Chapter 4 - Destruction of the Aesthetic
"Mark, stop it! What are you doing?!" Victoria shrieked, lunging forward with her hands clawing the air as if she could physically wrestle the pastries back from the trash. "Those cost a fortune! Those were imported from your shop for the dessert course!"
"Actually," Mark said calmly, his voice ringing out across the stunned room as he grabbed the second heavy silver tray and upended it into the bin with a loud crash, "they were my Christmas gift to you and Daniel."
A collective gasp echoed around the table. Several guests stood up from their chairs, whispering furiously among themselves, some reaching for their designer coats draped over the backs of their seats.
"But since the smell of my hard work offends you and your prominent guests so much," Mark continued, grabbing the third and fourth trays and dumping them one after another into the garbage until the bin was overflowing with ruined luxury confections, "I wouldn't want you or your high-society friends choking on the food my son’s dirty hands helped prepare."
"You're out of your mind!" Daniel roared, completely losing his composure as he lunged forward, grabbing Mark by the heavy flannel of his jacket and shoving him backward. "You're unhinged, Mark! Get out of my house right now!"
Mark didn't budge an inch. He simply yanked his arm free with a sharp, powerful jerk, breaking Daniel’s grip and sending his older brother stumbling back against the polished granite kitchen island.
"With pleasure," Mark said, his chest heaving with adrenaline.
He didn't look back at his mother, who was now covering her face with her hands, or at his father, who sat frozen in stunned silence. He turned his back on all thirty-five members of Westfield’s elite, stepped over the sparkling shards of shattered champagne glass on the hardwood floor, and walked purposefully out the front double doors into the freezing night air.
The cold wind hit his face like a physical blow, instantly clearing the stifling scent of expensive perfume and hypocrisy from his lungs.
Mark marched across the cobblestone driveway and pulled open the heavy side door of the garage.
Ethan was standing near the entrance, having abandoned the metal folding chair. His small face was pale, his eyes wide and terrified from the muffled shouting he had heard echoing through the walls.
"Dad?" Ethan whispered, his lower lip quivering. "Are you mad at me? Did I cause all that?"
Mark’s heart broke into a million jagged pieces. He closed the distance between them instantly, dropping to his knees and wrapping his strong, flour-dusted arms tightly around his son’s small frame, pulling him into his chest.
"Listen to me, buddy," Mark said, his voice thick with emotion as he buried his face in Ethan’s hood. "Look at me."
Ethan looked up, tears brimming in his eyes.
"I have never been prouder of you in my entire life," Mark told him fiercely, his hands gripping Ethan’s shoulders. "You smell like hard work. You smell like character, dedication, and honesty. And nobody in that house back there has an ounce of either in their entire bodies."
Ethan let out a shaky, half-laugh, half-sob, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Are we going home?"
"No," Mark said, standing up and taking his son’s hand. "We're going somewhere much better."
May you like
They climbed back into Mark’s sedan. As Mark backed out of the driveway, the interior lights of Daniel’s house flickered against the snow-covered lawn like a stage set wrapping up a disastrous final performance. Mark didn't look back once. He shifted the car into drive, pointed the hood toward the interstate leading back into Manhattan, and pressed his foot down on the gas.
They needed something real. Something warm, noisy, and entirely unpretentious.
