Page 20 of P.S. I Dare You

I must have been eight maybe? Nine?

A baseball uniform covers my skinny frame—I was number eleven, I recall—and my father towers beside me, his arm around my shoulders and the proudest Danny Tanner beam on his sun-bronzed face.

He had hair then.

And a genuine twinkle in his eyes.

The most infectious laugh, just like Mom’s.

It’s strange seeing him in jeans and a t-shirt with a full mane of dark hair. It’s almost like looking at a stranger. Or someone who died a lifetime ago. And in a way, that’s exactly what happened. The man in this photo no longer exists.

Despite owning nothing of value—no mansion, no fleet of imported luxury vehicles, no drivers or security guards, no rich kid camps or annual yacht vacations in the Maldives—we had everything we needed: we had each other.

“C.J.” My father’s voice echoes through his expansive office, jolting me out of my moment. “Was hoping I’d see you today.”

I peel my attention from the photograph and straighten my shoulders.

“I take it you’ve reached a decision?” he asks before coughing into a balled fist. His cologne—the same spicy, old man cologne he’s worn his entire life—fills my lungs. It takes me home for a moment, but I’m swiftly deposited back into reality when I spot yet another photograph on the shelf.

He and my mother.

They’re young in this one—it had to have been before they had me. Her hair is long and straight and parted in the middle. Oversized eighties-style glasses cover her beautiful face, but she’s grinning—mouth agape like she’d been laughing, and she’s looking at him while he makes a silly face.

I’m not sure why this photo, of all photos, would earn a spot on his shelf or why he would keep something like this around for decades, but I’m not about to ask.

I’m not about to have a moment with my father.

We’re not there yet—and I doubt we’ll ever be there.

“I’ll take it,” I say, adding, “But not because I want it.”

My father’s thin lips press and he nods. He knows. He knows he backed me into a corner with Samuelson because that was his plan this whole time.

He might not be smiling, but the pride he senses from his little victory practically oozes from his every pore.

“I’m very glad to hear that, C.J. I know the decision wasn’t easy for you,” he says, voice groggy until he clears his throat. “But I think—”

I’m about to tell him to spare me from the bullshit when his phone rings.

My father lifts his finger before heading to his desk and pressing a button.

“Yes, Marta?” he asks.

“Ms. Keane would like a quick word with you. Should I send her in?” she asks.

My father checks his watch. “I’m not expecting her for another hour. Have her wait.”

Marta is quiet for a second, and then she does that nervous humming thing. “Um, sir. She says it’s urgent. And that it’ll just take a second.”

He exhales, leaning against his desk.

“Fine. Yes. Send her in.” He ends the call, uncaps the bottle of Evian that had been waiting for him on his desk, and turns back to me. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any for you to meet your new assistant.”

A second later, his double doors swing open and in marches the same petite brunette from yesterday in a navy shift dress and nude kitten heels, her hair piled on top of her head in a perfect ballerina bun.

“Aerin,” my father says, his demeanor shifting from grumpy-old-man to people-pleasing ladies’ man in the blink of an eye. “Everything all right? Marta said you—”

Producing a white envelope, she hands it over. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m going to have to resign.”

His gaze flicks from the envelope to her and back as he accepts it but doesn’t dare rip the paper. If I know my father, he’s going to try to talk her out of this. If it’s not something he wants, he won’t accept it.

“I don’t understand,” he says. His breathing is wheezier than it was a moment ago. He doesn’t like this.

Keeping back in my corner, I watch this shit show unfold. She hasn’t so much as noticed me standing here, and I’m all ears, curious to see what bullshit reason she gives.

It’s all the same to me.

I have no use for her.

“Ms. Keane, before we proceed here, I want to remind you that quitting at this point would be in breach of your contract,” my father says, his thin chest rising as he inhales. “The Force Majeure clause to be exact.”

“Actually, I read through the contract last night and there’s an exit clause—for unwarranted behavior and gross misconduct.” Her hands clasp at her hips, but from my angle, I can’t stop feasting my eyes on the way that tight fabric hugs her peach-shaped ass.

He chuckles. “Unwarranted behavior? Gross misconduct? You’ve worked here for a day. Care to enlighten me, Ms. Keane? Because I’m extremely confused here.”

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