52 Reasons to Hate My Father (13 page)

Ten minutes later, my father stalks through the door. He doesn’t even knock. He just comes right in and stands in the middle of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. I jump at the sight of him. I can’t even remember the last time my father set foot in my bedroom. He looks terribly out of place. Like a skyscraper in the middle of a meadow.

“Lexington, quit the performance. Get up and get dressed,” he commands sternly.

I don’t respond. I conceal my shock at him being there with stubborn silence.

“Rêve is waiting to meet you downstairs,” he continues, his tone void of any emotion.

“Why?” I ask simply.

“Why?” he echoes back in annoyance. “Because she’s going to be your new stepmother, that’s why.”

I snort at this, and my father’s nostrils flare in response. “Look,” he warns, “I’m in no mood for your antics.” (Is he
ever
in the mood for my antics?) “You’ll get up and you’ll get dressed and you’ll go downstairs and you’ll smile for the press. And after that, I don’t care what you do.”

He starts toward the door and I feel an unexpected boldness come over me. I’m not sure where it’s coming from but for the life of me, I can’t seem to keep it from bubbling forth like the champagne they’re undoubtedly starting to serve downstairs. “Because as long as I put on a good show for the cameras, nothing else matters, right?”

He slowly turns back around. “Excuse me?”

I know I should probably shut up now. I should just slink out of bed, throw on one of those twenty-thousand-dollar designer dresses, and do what I’m told. Because that’s what I’ve always done. Because it’s easier than trying to fight someone who never loses. It’s easier than going into battle against a stone wall.

But that’s the difference between the me from the past and the me now. The old Lexington was afraid. Because she had something to lose. Her livelihood. Her lifestyle. The safety of her comfort zone.

But I’ve already lost all of that.

So what do I have to be afraid of now?

“As long as it looks good from the
outside
,” I press on, “the inside is irrelevant. Right,
Daddy
?”

I can see the vein in my father’s neck start to bulge. It’s one of his very few “tells.” But it’s so subtle, most people miss it.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Lexi,” he says darkly, “but I don’t have time for it. I have an engagement party to attend.”

“Oh, right,” I say sarcastically. “Sixth time’s a charm, huh?”

He remains silent but the vein pulsates in response.

I sit up, feeling more daring than I ever have before. “Do you love her?”

Again, my father doesn’t respond. But I think we both know the answer.

“Then why are you marrying her?” I challenge his silence.

When he speaks his tone is once again flat and empty. “Marriage, like any relationship between people, is a business arrangement. A negotiation.” My father straightens his tie and tugs at the lapels of his suit jacket. “Love has nothing to do with it. And the sooner you come to realize that, Lexington, the better off you’ll be.”

I’ve spent nearly my entire childhood building up an immunity to my father’s callousness and icy approach to life. But no matter how long you work at it, how many years you practice, you are never immune to everything. Because you can’t predict when the next frost will hit. Or how hard it will bite.

As much as I want to lie down and let the arctic mist roll right over me, I feel a stabbing sensation in my chest. The icicles have fallen. They’ve pierced through the skin. It’s a direct hit.

And I loathe myself for being so weak and susceptible. I despise my own vulnerability.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” I ask in a feeble voice.

My whole body is now trembling from the cold and the anticipation of his response. I pull the blanket from my bed over my knees to keep them from knocking together. I hold my breath in fear that he might be able to see it.

I wait in the frozen tundra for his answer.

Then, as swiftly and sinuously as he entered the room, my father exits without another word, taking the chill with him. And I slowly peel the covers from my lap, pull a random dress from the rack, and start getting ready.

THE STAGE IS SET

“Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Caroline sings as I emerge from the back door of the house and linger at the top of the staircase that leads down to the gardens. There are cameras and equipment and activity everywhere. Photographers are setting up their shots, event planners are putting the finishing touches on decorations, and waiters dressed as cupids (seriously?) are passing around trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

I manage to grab a flute off a tray just as one floats by me.

Thank God. Something to take the edge off.

But I’m barely able to get it to my lips when Caroline whisks it from my hands and glances nervously over her shoulder at the flittering press. “Are you crazy?” she hisses at me. Her teeth are so tightly clenched I’m worried she might break her jaw. “We finally got them to stop talking about your
last
drinking fiasco.”

She flashes a big smile at a passing reporter and holds up the glass to him, as though she’s offering him a toast.

Cheers to you for believing all the crap I tell you.

Then she takes a tiny sip before dumping the rest of the champagne onto a nearby shrub, depositing the empty glass on another passing tray, and asking the waiter to bring me a seltzer water. He returns a moment later with a glass full of fizzing clear liquid garnished with lime and a sprig of mint.

I take a small sip and grimace at its useless aftertaste. So much for taking the edge off.

I swirl the ice cubes in my drink and stare down the staircase toward the main fountain, where a young blond woman is showing off a long, nude-colored, open-back Galliano gown with a thigh-high split to a group of eager photographers, basking in her fifteen minutes—or in this case, approximately two years—of fame. I can see the five-carat Harry Winston sparkling on her left hand all the way from here. I swear my father must be on some kind of frequent-buyer program there.

According to
Access Hollywood
, “Twenty-nine-year-old Rêve Rodiccio was a struggling executive assistant at Larrabee Media’s New York offices when the pair first locked eyes across the employee break room.”

Yeah, I’m sure she was. A struggling executive assistant/wannabe actress/wannabe model/wannabe with anyone who can take care of her and ensure she doesn’t have to work another day in her life. Well, didn’t she strike the jackpot? She was probably aiming for some VP or board member—five hundred thousand a year or more—and, lo and behold, as luck would have it, she snagged the CEO himself.

I watch her bat her eyes flirtatiously (and skillfully) at the cameras, giving each and every single reporter her undivided attention in turn. As though there were no one else in the world she’d rather be talking to.

Perhaps I underestimated her. She might have had her sights on the grand prize from the very beginning.

“Are you ready to meet your new stepmother?” Caroline asks me out of the corner of her mouth.

“No. But when does that ever matter?”

“Remember,” she cautions me, hiding her rapidly moving lips behind her hand, “according to the press, you two have already met and have spent lots of quality time together.”

“Of course we have,” I grumble. “Let me guess, we’re BFFs?”

Caroline’s head teeters from side to side as she tries that on for size. “That’s good,” she concludes. “I like it.”

“Well, it’s fitting. Since we’re practically the same age.”

I return my gaze to the fountain. My father has joined the circle now. He has his arm wrapped tightly around Rêve’s nonexistent waist as he politely fields questions from the press. He’s decidedly less enthusiastic as he delivers his responses, but that’s to be expected. My father doesn’t do enthusiastic. Plus, she’s plenty enthusiastic for the both of them.

“Well, it’s showtime,” Caroline says quietly to me before mumbling something unintelligible into an earpiece that’s hidden from view behind her hair. Seriously, is she a publicist or a member of the president’s security detail?

The message is delivered to an assistant down at the fountain and he ducks his head to indicate receipt. Then I watch him tap Rêve on the shoulder and whisper something into her ear. Her eyes illuminate, her head wheels around, and her gaze lands right on me.

“Lexi!” she calls eagerly, waving her arm above her head. I half expect her to kick off her heels, jump
into
the fountain, and start wading through it to get to me. Like some overly dramatic scene from a movie.

Showtime indeed
, I think to myself as I launch my hand into the air and wave back, matching her animated smile.

I start down the stairs and she hurries across the garden until we meet in the middle and embrace.

Click. Click. Flash. Flash.

The photographers eat it up.

“It’s so great to see you again,” she gushes.

“Love the dress,” I gush back.

She beams and smooths the fabric against her slender frame. “Thanks! Yours too! Is that the dress we found last time we went shopping?”

“It is, actually!” I reply, painting on a look of nostalgia for a beautiful day that never happened.

Rêve sighs and reaches out to tenderly finger a lock of my hair. An affectionate gesture only done between friends. Between two people who have shared numerous cups of coffee and intimate details of their lives.

“Oh, Lex,” she croons. “I’m so thrilled to be joining your family.”

I hide my gag reflex behind a sip of my drink. “Not as thrilled as I am, Rêve.” I lay it on thick.

Caroline pantomimes
cut it out
, indicating that I’ve wandered too far off the preapproved script. But I just shoot her a goading grin in return.

“So, Lexi,” one of the reporters begins. “What do you think of your father getting married for the sixth time?”

“What can I say?” I jest. “He’s a regular Henry VIII!”

The press corps chuckles and the humming sound of pens scratching against notepads fills the air as my precious sound bite is recorded for all eternity.

“Hey, at least he hasn’t beheaded any of them!” one reporter quips back lightheartedly.

“Only metaphorically,” I reply, evoking another round of sniggers and scribbling.

An unspoken message is sent from my father to Caroline with a single menacing look and she quickly jumps into the center of the circle and starts clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention and regain control of the situation. Then in her best bubbly publicist voice she announces, “Mark your calendars, everyone, because the wedding date has been set for February 17 and I believe Rêve has something very important to ask Lexington.”

She nods pointedly to Rêve, indicating that they’ve already rehearsed this.

“Oh right,” Rêve replies giddily, looking somewhat bewildered by the former exchange. I wouldn’t be surprised to find her in the bathroom later Googling
Henry VIII
.

She turns back to me and takes my hand in hers. For a minute, I wonder if she’s going to get down on one knee and propose.

“Lexi,” she begins wistfully, moisture appearing in her eyes.

Oh, she’s good
. Crying on cue. That takes some serious talent. Either she’s a natural born liar (in which case she’ll fit into this family perfectly) or Caroline’s been coaching her well.

“I know we’ve only just recently met,” she goes on, squeezing my hands. “And we still have lots of getting to know each other to do. But you already feel like a daughter to me and I would be so delighted—no,
honored
, if you would be my maid of honor for the wedding.”

Click. Click. Flash. Flash.

I’m biting down so hard on my tongue I’m sure that the next time I open my mouth blood will come spilling out like in a scene from
Dracula
. The cameras are snapping away again and I have to fight the urge to flick her bony little hands from mine and stalk back into the house. My father appears next to Rêve and puts a reassuring hand on her bare shoulder, stoically showing his support in a decision that was more than likely never hers. She probably wanted some cousin or sister or best friend from high school to be her maid of honor but I’m sure she’s learned by now (or will soon enough) that when you marry Richard Larrabee, you forfeit personal preferences. There’s only one way things are done around here. The way that makes Richard Larrabee look good.

The way that makes Larrabee Media continue to be a successful, multibillion-dollar corporation. And if you can’t get on board with that, then you might as well jump ship now.

Caroline gives me another look of death and gestures subtly for me to hurry it up and answer. My father’s dark eyes narrow ever so slightly in my direction.

I know what’s expected of me. It’s the same thing that’s been expected of me since the day I emerged from the birth canal.

Compliance.

Just another pawn in one of my father’s strategic negotiations. A business arrangement wrapped up with a bow and a truckload of rented cupid costumes and made to look like love. Like happily ever after.

Everything this family does is a front. A costume. A wizard’s curtain to hide the rest of Oz from the truth. And with scabbed knees concealed behind a twenty-thousand-dollar dress, bruised arms masked in layers of the most expensive makeup money can buy, and a box of wigs stashed in my closet, I suppose I’m no different.

I turn back to the twenty-nine-year-old woman standing before me with the nerve to call me her
daughter
and with a deep, regretful sigh say, “No, Rêve.”

A collective breath is sucked in. Eyes widen. Caroline’s face starts turning a very interesting shade of red.

“
I
would be honored,” I finish.

TROUBLED WATERS

The twins, Hudson and Harrison, make their grand entrance a few moments later, and I’m barely even able to say hello before we’re shoved together by Caroline and her assistant for the big family photo.