52 Reasons to Hate My Father (26 page)

He can strut into an ultra-hot Hollywood nightclub one day and act like a regular celebrity bad boy and then stride through the salon of a multimillion-dollar Bel Air mansion the next and effortlessly transition into a man of culture and poise. The perfect embodiment of European society.

“I came as soon as I read about it online,” he tells me, his sweet, melodic accent instantly lulling me into a familiar trance. A spellbound state in which I’m fully alert and yet fully his at the same time. It’s a spell I’ve learned can only be broken if you can find the strength to physically leave the room. Because once you’re in his presence, it’s all over.

“Thanks,” I find myself saying weakly. Weak, not in that my voice has no energy left in it, but in that my body has no will to fight his magnetism. Nor the tears that are welling up in my eyes.

They start to fall. Hard and heavy. Like they’re made of more than just salty water. The weighty material of broken hope and shattered illusions.

Besides Horatio, Mendi is the only person I’ve ever allowed to see me cry. Well, at least since I was old enough to know that crying in front of someone is the equivalent of packing up your power in a box, tying it with a bow, and handing it over.

And let’s face it. I’ve never had power when it comes to Mendi.

As he watches me weep in front of him, shedding my emotional boundaries faster than clothes in a game of strip poker, his face fills up with concern. It’s genuine and compassionate. It always has been. Mendi can be a lot of things—irrational, unstable, insensitive—but inauthentic has never been one of them.

He pulls me into his chest and I go willingly, allowing my tears to be absorbed in the thick fabric of his shirt. He strokes my hair and the side of my face, practically singing as he whispers, “It’s okay, my darling. Shhh. It’s going to be fine.”

When I’m all cried out, he holds me at arm’s length, lowers his head so that he can look directly into my eyes, and asks, “Why didn’t you call me?”

I sniffle and rub my wet cheeks as I look back at him with a confused expression.

“When your father took away your trust fund and left you with nothing,” he clarifies. “Why didn’t you call me? You know I would have taken care of you.”

I turn my head to the side, averting my eyes. “I know,” I admit. “But we were broken up. We said terrible things to each other that night in the club. Before the crash. And then you never called again. That’s how I knew it was truly over.”

He bows his head, looking ashamed. “I wanted to call,” he says softly. “But your friends warned me not to.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “They did?”

He nods. “After you ran out of the club that night, they insisted that I let you go. That if I ever wanted to give you a chance at being happy, I’d forget about you. They said the three of you were going away for the summer and they didn’t need our drama following them to Europe.”

I’m so touched thinking about Jia and T sticking up for me like that. Looking out for me. Like friends are supposed to.

“They told me you’d be better off without me,” he continues. “And for a while I believed them. But now I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

He cups my face in his large, warm hands and holds my gaze captive. “I’m saying enough is enough. We belong together.”

I can feel my knees start to shake under the weight of his words.

“What about Serena Henson? I thought you two were an item now.”

He scrunches his face in revulsion and shakes his head. “Oh God, she was such a waste of space.”

I want to smile. But it’s as though my face has forgotten how.

“Come with me.” His command is direct. Simple. Full of promise.

“Where?”

He releases my face and gestures to the world around him. “Anywhere! You don’t belong here milking cows and frying grease and God knows what else. You’re too good for that. I can give you the life you deserve, Lexi. The life you’ve been raised for. We can go today. Anywhere you want.”

My thoughts immediately float to the south of France. To the photograph of the villa that my friends sent me. The thought that I could be there with them—in only a matter of hours—makes me feel weightless. Free.

“Can we go to the French Riviera?”

He laughs. It’s jovial and effortless. “Of course! I’ll call the hangar now.” He whips out his cell phone and starts dialing. I listen as he gives his name, is put directly through to the right people, and books a flight to Marseilles in a matter of seconds.

I almost forgot how easy it is. How easy it
could
be. How easy it used to be for me too.

And the pang of longing in my stomach tells me that I’ve missed it. That ease. That uncomplicatedness. That buoyant, carefree existence.

He presses a button on his phone and returns it to his pocket. “The jet is ready whenever we are.” He takes my hands in his and holds them close to his face. I can feel his warm breath on my fingertips. “You don’t need your father. Or your trust fund. Or any of it. Let me take you away from all this.”

Then he tugs my hands toward him, wraps them around the back of his neck, and kisses me. It’s exactly like I remembered. The same hunger. The same passion. The same spark that ignites my senses and makes me feel alive.

I didn’t even realize I was dead.

When he pulls away he leaves behind a large, beaming grin that lights up my entire face. He brings his lips to my forehead and presses against it gently.

I unlock my fingers from the back of his neck and press my slightly swollen lips together, savoring the lingering taste of him … and all the ways he promises to fix everything that’s wrong with my life. “Just give me a few minutes to pack.”

EXIT STRATEGY

Mendi sits on my bed, playing tug-of-war with Holly and an old sock while I hastily throw items into a suitcase. For some reason I feel frazzled. Frenetic.

Mendi notices and catches hold of my arm as I’m dumping a heap of dresses into my bag. “Relax, Lex,” he tells me—no, with Mendi it’s always more like an
order.
“The plane is not going to leave without us.”

“I know,” I say, taking a deep breath, but it does little to slow me down or quiet my quivering nerves.

I race back to my closet and pull out my bathing-suit drawer. I have no idea which ones to take so I just grab all of them and run them to the suitcase.

Mendi laughs as he watches the growing pile of mangled clothes. “I don’t think your entire closet is going to fit in there. You know we can always go shopping in France.”

I laugh nervously and then head over to my desk and shut my laptop down. When I lift it up, I find a mangled piece of paper underneath. I reach for the paper, knowing exactly what it is even before I’ve completely unfolded it.

The list.

52 Reasons to Hate My Father.

Although, based on the numerous lines of crossed-out text, I only got to number twenty. Not even halfway through. I skim the thirty-two remaining jobs, running my finger down the page, taking a brief moment to imagine the experiences I’ll never have. A toll-booth operator, a waitress, a newspaper delivery girl, a rent collector, a fruit picker, a movie theatre usher … all the way down to the very last one. Number 52. Working in the copy room of the
Santa Monica Mirror
—a local newspaper.

The copy room of a local newspaper? That was my father’s first job. His first step toward becoming the billionaire he is today.

That can’t be a coincidence.

A bark breaks me from my thoughts and I glance over at Holly who’s managed to rip the sock out of Mendi’s hand and is now completing her victory prance around the bed.

Mendi laughs and lunges forward for a rematch.

I give my head a shake, toss the list into the trash can, and get back to packing, hastily stuffing my laptop into its pink Prada carrying case and adding it to the collection of luggage on the bed. Then I dash into the bathroom to start filling my train case.

I’m not sure why I’m in such a hurry. Maybe it’s because this whole day feels like a dream and if we don’t leave right this very minute—or as close to it as possible—something or
someone
is going to wake me up.

Someone is going to try to stop me.

And just as Mendi is lugging the last of my suitcases down the stairs, that someone walks through the front door.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, looking perplexedly from Mendi to my luggage to me.

“Luke,” I say simply. Because I’m not sure what else to say. Where else to begin. “I was going to call you.”

“From where?” he asks, once again glaring at Mendi and then looking back to me.

I trudge down the last few steps and meet him in the foyer. “I think we both know this is over.”

Apparently Luke doesn’t know. “What are you talking about? I’m here to take you to your next catering job. It starts in an hour.”

Mendi sets my suitcase down at the foot of the stairs and stalks up next to me, putting a hand on my lower back. “Lexington won’t be working any more low-wage jobs for her father. It’s demeaning and beneath her.”

Luke gives him a dubious look but doesn’t respond. Instead he addresses me. “You can’t quit. You know what happens if you quit.”

“I know,” I say softly, unable to meet his gaze.

“You won’t be able to come back here,” he warns. “Your father will cut you off.”

“She doesn’t need her father.” Mendi steps menacingly forward. “She has me now.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Luke growls, sidestepping Mendi so that he can focus back on me. “Lexi, don’t do this!”

“It’s done, Luke,” I say morosely. “I’m exposed. The entire world knows. They’re not going to leave me alone. They’re going to follow me to every single job, every single week, for the rest of the year. They’re going to turn it into some kind of media circus!”

“That doesn’t matter,” Luke insists. “What matters is that you were starting to get the hang of it. You were taking it seriously. You were earning people’s respect.” He drops his head and lowers his voice. “Like mine.”

“I’m sorry,” is all I can say.

“So what,” he continues sarcastically, “you’re just going to throw it all away and run back to your spoiled, indulgent life like nothing ever happened?”

“Hey!” Mendi steps between us again. “You have no right to talk to her like that.”

But Luke is undeterred. He walks past Mendi and gets right in my face. His nose inches away from mine. “I have a right to point out what a huge mistake you’re making.” His eyes burn into mine as he takes hold of my wrist. “I’ve seen what you’re capable of—I’ve seen what you can do—and it’s worth something, Lexi.
You’re
worth something. You’re more than just a frivolous, shallow party girl. If you go with him you’ll only be running from one crutch to another. Instead of learning how to stand on your own.”

“Oh, like you care,” I mutter.

“I do care,” Luke insists.

“The only thing you care about is my father and his quarterly stock report. You don’t want me to leave because then it’ll make you look bad in front of him. You don’t give a crap about me.”

“That’s not true,” he counters. “I admit it hasn’t been easy dealing with you. You’re no picnic, Lexi. In fact, you’re everything I hate about upper-class America. Everything that I have to work my butt off for, you were handed on a silver platter. And you took it all for granted.

“But I agreed to do this because I believed in what your father was trying to do. He was trying to help you. To show you that there’s more to life than partying and shopping.”

I yank my arm free and shove against his shoulders. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” I roar. “You think just because your father left, and you grew up with no money, and have to work your way through a psychology degree that you know everything about me and my life? You don’t know anything! You don’t even realize what a hypocrite you are!”

“I’m a hypocrite?” he fires back.

“Yes!” I thunder. “You can’t idolize my father and hate me in the same sentence. Don’t you know how contradictory that is? I am who I am
because
of my father. He
made
me this way. Everything you worship about him—his work ethic, his obsession with his job, his detachment from emotions—I’m a product of all that. Do you really want to know what it was like growing up here?” I’ve lowered my voice but the intensity is still there. “I’ll tell you. It was learning to play pool from the butler and soccer from the gardeners and poker from the chauffeur. Because there was never anyone else around to entertain you. It was coming home from school and showing off your artwork to the maid. It was spending Christmases with the nanny and birthdays with whatever girl was hired to dress up like a Disney princess and knock on your door with an armful of presents. You’re not the only one who grew up without a father, you know? But at least you didn’t have to spend your life wondering when he would walk through the door and how long he would stay. You didn’t have to lie in bed at night, counting the number of words he said to you on his latest phone call from Japan, and then celebrating quietly to yourself when it was a whopping three more than the last time.”

Luke has lowered his gaze. His breathing seems smoother. Less ragged than it was a few minutes ago. But mine feels like a tornado. I pull up on the handle of my suitcase and start pulling it toward the door, pausing long enough for one final glance in Luke’s direction. “You should be grateful your father left and never came back.”

DEFYING GRAVITY

“Something to read?” The flight attendant’s chipper voice interrupts my thoughts, and I tear my gaze away from the window to see that she’s holding a tray with several magazines splayed out across the surface like playing cards.

I smile graciously at her as I scan the selection. Underneath the latest issue of
Glamour
I can see half of my father’s face peeking out. With curiosity, I push
Glamour
aside and study the cover of this month’s
Fortune
. Of course it’s a cover story about my father’s upcoming merger. The headline reads:
NEXT STOP: GLOBAL DOMINATION.
Then, in smaller letters underneath his photo:
An exclusive interview with Richard Larrabee on his humble beginnings, bumpy romances, and the upcoming merger that will make him king
.