Next up, I’ve got a text from Zasu, my co-writer on the special issue.
I’ve secured a 2:00 meeting with CeeCee on Wednesday, so we can go over all the interviews we’ve got lined up. It was hard to get onto CeeCee’s calendar that day, since it’ll be her first day back from vacay, so the meeting will be short. Make sure you’re super prepared with your pitches!
I write back to Zasu to say I’ll see her on Wednesday, and I’ll be ready to slay.
Next up? A text from CeeCee’s assistant, Margot.
There are three boxes here for you from the courthouse. I put them into Conference Room D.
I reply to Margot, thanking her for the information and telling her I’ll come to the office tomorrow, Tuesday, to go through the boxes.
Next up, there’s a text from Kat Faraday, giving me some options on dates for my trip to Seattle. One, as early as the end of this week. I reply to Kat, telling her I adored meeting her on Saturday and can’t wait to see her again. I write:
Let’s tentatively plan on Friday for my interview inSeattle. I’ll confirm after I meet with my boss on Wednesday.
And that’s everything in my inbox...exceptfor that slew of texts and voicemails from Reed. With a heavy sigh, I steel myself for whatever bullshit I’m about to read and then swipe into his first text. It’s time-stamped mere minutes after I’d hopped into that Uber with Alessandra.
But before I’ve read more than two words, Dad pokes his head into my bedroom. “I had the guy leave the bike in the living room. I was thinking I might want to try it out, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course. Enjoy it.”
Dad enters the room and stands over me, his bullshit detector visibly flashing “RED ALERT.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s areallynice bike, Georgina Marie.”
Uh oh. It’s never a good sign when Dad uses my middle name. “Mmm hmm. My boss isreallygenerous.”
Dad sits on the edge of my bed. “Are you sure that’s not an apology of some sort, maybe from whoever made you crawl into bed and cry for the past two days?”
Oh, jeez. Each and every time I cried these past two days, I put a pillow over my face. Damn the paper-thin walls of this condo.
Dad strokes my hair. “I could tell you were trying to muffle your crying, but I couldn’t help hearing. You want to talk about it?”
I exhale. “I’m sorry, Dad. I lied to you about the bike. It was actually from a guy I really liked.”No, a guy I loved,I think. But, of course, I’d never say that out loud. I continue, “I thought this boy liked me the same way I liked him. But it turned out, he didn’t. He rejected me at a party on Saturday night. That’s why I came home and cried my eyes out.”
“Aw, honey.” Dad grabs my hand. “You can’t let a boy rejecting you send you to bed crying for two days. It’s the same thing you did when that stupid basketball player broke your heart. You came home for a weekend and cried your eyes out the whole time. And before that, the same thing happened during your senior year of high school, only worse. You crawled into bed for aweekthat time, after whatever stupid boy broke your heart.”
My stomach clenches at my father’s unwitting reference to Mr.Gates, and the way I imploded after he attacked me. For a solid week after Mr. Gates shoved his tongue down my throat and his fingers into my body, I felt literally dysfunctional. I couldn’t sleep or eat or concentrate. I couldn’t stop tears from streaming down my cheeks or my stomach from twisting into knots. So, I went to bed and told my father I had the flu. But when he said, “This isn’t the flu. Did something happen with a boy?” I took the bait and nodded. And said nothing else.
Dad continues, “That time in high school, you’d just gotten the news you were accepted into UCLA! You should have been on Cloud Nine. But, instead, you were in bed, crying your eyes out for a week over some stupid boy.”
Bile rises in my throat. My stomach physically twists. “I don’t want to talk about that, Dad. Please.”
Dad’s face softens. “I’m not trying to upset you. I’m saying you can’t let boys get you down the way you always do.”
“I don’talwaysdo that. That’s a massive exaggeration.”
“My point is only that there are plenty of fish in the sea. And if this latest dumb boy isn’t smart enough to want you, then you’re lucky to be rid of him.Ciao, stronzo,right?Time to move on.”
Despite my clenching stomach, I can’t help smiling at my father’s invocation of my mother’s favorite expression. Literally translated,Ciao, stronzomeans,Bye, asshole.But Mom always said it in a broader sense, not just in relation to people. It was her way of saying “good riddance” or “I’m done with you” to any person, place, or thing, even something as small as a malfunctioning can opener that might have broken her nail.
I look down at my mother’s wedding ring on my hand and hear her feisty voice, telling me to move on from Reed.Ciao, stronzo, she says.He cheated on you, love.He thought he could buy you with that grant.
But it’s no use. My head might be conjuring my mother’s voice to help me move on. But my heart still only wants Reed, despite everything. I could have sworn he was falling in love with me the way I was falling for him this past week. My brain knew it was a long shot, given his renowned womanizing and public declarations of eternal bachelorhood. But, still, my heartfeltso sure he was experiencing my exact feelings.
Dad brushes his fingertips against my cheek. “What about your job?”
“What aboutit?”
“Nobody expected to see your pretty face in the office today? It’s Monday.”
