Page 95 of Best Man Speaking

“That’s very much appreciated. Don’t make too many poor decisions with the rest of your day.”

I snort. If only he could’ve given me that advice weeks ago. “I’ll try. Speak soon.”

I should’ve guessed the sperm donor would be at the café we’d agreed to meet at early, waiting on me to arrive and giving me little choice but to stay. I have no memory of the last time he’d shown up for anything of mine, not school events or dance recitals, forget parent-teacher evenings. There’d always been somewhere else he’d had to be. It’d made leaving for college and not looking back all the easier.

Remaining independent and becoming self-sufficient had also been an easy choice, especially as, by default, it’d been the only one. So, while I might’ve spent the last few months declining to take his calls, he’d spent more than a few years pretending he didn’t have a daughter at all.

Unfortunately, the manipulator that Johnathan Cairns is, he’s chosen a table outside, with his seat facing the entrance, where he can see my approach. My steps are slow as I take him in, his brown hair grayer than I remember, but I know under his polarized sunglasses, I’d find blue eyes, replicas of mine. Replicas of my gran’s. Hopefully, he’ll leave the shades on.

Slipping my fingers into my handbag, I trace them over the outline of my passport.

Sell the house, attend the wedding, leave.

He stands as I get close to his table, looking, for all intents and purposes, as if he’s going to try for a hug. Heart thumping heavier in my chest, my hand comes up reflexively, palm forward. “No,” I say, halting any further movement with a small shake of my head. “We’re not doing that.”

With a sharp nod, he takes my rejection on the chin, surprisingly respecting the boundary and instead gesturing for me to take a seat. The wrought iron of the chair’s legs scrape against the ground, and then I sit gingerly, finding myself face-to-face with my dad for the first time in nearly a decade. In a white linen button-down and relaxed navy slacks, he’s wearing his version of casual attire. Seeing that he hasn’t changed dramatically on the outside is a relief in some ways, an absolute worry in others. Everything about this meeting is conflicting.

Forcing myself to sit back in the chair instead of keeping my butt on the edge of the cushion where it wants to be, I hold my cards close. I focus on the sounds around me—cars on the street, music floating from inside the café, people talking—and then the textured feel of the cushion I’m sitting on, the warmth of the chair’s armrest, where it’s obviously been touched by the sun. On my next breath, I settle a little farther back into my seat.

Before either of us has a chance to speak, a waiter comes to take our orders. From an outside perspective, it’s almost comical the way we both shower the waiter with smiles and politelyspoken words, only for him to leave and the facade to drop. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t on edge around this man, when I wasn’t angry with him and then myself for wanting his love and being upset when I didn’t get it.

“Hallie,” he starts, his smile cautious. “I’m glad Marcus finally got through to you.”

The mention of his name doesn’t come without a familiar burn of betrayal, a not-so-gentle reminder of why I’m here and how much I’d like to be anywhere else.

“I’m not here to talk about him,” I reply in my best effort to keep my cool.

“Well, I’m grateful to him all the same. I’ve been trying to reach out to you for a while now, but you’ve done a good job of keeping me at arm’s length. I knew Marcus would be able to get you to see reason.”

Get me to see reason?I close my eyes, breathing in through my nose as I push my tongue to the top of my mouth. Of all the condescending sentences that could’ve left the man’s mouth.

“You mean you’re glad you were able to manipulate the situation to your liking? If I didn’t want to speak to you, if I was so obviously going out of my way to maintain distance, that should’ve been enough for you to drop it. Paying a person in my life to get me here might have me on the seat in front of you, but it’s not enough to make me stay. It’s not enough for it to happen again after this.”

I can feel the cool consideration of his gaze, the situational reassessment he’s completing. “I can see how you’d interpret my actions in such a way, but I’m simply a man who wants to speak to his daughter.”

“And I’m simply a daughter with boundaries you’re unwilling to respect.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Hallie. Especially when my intention has only been to have your attention long enough to apologize, to try and make amends.”

At another time, in another place, this might’ve been something I could’ve believed. Today? Not so much.

“Can I ask why you agreed to meet if you’re so averse to being here?”

Agreed to meet.

The words echo venomously inside my mind.

“I couldn’t have Marcus miss his payout after putting so much effort into getting me on board.”

There’s no missing the sarcasm in my tone—the insinuation that what’s gone down isn’t something for either of them to be proud of.

My phone’s screen lights up where I’ve placed it on the table, and of course, Marcus is calling. No shock there—it’s not the first time he’s called today. Silence reigns as my eyes fixate on the screen, my father’s obviously doing the same before he asks, “Do you want to get that?”

“Absolutely not,” I say, the point driven home when the call ends and my notifications come to the forefront.

Marcus Scott: 8 missed calls.

I should’ve blocked his number, had even gone into my settings to do it, but hadn’t followed through. I can’t decide if it’s because I want to see him grovel or if I need the burn of his presence to keep me from falling apart. Likely, it’s both.

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