He could be told the time and date of an event a million times, and he will always find some reason to be late. Like the launch event for the new summer line five years ago where he was an hour late because he took a nap. Or the time he picked me up from the airport three hours after my flight landed because he got caught up talking to an old friend.
Or, my personal favorite, when he almost missed my high-school graduation because he spent the night getting drunk with his business partners.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he missed my birth.
To everyone else, he’s charming Calahan Branson, the single dad who’s managed it all. To me, he’s the guy who can’t take two seconds out of his time to text his son to say he’s going to be late to the lunch we have at the same time every two weeks.
As a result of this, I’ve always made it my priority to be on time. Well, that and to avoid the crippling anxiety I feel about being late.
I adjust the sleeves of my suit when I see my dad in the corner of my eye, greeting everyone on his way in. Even still, I can’t help but admire him. His tailored suit and polished shoes scream success, and my own outfit mirrors his. We share the same blond hair, even though his is starting to gray a little. The same cheekbones and facial structure. The only thing that proves that my dad didn’t create me in a lab are the lined dimples I inherited from my mom.
Before my dad can even say hello, I lift my gaze to meet his, folding my arms against my chest. “You’re late.”
He grins. “Evan—”
“By twenty-seven minutes.” I check my watch as he slides off his blazer and hangs it over the chair beside him before sitting down. He’s still grinning. “How do you even manage it? Every time without fail. Your office is quite literally inside this building. Wear a watch. You sell millions of them.”
He’s laughing now, and it’s getting harder to be serious. I’m a little annoyed, but I’m notthatpissed. I enjoy the back and forth too much. The slight panic in his face when he thinks I’m going to get up and leave.
He takes a gulp of the tea that’s probably cold by now, smiling all the same as he leans back in his chair. “You know, everyone else just goes with it when I’m late, but here I have my own son counting down the minutes.”
“Someone has to make you take accountability.”
Dad laughs deeply, taking up a cookie and chewing while he talks. “You’ve always been like this. Even when you were a kid.”
“What? Punctual?”
“No, strict with me,” he says, and I roll my eyes. “I’m your dad, Evan. Let me be the strict one.”
“I don’t think you could if you tried,” I reply, almost laughing at the idea.
Dad opens his laptop and his smile drops slightly. He relaxes just enough that I can tell we’re slipping into work territory. I pull out my own laptop and my reading glasses, checking over what I’ve been working on over the weekend.
We slip easily into a conversation about Branson&Co—our family’s high-end fashion brand. B&Co has been around for so long that I can’t imagine a world in which we didn’t exist. Our clothing is everywhere, not just advertised all over the world, but also on the backs of some of the most powerful individuals in the world. We’re a ‘standout brand’ in the fashion world, according to a popular article that was published last month, and getting to see how everything works behind the scenes is quite surreal.
People say don’t mix family and business, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Being able to get hands-on experience with one of the biggest fashion brands in the world in my junior year of college is a huge feat. I’m lucky to be a part of something so big, something so important to my family and my future.
We finish comparing notes on the sales numbers and finalizing details for the launch this week, before my dad moves on to something else. I organize some of my notes for my business classes this semester, carving out time to study and prepare my application for the internship I’ve been waiting for since I got into North University.
After a while of working in comfortable silence, my dad closes his laptop. I can feel his gaze on me without looking up, and I know he’s waiting for me to finish typing before he talks. I eventually close my laptop, meeting his eyes.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.”
The serious tone in his voice catches me slightly off guard. We’ve always had a pretty light relationship. We’ve had hard talks and conversations we wish we didn’t have to have, but they’ve always been necessary and come with some kind of warning. Whatever this is is . . . new. Unexpected.
I try to steer it into slightly safer waters. As safe as they can be, I guess.
I take off my glasses, using the cloth from my pocket to clean them. “If this is about Mom, I’d rather—”
“It’s not,” he says sternly and some of the tension in my chest eases. “But are things . . . okay?”
I clear my throat, nodding as I slide my glasses back on. “She’s been texting a little more, but that’s nothing new. I’m too busy to entertain whatever’s going on this time.”
“You’re too busy for your mother’s unconditional love?”
“Right now? Yes.”
My dad’s eyes soften. “She’s trying, Evan.”
