Page 60 of Filthy Rich

I just punch him.

With the position of the door, and the fact that it’s not entirely closed, the impact of my blow sends him sprawling. He spins, grabs for the handle, partially slows his fall, and slams face-up, back-down on the ground. Someone almost trips over him.

When I look up, I realize that someone’s Octavia.

She looks as pale as, well, as pale as a ghost. Which means she probably just heard everything my stupid Dad said. Now I wish I’d punched him a whole lot harder.

Chapter 15

Jake

My favorite food as a kid—hands down, no contest—was Pop-tarts. I could eat an entire box, and my dad was fine with it. He called people who ‘hated’ on sugar ‘Mary Andrews,’ not that I knew what it meant. I found out in high school that the phrase was supposed to be Merry Andrew, meaning someone who makes a lot of jokes.

But to my dad, it was an officious idiot.

When I got to Dave and Seren’s, they didn’t agree with his breakfast policy. They thought Pop-tarts were empty calories that added nothing to my nutrition and would lead to an unhealthy diet that might stunt the growth of a growing boy.

Their refusal to buy me Pop-tarts downright pissed me off back then.

Of course, they didn’t slow my consumption much. There was a never-ending parade of chumps at school who were happy to bring me Pop-tarts over the years. But somewhere around high school, I kind of stopped eating them. That was about the time my desire to be cool overpowered my nostalgia about my favorite childhood food.

On the very first movie I ever made, they had Pop-tarts in the break area one morning. Not having had one for years, I snatched a silvery package right up. Imagine my surprise when my beloved Pop-tart was dry, over-sugared, and downright crumbly around the edges. After a few bites, I tossed what was left in the trash.

I’m realizing now that I’ve grown in more areas than my palate.

I’ve put up with a lot from my dad over the years, though much less than I would have endured had he never been locked up, I’m sure. But even knowing that he wasn’t quite perfect, I’ve held on to a lot of gratitude for what he did teach me. I love Dave and Seren, but they’re starry-eyed optimists most of the time, and the world’s a lot darker than they wish it was. I always credited my dad with preparing me for the reality of life.

I didn’t realize he was so toxic.

Hearing him echo Patty’s rude ignorance about Octavia. . .hearing him say that I must be acting and that I couldn’t genuinely like her filled me with an unspeakable rage. Not just because the world is so ugly, and people care about all the wrong things, but because my own dad’s part of the problem. I knew he was a con man. I knew his whole life has been based on stealing from others.

But I always told myself he stole from people who probably deserved it. People who hadn’t worked hard for what they had. People too stupid to hang onto what they’d been given. His comment about Octavia was mean, predatory, and low. It was indefensible.

I feel terrible to be related to him.

And to make everything worse, Octavia clearly heard what he said. After laying Dad out cold, I stomped off. I probably only have a minute of my five-minute break left, which means they can start dinging my pay at any point for breach, but I don’t care. I can’t go film, not right now.

“You didn’t need to punch him,” Octavia says. “He doesn’t know me.”

“Or me.” I stop and pivot, finally facing Octavia, who’s been trailing after me. “He doesn’t know me at all. I’m not like him.” I’m shaking my head, and I’m pacing, and I’m still so mad that I can’t seem to stop.

“Jake.” When Octavia tilts her head, her eyes are soft. Kind. They’re so her.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Sorry you heard that, sorry he said it, and sorry that’s my dad.”

She hugs me then, her arms snaking underneath mine and wrapping around my body. A wave of her scent—honeysuckle and something else. Citrus?—washes over me and the twitching stops. The anger recedes a little. “I know you don’t agree with any of what he said.”

“I’m really sorry you had to hear it.”

“You didn’t have to knock him out cold, though. The poor man’s only been out of prison for what? A few days?” When she lifts her face upward toward mine, her lip’s twitching.

“I wish he were still stuck in there,” I mutter.

“You don’t.” Her hand brushes my cheek. “I know it’s hard, but people can only change for the better when they’re around people who can help them.”

I realize, as she says it, that she might be talking about me. I changed, thanks to Dave and Seren, and they may not be perfect, but they’re trying. She might also be talking about my dad, though, and I’ve never met someone less interested in changing. “He’s not the kind of person who—he won’t change. He doesn’t even want to.”

“No one really wants to change.” She shrugs. “And he may not substantially improve, but at least in small ways, you could be a good influence on him.”

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