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My stomach clenches at my father’s unwitting reference to Mr. Gates, and the way I imploded after he attacked me. For a solid week after Mr. Gates shoved his tongue down my throat and his fingers into my body, I felt literally dysfunctional. I couldn’t sleep or eat or concentrate. I couldn’t stop tears from streaming down my cheeks or my stomach from twisting into knots. So, I went to bed and told my father I had the flu. But when he said, “This isn’t the flu. Did something happen with a boy?” I took the bait and nodded. And said nothing else.
Dad continues, “That time in high school, you’d just gotten the news you were accepted into UCLA! You should have been on Cloud Nine. But, instead, you were in bed, crying your eyes out for a week over some stupid boy.”
Bile rises in my throat. My stomach physically twists. “I don’t want to talk about that, Dad. Please.”
Dad’s face softens. “I’m not trying to upset you. I’m saying you can’t let boys get you down the way you always do.”
“I don’t always do that. That’s a massive exaggeration.”
“My point is only that there are plenty of fish in the sea. And if this latest dumb boy isn’t smart enough to want you, then you’re lucky to be rid of him. Ciao, stronzo, right? Time to move on.”
Despite my clenching stomach, I can’t help smiling at my father’s invocation of my mother’s favorite expression. Literally translated, Ciao, stronzo means, Bye, asshole. But Mom always said it in a broader sense, not just in relation to people. It was her way of saying “good riddance” or “I’m done with you” to any person, place, or thing, even something as small as a malfunctioning can opener that might have broken her nail.
I look down at my mother’s wedding ring on my hand and hear her feisty voice, telling me to move on from Reed. Ciao, stronzo, she says. He cheated on you, love. He thought he could buy you with that grant.
But it’s no use. My head might be conjuring my mother’s voice to help me move on. But my heart still only wants Reed, despite everything. I could have sworn he was falling in love with me the way I was falling for him this past week. My brain knew it was a long shot, given his renowned womanizing and public declarations of eternal bachelorhood. But, still, my heart felt so sure he was experiencing my exact feelings.
Dad brushes his fingertips against my cheek. “What about your job?”
“What about it?”
“Nobody expected to see your pretty face in the office today? It’s Monday.”
“No. Don’t worry, Daddy. I’m not screwing up at work. I worked on Saturday night, into the early morning hours of Sunday, so Zasu told me to take Sunday and Monday off. I just now texted the office to let them know I’m coming in tomorrow to look through some documents.”
Dad looks relieved.
“Plus, nobody expects to see me at Rock ‘n’ Roll’s offices, just to show my face—not unless I’ve got a specific meeting. They know I’ll be working mostly out of the office this summer. Out in the field, or at home, or at a desk set up for me at River Records.”
“Speaking of home, where is that these days? You never texted me the name of your hotel. You know I like knowing where you are.”
“Oh, yeah. I wound up staying with my co-worker, Zasu, this past week.”
“Oh. How fun. Send me that address, would you?”
“Sure. Of course.”
Crap. I think I might be a sociopath. Over the years, I’ve lied to my father, here and there. Simply because he’s always been crazy-strict with me and girls just wanna have fun. But I’ve never lied to my father about important stuff. And I’ve certainly never told this many lies to him in rapid-fire succession.
I squeeze my father’s hand. “Don’t worry about me, okay? My job is going great. I’m going to be doing a whole bunch of cool interviews of famous artists in the next few weeks. One of them, as early as this Friday in Seattle, if my boss gives me the green light on Wednesday.”
Dad’s face lights up. “Any artists I might know?”
“Remember that show I used to watch: It’s Aloha! on Disney?”
“Oh, sure. You loved that one.”
“Aloha Carmichael is a pop star now, signed to River Records, and I’ll be interviewing her.”
Dad flips out.
“Have you heard of Laila Fitzgerald?”
Dad shakes his head.
“Oh. Well, then I guess you won’t be excited to learn I’m interviewing her, too. How about the rock group 22 Goats?”
Dad shakes his head again. “They’re called ‘22 Goats’? As in, the farm animal?”
“Yep. They’re super popular, Dad. If my boss says yes, I’ll be flying to Seattle on Thursday to interview them on Friday.”
