Page 43 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
Like some kind of crazy person.
Just like my mom.
Like an embarrassment.
“Christian stole my savings before the divorce, Dad,” I say, scooting back, keenly aware of the moment his arm falls back to his side. “I did what I had to do.”
“You did what you chose to do.” His voice remains gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “You had other options, sweetheart. You still do. With your test scores, university is still a very real possibility. And I still have your college fund in my?—”
“I know, Dad. Please, don’t start this again,” I say, surging to my feet.
My face burns as I realize Parker and the nice pastry couple are still a few feet away—forced to witness the latest performance of Why Didn’t You Go to College and Become a Lawyer Like Your Father, Makena DeWitt, You Dum-Dum.
Dad stands beside me, oblivious to our audience. But then, he’s always had tunnel vision. “I’m not starting anything. I’mtrying to help. You’re only thirty-three, honey. It’s not too late to build something real.”
“My restaurant was real!” I shoot back, hating how much I sound like seventeen-year-old me, the age I was when this fight started.
If I’d known it would last over a decade, maybe I would have given in and gone to Tulane. But probably not. I got my free spirit from my mother, but I got my stubborn-as-a-mule streak from this man.
This man, whose words land like blows as he counters, “Your restaurant is underwater. Literally and figuratively. And now you’re financially ruined.Again.Because you didn’t pay proper attention to a contract.”
“Sounds like I would have been a pretty shitty lawyer, then,” I say, lips twisting into an ugly smile, even as fresh tears rise in my eyes. “If I can’t even read a contract, I doubt I’d be very good at writing them. Huh, Dad? Maybe you’ve been barking up the wrong tree all these years.”
“This isn’t the time for jokes,” he says, his blond and silver eyebrows working into a frustrated shape.
“I’m not joking,” I say, my voice rising. “I’m asking for a second of fucking compassion. Is that too much to?—”
“How about we go grab a tea?” Parker cuts in. “Or a coffee? Or a sedative of some kind and just…take a breath.”
Dad cuts a sharp glance Parker’s way, finally noticing that we aren’t alone. The pastry couple have thankfully moved on, but Parker is still here.
Still here, and still the kid I used to babysit.
And no, my father probably won’t connect the dots, but hehasmet Parker before. Several times. The summer his parents had their kitchen remodeled, they would drop him off at our house before they went to dinner and pick him up after.
Dad thought he was a smart kid.
His tone is much less approving now, as he asks, “I’m sorry, who are you?”
Parker stands up straighter, holding my father’s gaze, completely missing the panicked widening of my eyes as I will him not to spill the beans.
“Parker,” he says, making my teeth grind together. “Leo Parker.”
Well, fuck.
There it is.
My dad will forget a face from time to time—especially if he hasn’t seen the face since it was twelve—but he never forgets a name.
His expression undergoes a subtle, but elaborate, shift as his clever lawyer brain does the math and connects the dots. “Leo Parker,” he echoes, his gaze sliding to lock with mine as he adds, “The kid you used to babysit?”
Six words.
That’s all it takes to make me feel like I need a shower. Or a stint in a padded room. Or maybe a prison cell would be more appropriate.
“Is this where you’re staying? With him?” He continues when I don’t reply. “Is that your new plan? To ride the coattails of a man who used to look up to you when he was a child?”
The way his lip curls ever so slightly on ‘child’ is enough to sour my internal organs with shame.
