“It’s my father.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t like talking about my father or our joke of a relationship. To anyone.
But something about Brie makes me feel like I can confide in her. Like she’ll listen without judgment. Offer sympathy—and maybe even some sound advice—without platitudes. Besides, unlike most people, she already knows some of my dysfunctional family history. She was there. She saw it first-hand.
“What does he want?” she snaps, her body stiffening beside me. I love how she’s immediately defensive on my behalf. It gives me the courage to keep going instead of doing what I usually do when it comes to my father—shut down.
“He invited me to dinner on Friday. No, invited is the wrong word. More like ordered.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“I’m going to tell him to fuck off.”
She holds the bowl of popcorn out to me, and I reach in and grab a handful. “While I understand and fully support the sentiment, you might want to soften it a little. Be the better man.”
See what I mean about the sound advice? “No four-letter words. But don’t expect me to be polite. I don’t have the energy to pretend to be civil.”
I shove the popcorn into my mouth and type out my response. It doesn’t take long. Two words. Nine letters. I don’t even bother to use punctuation.
Can’t sorry.
I go to turn the phone off, but before my finger can find the button those three familiar dots start dancing, and my father’s answer flashes on the screen a couple of seconds later.
Sunday then. I have a box of your mother’s things for you. Fiona found them in the attic.
Fiona. His latest conquest. Bleached blonde hair, big boobs, and not a day over thirty. Just like her predecessor. And the one before her. And the one before her. My father’s nothing if not consistent. And predictable.
“What did he say?” Brie asks.
I hand her the phone. She studies it thoughtfully for a minute then hands it back. “Well, you have to go now.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t you want to know what’s in the box?”
“If there even is a box.” I wouldn’t put it past my father to lie just to get me there so he can spend the entire meal telling me what a disappointment I am.
“Are you willing to take that chance?”
Leave it to Brie to get right to the heart of the matter. It’s a good question. And the short answer is no. I don’t have anything of my mom’s. I was only seventeen when she died, and then a few months later I was off at college. If there really is a box, it may have some photos. Or letters. Something I can take out and look at every once and a while.
“Fine. I’ll go. But I’m doing this on my terms, not his.” Lunch, not dinner. Easier to make some excuse and cut things short when they invariably go south. And no stuffy Polo Club.
“I can come with you if you want,” Brie offers, setting the popcorn bowl on the coffee table and pressing her palm on my thigh. “If you think it would help.”
“Don’t you have to work?”
“We never shoot on Sundays. And I haven’t had a catering gig in weeks, so—”
I grimace. “Don’t remind me.”
“It’s okay. Tiffany said has Lloyd a short memory, and she can probably get me back on the roster by the time we wrap this season.” She moves her hand from my thigh and links our fingers together. “So, what do you say? Do you want some company for your dinner with Dad?”
Suddenly, the prospect of seeing my father is a lot less stomach-turning.
“Lunch.” I lift her legs into my lap and lean in to kiss her. “And it’s a date.”
CHAPTER TEN
