Page 88 of Sweet Caroline
“But you wanted to tell me in person.” He had to know this would be a big deal for me—and a major blow to Found Family. To Adrian.
“I didn’t want you to find out secondhand.” He pulls the sheet of paper back from in front of me and clips it to the front of the rest. “I’ll be letting Adrian know once Michael has things finalized.”
My heart breaks at the thought of Adrian having this bomb dropped on him.
“Don’t bother,” I say, pushing up from the chair. “I’ll tell him myself.”
I owe my best friend that much. Starting the charity had been personal for Adrian, having grown up without the kind of opportunities we’ve been able to offer thousands of kids through Found Family. For my part, not only had I believed supporting at-risk youth was a worthy cause in and of itself, but it seemed like a perfect way to bolster my best friend’s dreams while also complementing my father’s political aspirations.
My father, who just turned his back on what I built.
I guess this ismyreturn on investment.
“Suit yourself,” he huffs. “Though I assumed you’d be too busy.”
“Too busy with what?”
“Gallivanting around town with that boy toy of yours.”
“Boy toy? You can’t be serious.”
He swirls his glass of whiskey before taking a slow sip. “Where to next? An amusement park?”
I set my jaw, though I can’t say I’m surprised Dad’s been keeping tabs on me and Miles.
That’s when it occurs to me: with Dad’s donations withdrawn, there’s no longer anything in it for me when it comes to continuing this fake relationship with Miles. Well, except propping up my father’s election chances.
And the best sex of your life, a little inner voice reminds me before I can squash it.
But, with Miles’ job still at risk, I can’t bail on our arrangement. I wouldn’t do that to him. Plus, it’s only another nine days until the election, and it’s not exactly a hardship spending time with him. Especially the part where he’s helping me come out of my shell—and lose my mind with pleasure. I try to shelve the thought.
Dad types something on his computer, and my vision hazes over when he turns the screen to face me. I don’t have to read the article; seeing the photo is enough. It’s a shot of me and Miles, hand in hand, laughing as we left the arcade last night.
“He’s not at your level, sweetheart.” He swivels the monitor back to face him.
My lips part, but I find I don’t have the words to respond. Unable to maintain eye contact with my father, my gaze flits around the room, landing on framed photos of Dad playing golf with various high-profile politicians, the enormous mahogany desk with hand-carved detailing, the expensive watch on hiswrist. It suddenly feels like I’m choking on the stuffy opulence in this office.
Not at my level? Isthismy level?
“You’re wrong,” I say, my voice quiet with restraint. “You don’t know anything about him.” It crosses my mind that maybe it’smeDad doesn’t know anything about. Has he ever bothered to ask?
“I know enough.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t get a chance to answer, because Mom pops in, interrupting us. “You ready to go, darling?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, slinging one last disillusioned look at Dad. I don’t want to spend a minute longer in his presence. “I think we’re done here.”
The short drive to Mom’s tailor is quiet, the usual bustle of traffic in downtown Seattle barely registering as I try to process what Dad told me. Is this really who my father is? Donating to charities only out of performative obligation or to sway voters into thinking he values them? I’ve never related to him less.
“Magda has all your measurements, so there shouldn’t be any alterations necessary.” Mom’s voice reaches me as though I’m underwater.
“What?”
She throws me a sidelong glance. “Yourcostume, darling.”
“Oh, yeah.” I try to shake off my distraction, gathering my cashmere cardigan tighter around my chest.
