52 Reasons to Hate My Father (32 page)

He stops pacing and finally joins me on the couch. But I can’t bring myself to look at him. So I look at the floor.

“After she died, my reasons for staying away changed. It became more of a survival mechanism. I blamed myself for her death and the guilt was so overwhelming that I couldn’t even bear to look my children in the eye. You especially, Lexington.”

My head whips up and I turn to face him.
“Me?”
I repeat in disbelief. “Why?”

My father’s eyes soften in a way I’ve never seen before. Like two pale blue puddles left over after a rainstorm.

“You look more like her every day,” he muses quietly. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to look at you knowing that I took your mother from you.”

“No you didn’t,” I argue, but my voice gets caught in my burning throat and I’m forced to leave my protest at that.

“Ever since your accident a few months ago,” he explains, “I’ve been thinking a lot about work and the company and what it’s all worth in the end. I can’t have any more regrets in my life. I can’t lose you the same way I lost her.” He pauses a moment to loosen his tie and suck in a breath. “Which is why I turned in my resignation today.”

It takes me a few seconds to fully understand what he’s just said. And once I do, I’m out of my seat like a rocket. “You did
what
?”

“I resigned as CEO of Larrabee Media. Effective immediately. I’ve stepped down. Pascal LaFleur will take my place as head of the company.”

“But w-w-why would you do that?” I stammer. “After everything I went through to
save
your job.”

He smiles. It’s a delicate, subtle smile but it reaches all the way to his tired eyes, giving them a tiny spark of life. “That’s
why
I did it.”

I shoot him a baffled look.

My father explains. “Every decision I’ve made for this family has been a selfish one. Self-serving and rooted in my own interests. And so I could never completely fault you for your countless selfish acts growing up. Because I knew you learned them directly from me.

“But what you did for me and my company was so completely
un
selfish, I knew there was no way you could have learned that from me. That was something you taught yourself.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “And something
I
could certainly learn from.”

“So what?” I ask, still trying to wrap my head around this new information. “You’re just … done? With work? You’re retiring?”

“Not exactly,” he replies. “I’ll be serving in more of an adviser role for the company. But it will cut back on my hours significantly and I’ll have much more free time.”

“To do
what
?” I ask.

He glances around the room, as though he’s seeing it for the first time. “Well,
this
for starters.”

Perplexed, I follow his gaze but find no answers.

“Talk to my children,” he explains. “Spend time with them. Be
here.
”

And now suddenly I’m seeing the room for the first time as well. The whole house, really. I try to imagine what it will be like with my father living under the same roof, walking through the same hallways, sleeping in a room two doors away. But to be honest, I just can’t picture it. It’s too foreign a concept. A language I can’t understand, let alone speak.

But then again, it took several years of living in France for me to learn how to speak French. It took an entire childhood of growing up with Horatio for me to understand Spanish. New languages are not something you can pick up overnight. They take time. Patience. The willingness to change the way you think about what you already know.

And for the first time in eighteen years, that willingness is something my father and I appear to have in common.

Slowly, I lower myself back onto the couch. This time, however, I don’t aim for the seat on the extreme other end—as far away from my father as I can get. But I don’t dare take the seat directly next to him, either. Instead, I choose a space somewhere in the middle. Halfway between who I’ve been and who I hope to become.

Because this isn’t some happy-ending movie where I fall into my father’s arms as joyful music swells. And this isn’t some sappy TV special intended to garner support for my father’s latest business endeavor.

This is real life.

And in real life, nothing changes in the blink of an eye.

But you have to start somewhere.

“There’s something I still don’t understand,” I begin thoughtfully, settling into my new seat.

My father turns to me, his eyes inviting, his expression open. “What’s that?”

“If this whole fifty-two-jobs thing really was about helping me, why did you expose me to the press?”

My father’s eyes darken and he lowers his head. “I didn’t,” he replies quietly.

“Yes, you did,” I hear myself arguing. “Caroline told me you—”

“Caroline has been let go.”

“What?” I choke out. “As in
fired
?”

“Yes. She pitched me her idea to drop an anonymous tip to the press a week ago and I told her no. I wouldn’t approve it. But apparently she disagreed with my decision and was convinced I would change my mind once I saw how well it worked. So she went behind my back and did it anyway. And I fired her.”

“But,” I protest, struggling to piece all the details of the last twenty-four hours together in my mind, “I spoke with her today. She was on the way to your office for some kind of strategy meeting.”

“That’s what I had my assistant tell her,” my father clarifies. “Otherwise she probably wouldn’t have shown up.”

I can just imagine Caroline’s smug face as she sauntered into my father’s office earlier today. So pleased with her diligent work effort. Thinking she was going to get a pat on the back, maybe even a raise, and instead she got the boot.

It makes me snicker quietly. And I can’t hide the glorious smile that’s taking over my face as I process this.

Caroline. Fired. Gone.

My father. On my side. Sticking up for me.

It’s almost too difficult to believe.

“Speaking of those jobs,” my father says, reaching into his jacket pocket and retrieving a slim white envelope, “I wanted to give this to you. I had Bruce prepare it this morning.”

Curiously I take it, flip up the flap, and pull out the contents, staring numbly at the small, rectangular piece of paper in my hands.

A piece of paper worth twenty-five million dollars.

It’s exactly how I always imagined my trust fund check to look. My name typed out in thick black ink. My father’s infamous signature scribbled along the bottom right corner. And of course that long string of beautiful, crisp, round zeros.

I glance up at him in bewilderment. “But I still have thirty-two and a half jobs left.”

My father chuckles endearingly. “Oh, I think you’ve earned this by now,” he says.

I look back down at the check in my hands, feeling the smooth paper between my fingertips.

I’ve dreamed of this moment for as long as I can remember. For as long as I’ve understood the meaning of the term
trust fund
. And in every single one of those dreams, this simple sheet of paper was always the source of all my joy, all my happiness, all my sense of freedom. I pictured receiving an envelope just like this one, turning it around, lifting the flap, and drawing out the gorgeous document in slow motion. I pictured holding it in my hands, caressing it, running my fingertips across the surface, marveling at how beautiful it was, how significant it felt, how much promise it contained.

But never once, in any of those dreams, did I ever imagine myself shaking my head, replacing the check in the envelope, and handing it back to the person who gave it to me.

Never once did I see myself
returning
it.

Yet that’s exactly what I find myself doing now.

“No,” I tell my father. “I
haven’t
earned it. At least not yet.”

He glances inquisitively down at the returned gift. “Of course you have. You’ve exceeded all my expectations.”

“While that may be,” I say with a shrug, “I haven’t yet exceeded mine.”

I reach out and tap my finger against the back of the envelope. “Would you mind hanging on to that for me for another thirty-two and a half weeks?”

“Well, of course,” he starts to say, regarding me with great fascination. “But I’m not sure I understand.”

I smile affectionately at my dad. “You may have figured out what you want to do with your life, but I still don’t have a clue. If I took that money now, I wouldn’t have the first idea of what to do with it.” I breathe out a long, happy sigh. “I think I’m going to need the full fifty-two weeks to figure it out.”

I rise to my feet and stretch my arms above my head. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say politely, “I have to get ready for work.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

These are the 52 reasons I’m able to do what I love every single day:

  1.  My parents, Michael and Laura Brody, who continue to offer support, love, advice, laughter, and sometimes even line edits.

  2.  Charlie, my partner (in business, travel, crime, adventure, and, most of all … life).

  3.  Terra, my talented and stylish li’l sis, who gets paid to dress people but who dresses me just for the challenge.

  4.  Janine O’Malley, my perfect editor, who builds me up and talks me down (from metaphorical ledges).

  5.  Bill Contardi, my brilliant agent, who is responsible for everything cool that happens to me and who finally got a BlackBerry.

  6.  Simon Boughton, who is one awesome bloke and whom I’m grateful to have on my team.

  7.  Elizabeth Kerins, who is the publicist of the year, and a blast to hang out with.

  8.  The Fink family (George, Vicki, Jennifer, and Addison), who are the coolest Texans I know.

  9.  Jazz, Bula, Caesar, and Baby, who can make me smile even during my lowest of lows.

10.  Pete Moody, who let me take a crash course at his very efficiently run fast-food restaurant.