52 Reasons to Hate My Father

by Jessica Brody

  Then I tiptoe through the entry hall, quietly slip out the front door, and make a mad dash to Luke’s car, praying that Monsieur LaFleur doesn’t notice the empty manila folder in the bottom desk drawer or the two straightened paper clips on the floor until we’re long gone.

  UNWRITTEN

  It’s dark by the time we arrive at my father’s offices downtown. Luke parks the car and moves to unbuckle his seat belt but my hand lands atop his. He peers up at me with a curious expression.

  “Do you mind waiting in the car?” I ask him. “I need to do this alone.”

  He nods but doesn’t move his hand. It stays securely underneath mine. “Sure.”

  “You’re positive he’ll see it before he goes to the shareholders’ meeting?” I ask him.

  “Yes,” Luke assures me. “If you leave it on his desk, I’ll make certain he sees it as soon as he gets to work in the morning.”

  I bite my lip. “Okay, good.”

  I give Luke’s hand a quick squeeze, then clasp the documents in my arms, and swing the car door open. I hurry across the parking garage to the elevator.

  I use Luke’s key card to open the door to the reception area and again to open the door to my father’s office.

  I locate a notepad bearing the Larrabee Media logo and rip a sheet from the top. I scribble a quick message urging my father to read these documents carefully before making his final decision about the merger. Then I paper clip the note to the stack of documents I stole from LaFleur’s office and place them on the desk, right on top of his keyboard, where he’s sure to see them when he comes in the next morning.

  And now it’s time to leave.

  The only problem is, my feet won’t move. I’m frozen here, my eyes glued to the evidence I risked everything to obtain.

  My father has sacrificed so many things for this company. Including time with his family. His wife. Me. He even sold me out to the press just for the benefit of this merger.

  He was never around. He was always away on business. Sometimes it felt as though Larrabee Media was always his true love, his true passion, and the rest of us were just abandoned hobbies. Half-finished model airplanes left to gather dust in the garage.

  So why am I so eager to save something like that? Why am I rushing to make sure he doesn’t lose control of it?

  What on earth am I thinking?

  Ever since I saw that picture of LaFleur in the magazine and figured out his plan, I’ve been on some mad rampage to be a hero and save the day. To take down the bad guys and rescue the damsel in distress (in this case, my father’s job).

  I never even stopped long enough to consider what would happen if I didn’t show him these documents. If I just quietly slid them back down the front of my uniform and pretended none of this ever happened. If I allowed tomorrow’s shareholder vote to continue as planned.

  I know exactly what would happen. My father would recommend the merger, the stockholders would vote it through, and immediately after the contracts were signed, the board would vote to have him removed.

  My father would be out of a job. And not just any job—the job that kept him from being my father. The job that prevented me from having any real relationship with Richard Larrabee.

  If my father is too blind to see that this company has ruined our family, then maybe someone needs to show him. To hit him over the head with it. And maybe that someone should be me.

  I slowly reach down and clutch the papers in my hand, marveling at how much heavier they suddenly feel now that they’ve been given so much weight.

  Tomorrow it could all be over.

  Maybe this is supposed to be the silver lining of this whole thing. These fifty-two jobs that my father has forced upon me. Maybe the good buried deep beneath all the rubble and chaos of the bad is this realization. That I can get my father back. Simply by withholding this information from him. I can destroy the one thing that has kept him from me. From all of us.

  If I had never taken on this seemingly endless series of low-wage jobs, I never would have overheard that conversation between LaFleur and his cohorts. Maybe this was some grand scheme set up by the universe in an effort to show me the way out. To show me the light at the end of the tunnel.

  And now all I have to do is walk toward it.

  But as desperately as I’d like to believe that, something about it feels amiss. It’s too deceptive to be a message from the universe. Aren’t universal transmissions supposed to be pure and uncorrupted?

  Keeping this information from my father just so that I can have him to myself is nothing more than glorified manipulation. I should know. It’s been a skill of mine for many years.

  On the other hand, maybe this is the universe’s way of proving to me that I still want there to be a light at the end of the tunnel. That I still care enough to look for one. That I haven’t given up yet.

  Maybe the real silver lining is realizing that although I might have fifty-two reasons to hate my father, I really need only one reason to love him.

  And maybe that reason isn’t spelled out on a list. Or written in a book. Or featured in a magazine article. Maybe it’s a reason that can’t be published. A deleted chapter from my life story. Or better still, a chapter that hasn’t even been written yet.

  And I know exactly what I want that chapter to say. How I want to be remembered.

  As the girl who saved her father’s job despite all the reasons he gave her not to.

  Because that’s what families do.

  THOUGHTLESS

  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. No
r 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 forceful
ly. 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.”