just thinking about what’s best for the church, Adam,” he says in a casual tone with complete disregard for how this actually makes me feel. “Use this as an opportunity to focus on more important aspects of your career. Did you really plan on writing my sermons for the rest of your life?”

As I let out my next breath, it sounds a bit too much like a disgruntled sigh, but I don’t respond. He stands from his seat and goes back over to the whiskey bottle on the drink cart, he keeps talking, but I’m no longer listening.

Something dark and sinister stirs around in my brain.

I wish I could call him an asshole to his face. I think about what it might feel like to sock him square in the nose with my fist. I imagine how delightful it might feel to see him cry or beg for mercy.

These thoughts are vile, and I should feel ashamed.

I should, but I don’t.

I just do what I’ve always done when these malicious thoughts and visions surface, I quickly shove them back down. I bury them right along with the memories that triggered them in the first place.

My unfocused gaze is on his desk, but I’m not reading a word typed on the mess of pages. Not until I spot the word Deed. My thoughts quiet, and my eyes focus.

Behind me, my father is still droning on and on, and I’m not catching a single line. Instead, I lean forward and try to read as much of the document as I can. The other papers on his desk seem to be things like sermon notes, press releases, printed articles, and proposals.

This page is an official document, crinkled at one edge with a coffee stain on the other. The most I can make out from here is an address I don’t recognize and a name I’ve never seen before.

I peer behind me to see my dad with his back to me, so I move fast, pulling out my phone and snapping a quick pic of the document before he can turn back around.

“Are you listening to me, Adam?” His sharp tone rips my attention away from the paper.

“Yes, sir,” I lie.

“Well, aren’t you going to argue with me? Defend yourself, for fuck’s sake.”

My nostrils flare and another growling sigh emits from my chest. “It’s late, Dad. I’m tired. I was up all night writing your sermon, remember?”

“Watch your tone, boy.”

When I stand and face him, he lets out another chuckle of laughter, this time darker and more sarcastic than before. Sometimes, I wonder when he looks at me like that if my father even likes me.

Sometimes, I wonder if he hates me.

I don’t wonder about my brothers. I know he doesn’t like the twins.

And I know he hated Isaac.

Hates not hated.

But me… I’ve stood by his side since I was a child. I’ve doted and dedicated my life to his mentorship. Because I thought that’s what he wanted. A son to carry on his legacy. It was the only way to earn his love.

Yet, as the two of us grow older, I can’t help but wonder if my father would like his legacy to die with him. Too greedy to share the spotlight, even after his death.

And now this. The biggest slap in the face of my life.

“Get some rest, son,” my father says, clapping that heavy hand on my shoulder again. The look on his face is smug enough to punch, but I know that’s not possible. So I punch him in my head—hard enough to knock him out.

Then I smile like the good son I am and walk out the door.