Page 45 of Hard to Hold

That’s one admirable thing about him. As a single dad of four girls, he always made sure we had his undivided attention when needed . . . and obviously, he realizes that I need that right now.

“Did you ever think to consult me on the Chicago offer before turning it down?” I counter.

His sigh is long and telling. He sounds tired, and yet I struggle with the notion that he’s getting older, and that the things that used to excite might just be the same things that now plain wear him out.

“I have my reasons, Lennox.” And the way he makes the comment leaves no room for discussion, and I’m once again the scolded child. Silence weighs across the line. “You want to tell me what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

He chuckles and the sound brings tears to my eyes. I hate it. Why is it that no matter how old you get, you still need your parent’s assurance and approval? “Okay. You can lie to me. You’re an adult, so it’s your prerogative. But I have four daughters so I know the words I’m fine mean exactly the opposite. Just know when you want to talk, I’m here.”

“How come you haven’t given me any new clients to chase, Dad? How come we had this big talk a few months back about needing to go after Finn’s clients to strengthen the business and you haven’t trusted me enough to go after one?”

“This has nothing to do with trust, honey, and everything to do with timing.”

“And yet Dekk, Chase, and Brex are being sent all over the place as you’re turning down invites for me to speak at conferences. I’m suspect to your timing excuse.”

“I have my reasons for the conference as well. Chase told me you were hot under the collar about that.”

“What is the reason?” I ask.

“I’m worried about you.”

That’s not an answer. It’s a deflection in perfect Kenyon Kincade fashion. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“As you always have, but that doesn’t take away my need as a parent to tell you I’m worried about you.”

I wage an internal war over being mad at him for not giving me straight answers but still caring about me. It’s a stupid war, but one I wage nonetheless.

“Why?”

“Sometimes I wonder if I pulled you into this business and you agreed out of obligation, not because it’s what you love to do,” he says. I feel like I just took a dagger to the chest. His words perfectly explain how I’ve been feeling lately, and yet, I do love my job. “Where you used to be gung-ho and dot every “i”, now you cut corners and take unnecessary risks. You’re the kid in school cutting class while your sisters are turning in their assignments on time.”

He gives me a moment for the words to sink in, to pause rather than go on the defensive about being compared to my sisters. I hate that while every part of me wants to buck at what he’s saying, he’s actually right.

I have been cutting corners and thinking more about me than my job. I have been dreading my days at work, and the thrill has virtually died.

And yet, I still love what I do.

“You’ve never forced me to do anything I don’t want to, Dad. I just . . . I’m getting restless, I guess. Maybe I need a challenge or a change of pace, but that doesn’t mean I want to quit.”

“Your mother used to get like that.” His chuckle is soft, reminiscent, and it fills me with equal parts sadness and joy. How much I crave to be like her or to have some connection with the woman who I feel fades from my memory more and more each day. “Sometimes I forget how much alike you two are. She’d look at me every once in a while, with that soft, beautiful smile of hers and say, ‘I need a change, Kenyon.’ I never could say no to her. Before you guys were born, that change meant a secluded beach house or crowded tourist attraction for a few weeks. After we had you guys, it meant I’d come home to furniture being rearranged or a room being painted a completely different color. Her restlessness drove me crazy at times, but it’s part of the reason I loved her so much.”

“I had no idea,” I whisper.

“In the early days, I worried she’d feel that way about me. That I’d be the thing she needed a change from. I asked her about it one time, and she just threw her head back and laughed before pulling me in for a kiss and saying, ‘You are who quiets the restlessness, Ken. That’s how I knew you were the one.’”

I’m standing on the side of the road in the Hollywood Hills with tears streaming down my face, hating that this precious piece of the past was all I needed to feel connected to my family again.

Sure, I’m upset about Chicago and everything that has made me feel insecure over the past week, but it’s my family. They’re all I have.

“You okay?” he asks as I sniff again.

“I’m here recruiting a client, Dad.”

“Oh.” There’s surprise in his voice, and I can picture him sitting up straighter in his mammoth office chair, the silver of his hair glinting against the fluorescent lights.

“I wasn’t at first. It was more of an, I need a change, Kenyon, type of moment,” I say and smile. “But an opportunity has presented itself and if I can land this client, it’ll make up for all the mistakes I’ve been making lately.”