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Which means she remains his golden child, office love affair and all.
All right, the truth is, I’m happy for her. But it’s exhausting being the one whose accomplishments always pale in comparison.
She’s studious and level-headed, and I’m a freethinker who doesn’t like being told what to do.
The longer I listen, and the wider my parents’ smiles grow, the more agitated I become. Dad’s dream was for us to work for him, but sitting behind a desk running data analysis sounds as enticing as using my eyeballs for pin cushions. So, I opted for communications–a degree that is now a useless piece of paper that only serves to remind me of a man I hoped to never see again.
“Did you get those links I sent you, sweetheart?” Dad asks.
I sit on my hands to avoid yanking on my itchy clothing. “Sure did. Can’t wait to dive in and get those brain juices flowing.”
He takes a sip of coffee, sitting forward with the kind of excitement I’d expect from a child, not a full-grown man. “Great, because I have a surprise for you.”
Oh, god. I pinch myself below the table to keep from cringing and force a smile. “I, for one, can’t wait to hear this surprise.”
Carrie shakes her head, mumbling just loud enough for me to hear, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Those classes are only one part of a three-day business conference.” He’s absolutely vibrating with joy when he adds, “And I decided to buy the two of us all-access passes for the entire weekend!”
“What? Dad, that’s amazing,” Carrie says, eyes wide as she leans closer.
“I’m sure you’ve already looked through the syllabus.” I absolutely have not. “But Harvey Perrin is presenting the Principles of Marketing course.”
“Shut up,” my sister says, slapping the table. “Okay, now I’m jealous.”
There’s a proud gleam in his soft gray eyes that I desperately want directed at me. So I dig deep, searching the rusty files in my mind for this Harvey guy’s identity.
“Oh! That’s the guy from the Gorilla energy drink commercials, right?” I beat my chest with my fists. A flawless imitation, really.
But my snorting laugh fades awkwardly when I’m met with blank stares from all three of them. “Must’ve been the other Harvey.”
I lower my arms as Dad clears his throat, obviously trying to be polite, but I don’t miss the amused looks he and Carrie exchange. “No, Doctor Harvey Perrin. The man who invented the data analysis software we use for our applications at Triggerz. It’s an outstanding system, and I can’t wait to pick his brain about it.”
My gaze volleys between them as they carry on about all things technical, which leads to more business jargon that goes right over my head.
“I’m honored, Dad, truly,” I say, interrupting their fangirling, “but don’t you think Carrie would get more use out of something like this?”
“Nonsense, sweetheart. This is a perfect opportunity for you to grow your love for business. And who knows, maybe this conference will finally convince you to come work for me.”
He flashes a pearly white grin around the edge of his coffee mug, but all I can manage is a pathetically weak, “Maybe…”
“All right, enough about that,” Mom says. “We’re here to celebrate Penelope.”
“Yes, of course.” Dad grabs his champagne flute, and we raise ours to meet it. “To another year of success. We’re proud of you, Pen. And I know your thirties will be as fruitful as mine were because you’re just like your old man.”
He winks, and my cheeks are sore from the force of smiling. “Thank you.”
We give our server our orders when he comes back around, but a succession of booming clangs comes from the construction site across the street, making it impossible to stay focused on the questions they’re lobbing at me.
“Sorry,” I say, turning toward the skyscraping skeleton of what appears to be a future hotel. “What is that?”
Dad relaxes back with a heavy sigh. “Silas. I saw the Elite Properties sign outside the site when we drove up.”
The disdain in how he says his name pinches my gut with nerves. “I thought he stayed busy with his properties in Tauntuma. What’s he doing moving condos so far south?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him in, what, ten, eleven years?”
“Twelve,” I correct, earning a curious look. “I-I think so, anyway. But who’s counting? Not me.”
