Page 19 of P.S. I Dare You

My show comes back on, and I toss my phone onto the covers.

Fine. I’ll take over the fucking company.

But as soon as my father dies, I’m selling it to someone decent. Someone with morals and human fucking decency.

Samuelson has my mother’s blood on his hands. I’ll be damned if he gets her money too.

I FILL MY PALMS with cleansing oil and rub the makeup off my face with a little too much vigor. When I’m finished, I’ll scrub the taste of my gin and tonic out of my mouth.

Ever since leaving The Lowery, I can’t stop replaying Calder’s words.

A snack?

A snack?!

Who does he think he is?

I rinse the oil off my face and pat my skin dry. The redness on my cheeks is a sign that I might have overdone it, but a little moisturizer should remedy that, and I’ll be good as new in the morning.

Ugh.

The thought of going into the office in the morning, facing Mr. Welles, and potentially seeing Calder, sends a tight churn to the pit of my stomach.

Sure. Maybe I went off on him and maybe it wasn’t the most professional thing for me to do, but the bastard deserved it.

And honestly, he should be embarrassed, not me.

He accused me of thinking he was flirting with me, told me I was his type, then referred to me as a snack.

It doesn’t get more pompous than that.

I replace the cap on my cleansing oil and wipe any residue off the bottle before reaching for my moisturizer. Eye cream is next. Then a lip mask. There’s a proper order to these things, one that I follow to the ‘T’ every night. In fact, I can’t go to bed without having completed my nightly routine and having placed all of my products in a very specific order alongside the sink.

Some might call me OCD.

I call it living with intention. Conscientious. Proper.

I also call it the aftermath of growing up with zero order in my life. Towels for pillowcases when the laundry was behind. Peanut butter in the fridge one day, in the pantry the next. Dish soap for dishwasher detergent. Bread slices substituting for dog food when we ran out. No bedtime. No curfew. Never once taught how to make my bed—I only learned after watching a YouTube tutorial when I was twelve.

There’s nothing wrong with fighting chaos with order.

I climb into my bed at half past eight. My brother’s place is quiet, too quiet, since he’s working another double shift. If there’s anyone in this world who loves to pour themselves into work more than I do, it’s Rush.

Grabbing my phone, I perform my pre-bed reading protocol, starting with The Skimm, moving onto NPR, and finishing with a ten-minute mindfulness meditation.

Clearing my head when all it wants to do is relive my brief, fleeting, and infuriating interactions with Calder proves almost impossible, but I stay strong, pushing through it.

When I’m finished, I double check my alarm before docking my phone.

Can’t be late for my firing.

IF A PERSON DIDN’T know my father, they might actually believe he’s a family man.

A photo of me is framed on his desk, which begs two questions: how did he get it? And how did I not notice it last time?

It’s from a charity event I attended a few years ago, one with celebrities and red carpets. Not my scene. But it was an organization founded by one of my friends from college, and I’m nothing if not a loyal comrade, so I rented a tux, paid for a thousand-dollar dinner plate, and made an appearance.

He must have purchased it from Getty images and had it framed.

Correction—he must have had Marta purchase it from Getty images and had it framed.

I check the time on my phone. I’ve been sitting in here for almost twenty minutes while my father finishes up some meeting in the conference room down the hall that his assistant swore would only be a few minutes longer.

Rising from the guest seat, I slide my hands in my pockets and head to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the non-windowed wall. Framed photos of my father with his newest wife—who can’t be much younger than myself—fill every nook and cranny.

I imagine he wants to show her off, and there’s no denying she’s a stunner. Runner’s body. Full lips. Pale, wavy hair that cascades down her shoulders, hitting just above her round tits.

My father is an intelligent man. I wonder if it ever bothers him that she’s clearly only fucking him because he’s richer than God.

Probably not.

I make my way to the next row of shelves, stopping short when I spot a 3×5 photo of the two of us. Grabbing the silver frame and bringing it closer, I inspect a photo that feels familiar despite the fact that I’ve never seen it in my life.

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