The program cues up to a group of reporters shoving phones and cameras in a man’s face to get a sound bite. My insides lurch with a great heave.
It’s strange seeing my father, even if it’s on a television screen. I haven’t laid eyes on him in years. He looks the same. A little grayer but the same. Hugh Grant inBridget Jones’s Diarylevel of smarm, gracefully aging boyish good looks. To this day, I can’t watch those movies.
“Is it true you and your daughter are estranged?” someone asks.
Blood rushes in my ears as my body goes cold. Vaguely, I’m aware of August holding my hand tight. But I can’t focus on anything other than my father, and the sound of his smug voice.
“I’ve reached out many times. Sadly, my daughter is more interested in fame than family.”
A punch of hot rage has me swaying. I tighten my core and clench my jaw. My ears buzz so loudly now, I only hear snatches of the conversation.
“Marriage. Sure.”
“You sound a bit dubious there. Care to explain?”
He makes a face like a doubtful duck. “My daughter and August Luck never even liked each other. Now they’re in love?” A shake of the head. “She inherited an estate she can’t afford the taxes on. Now she’s marrying Luck and all the money that comes with him. Something to think about, is all I’m saying.”
All the blood leaves my head, gushing toward my feet.
“Where is this estate?”
“Los Angeles, California. Where the stars are, and Luck plays. It used to be called Merry Place. Look it up.”
On a breath, I close my eyes. I won’t cry. I’m too angry.
I won’t cry in anger either.
He doesn’t deserve it.
The TV clicks off. Silence is a winter coat tossed on my head.
I lick my dry lips, swallow thickly. I’m encased in ice. “Now they’ll know where I live.”
“Welive.” August’s low but firm voice drifts over me. “I’m with you, Pen. You’re not going to be alone in this.”
In my mind’s eye I keep replaying that small glimpse of my father. Of his cutting, snide words. He didn’t care about me at all. He simply wanted to make me look bad.
God. He took it all away: my plans, my pride.
“I’m not sure renting will be feasible anymore,” I say behind the dark safety of my closed eyes. If I don’t open them, I don’t have to make it truly real. “Security and all that. What if someone goes snooping? I’ll have to be there—”
“Fuck the rentals. Pen, talk to me.”
August’s harsh reply has my eyes snapping open, and with it the floodgates. Rage rushes in. “Fuck them? I am counting on them to earn those taxes.”
He flinches. “You know I’m not belittling that. Don’t try to say differently. I’m only trying to help.”
“Well, this isn’t it.”
Just beyond him, our families hover. They all saw. They all heard. All of it.
Oily humiliation slides down my skin. It’s so thick and heavy, my shoulders sag. Every one of them is trying hard to convey sympathy but not pity. But it’s there. How could it not be? My father, the one man who should by all rights love and protect his child, sold me out for a couple of pathetic minutes of attention.
August steps close, reaching out to take my hand. He’s making it worse. He’s making me the center of it all. I can’t...
My feet stumble as I back up.
He frowns in confusion. “Pen—”
