Page 73 of Pretend for Me

“What the hell is this?”

My stomach curdles and my heart rate spikes seeing the picture in front of me three days later. Oscar’s face is buried in my neck while Mayer is grabbing a handful of my ass as the three of us walk hand-in-hand into their apartment.

My dad—or should I say, the man I’m unfortunate enough to share DNA with—sneers at me from across our table at the coffee shop I’d specified the last time he texted.

He looks more haggard than I remember, his gut protruding so the bottom of his stomach peeks from under his stained shirt. The green in his eyes reminds me of the leaves of a diseased tree, trying but failing to hold on to some semblance of life. Some semblance of happiness.

His head tilts up arrogantly, as if he has anything to feel smug about. “This is why you’ll give me what I’m asking for.”

It’s crazy to think this man was once a professional hockey player with a loving wife and children behind him. Now he’s just a walking cautionary and bitter tale of what happens when you actively sabotage your own life.

I can’t help but compare him to my brother. And though I see physical glimpses of him in my dad, Rowan couldn’t bemore different. With a strong sense of love and loyalty, determination both on and off the ice, and a personality capable of lighting up a sky, my brother is light years ahead of the man sitting in front of me, reeking of stale beer and shattered dreams.

Where Rowan took to Shayla’s son like his own flesh and blood, our dad discarded us from his life the way one would a pair of holey socks.

That is, until he jacked up his knee, ending his professional career, and the woman he left us for packed her bags, that he suddenly remembered he had children. By then, it was too late.

Rowan tried to maintain some sort of relationship with him, but after years of more disappointment, even he reached his limit. Me, on the other hand? I slammed the door on my dad’s deadbeat face the day he left. By then he’d given me years of anguish I’d likely need therapy for, anyway; why would I have wanted to prolong the trauma?

Even now, after years of proving to myself that I’m not the “brainless loser” or the “stupid shit” he often referred to me as when I was a kid, his callused words creep into my thoughts at the least expected times. Especially when I’m alone and his voice fills the void created by the silence.

As much as I pity his state, I’m all-too aware of who he is at his core—a man who’s always put himself first. A man who could give two shits about anyone or anything that wasn’t benefitting him directly.

I keep my expression muted, despite my face being a magnifying glass for my feelings. “What the hell are you even talking about,Anthony?”

He points at me menacingly. “Watch your mouth, girl. Have some respect for the man who gave you life. I’m still your dad.”

I chuckle softly because laughing maniacally the way Iwant to would draw attention, especially since more people seem to be recognizing me as Dev’s fiancée. As it is, I had to sneak past Ralph and my security to get here.

“Oh, Anthony,” I say, poisonously sweet. “You believe donating your sperm earns you respect? You’re about as much a father to me as a rat snake who eats its own hatchling.”

His face contorts with anger, but before he can spit vitriol, I press on, “You call yourself my dad? Since when? Definitely not since you abandoned us?—”

“I fucking came back, didn’t I?” His face turns bright red, like he’s about to explode. “But you and your mom were always brainless, ungrateful bitches.”

My cool facade falters as my hands fist inside my lap. “Say one more thing about my mother and I walk out of here,” I seethe. “She’s a million times the parent you ever were.”

Myfatherwaves a dismissive hand.

“A real father wouldn’t have left in the first place,” I continue. “He would have guided us throughout our lives, not left us when he found something better. And a real father sure as hell wouldn’t cut down his daughter at every corner?—”

Anthony throws back his head, laughing disdainfully. The faint stench of his breath sours the scent of coffee that was previously lingering there.

“Cut you down?” he repeats. “Sweetheart, you werenothing. You had no talent, no interests, and no fucking achievements to speak of. What would I have had to cut down when there was nothing there to work with?!”

I came here determined to not let his words affect me, to steel myself to his barbs. I was going to shut him down and put an end to his constant texting. Yet here I am, fighting back those same tears I’ve held behind my lids since I was a kid.

I have no reason to remind him that Ididhave other interests—hair, beauty, learning to run a business—but he never cared enough to know them. I also won’t remind him that,despite being a “brainless twit”, I graduated at the top five percent of my high school class.

My throat burns but my resolve strengthens. Because my sorry excuse for a father will not see me break.

“Want to know what I’ve been most grateful for these past few years,Dad.” I spit the word like it burns my tongue. “The blissful peace since you walked out.”

My lips flatten. “I’ll make it crystal clear for you. The last thirteen years without your toxic presence have been a blessing, and I’d like to keep it that way. So, whatever it is that you’re here to demand—respect, a relationship, or money—you won’t be getting it from me.”

I shove my chair back, getting up and smoothing a hand down my flared leggings in forced calm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a happyfatherlesslife to get back to?—”

His hand tightens around my wrist in a death grip, eyes glinting with malice. “Walk out now and I’ll make sure your billionaire fiancé and the world sees this.” He taps the photo on the table. “Pretty sure the news said you two have been together for a year, didn’t it? But this timestamp paints a different picture.”

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