I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “Fine,” I say. “Everything is fine.”
He must not like the casual tone of my words, because when he speaks, there’s even more censure. “I hope you’re taking this seriously,” he says.
“I’m hurt that you even have to ask,” I say lightly, forcing a grin.
“Roman.”
“Relax.” A hint of coolness enters my voice. “I’m taking everything seriously. Very serious over here.”
“It’s a shame Denice had to leave,” my dad mutters, more to himself than to me.
“She had a baby,” I say. “You’re a grandfather now.”
His answering grunt is maybe a smidge warmer and fonder than it would be otherwise, but I can still picture the exact way my father waves these words off, like having a baby is small potatoes—like it’s no excuse for abandoning your nine-to-five for a while. His wrinkled, age-spotted hand is swatting my answer away like I’m a bug; his small eyes are irritated behind his thick glasses, and his lips are curled into a faint grimace.
He’s not that old, my father, but he looks it. Possibly from all those years of frowning and screwing up his face in disapproval.
“Anyway—how’s the environment?” he says now. “Environment is key to employee efficiency.”
Aurora Marigold pops into my mind. “It’s great.” But followed by Aurora is Bart, his face much less welcome in my thoughts. “Or mostly great, anyway.”
“Good,” my dad mutters. “Good. That’s good. Morale is up? Even though the boss has stepped out for a while?”
“Of course it is. Everyone is happy. They’re excited she had her baby. They seem to love her.”
He seems genuinely heartened by this. “Good,” he says again. Then his voice grows stern. “And by the way.”
My wince is preemptive, but only because I know what’s coming, and I know I deserve it.
“What happened last night can never happen again,” he says, just like I thought he would. “Get a hold of yourself. You’re not a teenager.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve been carrying around a hefty portion of regret and shame this morning, all because I was dumb last night.
I’m officially swearing off alcohol. It makes me stupid. I thought I wanted to celebrate my last night as a free man—and by free, I mean free from my dad’s plans—but I had too much to drink. The police picked me up after I stumbled into the road, like a complete idiot.
I used to try to blame my questionable alcohol choices on the alcohol itself, but that no longer flies in my mind. Because the thought is always there:Who drank the alcohol in the first place, you absolute moron?
Yeah. Me. It was me.
So I think the drinking needs to go. I don’t have space in my life for problems like that—not to mention the headaches.
The ibuprofen has done its commendable job by now, thank goodness.
“Dad,” I say, because my temples are starting to throb, and not from the hangover. “I’m going to get to work.” A quiet knock at the door times perfectly with ending the conversation, so I add, “Someone is here to see me.”
“Keep yourself sharp,” my dad barks. “Make me proud.”
I’ve never made him proud a day in my life, but I agree anyway. When I hang up, I drop the phone on the desk with relief.
The knock sounds at the door again, and I sit up. “Come in,” I say quickly.
The door opens just enough to reveal Shelly, my temporary secretary. She’s a birdlike woman, probably in her seventies, with large glasses and fluffy hair and kind eyes.
“Sorry to make you wait,” I say, gesturing to the phone. “Did you need something?”
“I’ve got a couple things I need you to sign,” she says apologetically. “And I’ve got an updated schedule now that you’ve arrived. Things run pretty smoothly around here, but I thought you might like to look.”
“I would,” I say. “Thank you. I’m a bit new to all this, so I appreciate the help.”
