52 Reasons to Hate My Father (31 page)

Luke pulls into the driveway of my house and kills the engine. “Can I walk you to your door?” he asks, and it makes me smile.

I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that question before. It feels so old-fashioned and sweet. But then again, Luke is pretty much both of those things. I just never noticed it before. I was too busy focusing on his faults. Faults that suddenly I can’t even remember anymore.

“Sure,” I say, and step out of the car.

We walk in silence. The only sound is our footsteps on the pavement. The stillness is making me anxious. I want to say something to him but for the first time since we met, I’m speechless around him.

All I know is that I wish the distance from the driveway to the front door were one hundred times longer because we arrive way too quickly and I find myself wanting to ask him to stay.

I reach for the doorknob but stop when I feel his warm fingers land on top of mine. “Wait,” he says, gently prying my hand away and holding it loosely in his own. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do.”

I look up and meet his gaze. His hazel eyes seem to sparkle against the floodlights that glow from the landscaping. “Okay,” I say hesitantly.

He sighs and glances away. “I just haven’t been able to do it.”

“Why?” I ask.

His gaze returns to mine and a small smile creeps across his lips. “Because I’m pretty certain it’s not in my job description.”

“Well,” I say, pretending to glance at an invisible watch, “it’s way past business hours. Maybe you should just do it.”

His eyes crinkle as his smile broadens. It’s beyond adorable. “I don’t know,” he begins. “Things are complicated.”

“Complicated?” I repeat playfully.

“Well, this thing I’ve been wanting to do, it’s not exactly appropriate for two people who are working together and might
continue
to work together. It might make things awkward.”

I nod, feigning deep contemplation. “Mmm hmm. I see. That
is
a problem.”

“On the other hand”—Luke pulls my hand upward and rests it against his chest—“someone once told me that I think about things too much. And that I should learn how to just let go. Throw caution to the wind.”

“That person sounds very wise,” I remark, doing little to hide the grin that’s surfacing.

“She can be,” he muses.

“Well, you want to know what I think?” I ask.

But I never do get an answer. Nor am I able to finish my thought because his hands are suddenly on my cheeks. They guide my face right to his. Our lips come together. He kisses me, softly at first, intensifying with each passing second. And although I’m getting drunk off his smell, his taste, his touch, for some reason I can’t seem to let my mind go. Something doesn’t feel right. It’s not me who’s kissing him back. It’s someone else. And I can’t do it like this. I can’t be anyone else anymore.

“Wait,” I say, pressing against his chest and pulling away.

His face shrouds with concern. “What’s wrong?” he asks, slightly breathless.

I pull off my wig, yank the rubber band out of my hair, and shake my head violently. I keep shaking and shaking until slowly but surely I start to feel like myself again. Until it’s only me standing next to him. No one else.

“Okay,” I say with a sigh. “Now can you do that again?”

He smiles and leans into me. I close my eyes. This time, when our lips meet, I melt into him. All of my fire and fever become his. And all of his patience and sincerity become mine.

For months we were at war. Sworn enemies. Separated by one man. One king. I suppose it only makes sense that the very thing that divided us is now bringing us together.

Because apart we might be as different as night and day, black and white, right and wrong, but together we create two sides of a whole. Together we balance.

RETURN TO SENDER

The next morning I’m glued to the television screen in the kitchen. Luke assured me nothing would happen until the shareholders’ meeting at eleven but that doesn’t stop me from waking up at the crack of dawn and turning on CNBC. Now I know why I’ve never watched this network before. It’s nothing but boring business news and people droning on and on about stock prices. I think I must be getting hypnotized by that annoying little scrolling ticker tape at the bottom of the screen because I can’t even bring myself to change the channel.

Horatio tries to get me to eat something, laying out an assortment of breakfast items, but I refuse all of them. I’m
way
too nervous to eat. My stomach feels like it’s on a spin cycle. Anything I swallow down is just going to come right back up.

Finally, at eleven o’clock the anchorman announces that he’s interrupting their usual broadcast to bring us special footage from the Larrabee Media shareholders’ meeting, where Richard Larrabee is scheduled to present an important business decision that is expected to dramatically impact the future of the company.

I sit in my pajamas at the kitchen counter, leaning so far forward my butt is nearly falling off the stool. I can see Horatio giving me strange looks out of the corner of his eye as he goes about making his weekly grocery shopping list.

The scene changes and the screen now shows a giant meeting room with hundreds of people sitting in chairs and my father positioned behind a podium at the front.

This is it!

“Thank you, everyone, for being here,” he begins. “We are here today to talk about a very important matter that you’ve probably been reading about lately. A possible merger between Larrabee Media and the prominent and successful French corporation LaFleur Media.”

I notice Pascal LaFleur standing off to his right. I can’t help but snarl at him. My father, on the other hand, gives him a small, knowing nod and LaFleur returns the subtle gesture.

I’m actually somewhat surprised to witness my father’s usual stiff and impassive demeanor. I guess I kind of thought that after reading my note and the evidence attached to it, he would look a little more, I don’t know, outraged? Incensed? I mean, he was seriously double-crossed by people he trusted and he looks exactly like he always does. Calm and collected. And, most important, ready to get down to business.

But I suppose that’s a testament to his superior business skills. That he’s able to look so calm and unaffected in the face of such betrayal.

He must be preparing for something really good. I can just imagine it. In a few minutes, he’ll turn to LaFleur, reveal the truth about this two-timing sleazebag, and then really let him have it.

I can feel my heartbeat accelerate in anticipation.

“I’m here today to voice my official recommendation for this promising business venture,” my father says.

Wait, what?

I grab for the remote and press the instant replay button.

“I’m here today to voice my official recommendation for this promising business venture,” he says again before continuing. “I firmly believe that a merger with LaFleur is the best course of action for Larrabee Media and its investors and I trust that you’ll heed my recommendation and vote in favor of this endeavor. Thank you.”

I watch in total shock as he steps down from the podium and makes his way off camera.

What is he doing?

Did he not get the note? Did it fall through the cracks of his desk and now it’s sitting idle on the floor? Darn it! I knew I should have waited until this morning and handed it to him in person!

Or what if he got it and simply ignored it? What if he thought it was just me playing around, trying to pull another one of my stunts. Or worse yet, what if he saw my name on the note and then threw the whole thing in the trash, assuming that if it came from me, it wasn’t even worth looking at?

Oh, God. I feel sick to my stomach.

I grapple for my cell phone, nearly dropping it twice before I can steady my fingers long enough to dial Luke’s number.

“What’s going on?” I ask desperately the moment he answers.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’m not sure. He walked right out of the meeting and didn’t even wait around to hear the outcome of the vote. I tried to talk to him as he was leaving but he just stalked off.”

“Did he see my note? Did he read the documents?”

His voice sounds a million miles away. “I don’t know, Lex.”

I hang up the phone and start pacing the kitchen. Eventually, though, the room starts to make me feel claustrophobic so I move outside. I walk the garden frantically until there’s sweat dripping down my face and my bare feet are stained green.

I need to go talk to him. It’s the only choice. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I can still convince him to call off the deal.

I race inside the house and up the stairs. I throw on a pair of ripped jeans and Rolando’s black hoodie. For some reason it gives me an extra ounce of courage. And I could use all the courage I can get right now.

I hurry down the stairs and call for Kingston.

“He’s not here,” Horatio informs me after the third shout at the top of my lungs.

“Well, where
is
he?” I implore. “You know what—never mind, I’ll drive myself.”

I spin toward the entrance to the garage just as the front door opens and my father strolls into the foyer.

I’ve been listening to my father’s entrances (and exits) for eighteen years. You might even say I’m some kind of expert on them. A scholar of sorts. If his comings and goings were a class offered at a university, I would be the resident professor.

Which is how I’m immediately able to catch the subtle difference in the way he enters the room now. For some reason, there’s more patience in his gait. Longer time between footsteps. A deeper resonance in the rhythm of his stride.

“Dad!” I finally find my voice, but it’s a cracked and battered version of what it used to be. “Didn’t you read my note? And the documents I left on your desk?”

“I did,” my father replies, his tone even and measured. “And I chose to ignore them.”

I knew it. He doesn’t trust me. He thinks I’m playing games. But I’m
not
. For the first time in my life I’m 100 percent sincere.

“Lexi,” he states calmly, despite my visibly frayed nerves, “I think we should talk.”

“No!” I call out in desperation. “There’s no time. You have to get back to the office. You have to talk to LaFleur. He’s trying to steal your job!”

“Lexi,” my father says again, this time more forcefully. That familiar authority suddenly back in his tone. He motions toward the salon. “Sit down so I can explain.”

I know that tone well enough to know that it’s not worth arguing with because you’ll never win. You’ll just spin your wheels like a truck stuck in the mud until you run out of gas.

So with a sigh, I walk into the salon, checking repeatedly over my shoulder to make sure my father is still following me. That he hasn’t mysteriously disappeared out the front door without a word, like the ghost that he’s always been in this house.

I perch hesitantly on the edge of the couch but my father chooses to stand. Actually, he chooses to
pace
.

He takes long, uneven strides across the room, rubbing his fingers continuously along the surface of his chin.

I stare in bemusement at this strange, unusual behavior, trying to make sense of it. It takes me a few moments to realize what exactly it is. And when I do, I nearly slide off the edge of the couch.

My father is
nervous
.

“Bruce told me that you came to see him,” he says.

Comprehension settles into my mind. So
that’s
what this is about? He’s pissed off because Bruce betrayed his secret?

“Dad,” I’m quick to argue, “you can’t be mad at Bruce for that. I figured it out on my own.”

“I’m not mad,” my father responds rapidly. Then he actually breaks into laughter. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh. Well, when there were no TV cameras around to document it and transmit it to the world.

The laughter fit ends just as abruptly as it began. And instantly my father’s face is serious again.

“Bruce was right all along,” he decides. “I should have told you the truth about your mother. I was wrong to keep it from you.”

This admission causes me to fall very silent. And very still.

I was wrong?

Did I just hear that correctly?

As if reading my mind and answering my question directly, he goes on. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, Lexi. Some more consequential than others. But I’ve learned how to live with those mistakes. I take full responsibility for them.”

I can’t keep my mouth closed. It drops open on its own accord.

Where is all of this coming from?

I’m tempted to glance around me for a camera crew or reporter. Because the only time my father
ever
comes off this personable is when he knows he’s being filmed.

“But the biggest mistake I ever made,” he continues, “my life’s biggest regret was not getting your mother the help she needed.”

My head starts to shake. “Dad,” I implore. “That wasn’t your fault. Bruce told me the whole story. You tried to get her help. You sent her to rehab. There was nothing more—”

But he lifts a hand in the air to interrupt me. “Please allow me to finish.”

I shut up. But only because I’m afraid if I don’t, whatever more he’s about to say will be lost forever. Who knows when will be the next time my father will decide to open up? Maybe it’s like one of those freakish planetary alignments that only happens once every five billion years. So you better get your butt outside and watch the sky.

“I did send her to rehab,” my father admits. “Many of them. The best of the best. But it’s since dawned on me that
that
wasn’t the help she really needed.”

My face lines with confusion.

“You have to understand, Lexi,” he continues. “I came from nothing. My family grew up without anything. My father was a bum who could never keep a job. I swore to myself that would never be me. I thought the best way to be a good husband and father was to work. And so I did. All the time. And the more I worked, the worse your mother got. It never even occurred to me at the time that what she really needed was a husband who came home every night.”