Tick, tick, tick.
“Hollis, would you please stop that.”
There’s the Dad I know—now that we’re behind closed doors, his impatience is showing.
“If you don’t want anyone touching it, why do you have it on your desk?” I can’t stop needling him; it is too easy.
“That art piece was very expensive.”
I tilt my head and twist my mouth. “Really? Because I swear they sell this same thing at Sharper Image for like, thirty bucks.”
Dad’s face gets red. “Hollis Maxine.”
I sigh, releasing the silver ball one more time then bringing the pendulum to a full stop as I roll my eyes. Dad is so uptight.
He sits, already shuffling paperwork. Puts on a pair of reading glasses before glancing up at me. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
Ah. He invited me in and already wants to get rid of me. I served my purpose—handfuls of people saw him acting like a doting father—and he has no need for me now. Excuse me for sounding bitter, but my dad is an asshole.
I hold back another eye roll and smooth down the fabric of my skirt. “Well, considering I had to take some paid time off to have lunch with you, I’ll probably head back to work.”
Dad glances up. “That wouldn’t be an issue if you worked for the organization like your brother and sister.”
Hard pass. “I’m good—but thanks.” I prefer to live my own life, not have everything lorded over me and used as emotional blackmail.
He grunts. “What is it you do there, exactly?”
I feel my nostrils flare and my spine stiffen. “I’m a junior editor for a publishing house.”
We have been over this no less than a million times, and I’m not prone to exaggeration. What the heck does he think I do all day? I know he knows he isn’t paying my rent or buying the gas in my car. Yes, yes, it’s the car he bought me, but what was I supposed to do, refuse it? Only a fool wouldn’t take a free automobile—more money in the bank for moi.
“What does junior mean?”
“It means…” I pause to collect my thoughts. “I still don’t have a ton of my own clients and someone has to oversee what I’m doing, the books I’m selecting, but otherwise I get a lot of freedom to choose.” My answer is vague, but I know he isn’t listening—why bother with an actual explanation?
He grunts again.
It might not be as glamorous a job as he desired for me, but it’s respectable enough that he isn’t embarrassed to brag about me to his friends and colleagues, even though he has tried marrying me off to a few hideous offspring of said colleagues and friends.
My mother, on the other hand? Couldn’t care less what I choose to do as a job or career, as long as I’m happy—which is one of the reasons she and Dad are divorced. They have glaringly different philosophies on childrearing, commitment to family, and marriage.
She shouldn’t have married him to begin with. He’s the same person he was thirty years ago, and he’ll be the same until the day he dies.
What does make me happy? Reading. Discovering new talent among writers. The editing part sucks sometimes. Often authors don’t want to listen to feedback—some of them get butthurt about suggestions or plot changes, or when things aren’t making sense—but overall? I love it.
I watch him work for a few minutes, his head down. I gaze at his receding hairline, the thinning at the top, the wrinkles at his forehead. Stress and a bad attitude do that to a person, I muse, pressing my fingers to my own skin, kneading at my temples.
No worries, no wrinkles.
I smile and stand. “Well, Daddy-O, time for me to fly.” Crossing to his side of the desk, I plant a quick kiss to his cheek then ruffle his hair, to his irritation. “Will you be there for dinner this weekend?”
After all, it is Father’s Day, but that’s no guarantee that the father in this family will be there, not if he has plans to work instead. No rest for the weary, he always used to say. Although, how weary can the man be when people wait on him hand and foot and he sits in an office making phone calls all day?
Dad nods. “I should be.”
Yeah, you should be, but you probably won’t.
I zip my lips shut. Give him a little wave, whistling as I breeze out the doorway, exhaling when I hit the hallway.
Hang a left. Find the elevator. Punch at a button and stare up at the wall, watching the numbers get smaller and smaller. Nine.
Five.
Two.
Seconds later, I hear the ding, the telltale sign I’ve reached my destination, and step out onto a concrete floor without looking.
Glance around.
“Shit.” Wrong floor. Must have punched the incorrect button when I hopped in. No big deal.