I hated when my father addressed me by my first and middle name. It always reminded me that my life before I left him felt hopeless. “What can I do for you?”
“Can I come in?” he asked.
“No.”
He sighed. “We need to talk.”
When I turned eighteen years old, I’d made it a point not to see my father. I didn’t visit him, and I certainly didn’t call him. The only time I saw him was when we faced each other in a court of law. The only reason anyone knew he was my father was because I was required to share any conflicts of interest to my clients. And, of course, most of the judicial staff knew our family connection. Other than that, I didn’t refer to him as Dad. I called him Mr. Strong in every single public interaction. “What would we have to talk about?”
“I would hate to do this in the hallway. May I come in?”
Although I felt a range of emotions when dealing with my father through the years, the only consistent feeling was dread. “I’ll come out.”
As we rode the elevator down to the lobby, we didn’t speak. He didn’t ask how I was doing or muse aloud about the weather. He simply stood there, eyes forward, head high. Like always. I stepped out of the elevator, and he followed me toward the hotel lounge.
On the way, I spotted Duke entering the hotel. He stopped, his gaze flitting from me to my father. I shook my head slightly, letting him know that I was good. Once inside the bar, I took a seat at a booth toward the back and waited.
My father ordered himself a gin and tonic. “She’ll have a martini dry, up with a twist.”
I wasn’t surprised that my father had tried to order me a drink. It wasn’t my type of cocktail, though, and only shined a dull light on the simple fact that he didn’t know me. At all. “I’ll have a water,” I corrected.
The waiter excused himself and my father looked at me. “You’re looking thin. That’s good.”
The dig hurt, especially since I was a little chunky in elementary school. Which was why he’d forced me to play sports, to help me lose thebaby weightas he’d called it. The only good things to come out of that were fencing class, where I met Dallas, and swimming. I could escape from him in the pool because, oddly enough, he couldn’t swim. It didn’t stop him from making me feel like shit if I didn’t compete at a level that he deemed sufficient—even though he’d failed to come to most of my competitions.
“You look beautiful,” he said. “Like your mother.”
That compliment also hurt. Because he had a habit of comparing me to my mother. Either I was too much like her or not enough like her.
My father droned on about work for a few minutes until the waiter arrived with our drinks. He glanced at me. “I hear you’re planning a move.”
I’d perfected the blank stare years ago, and I had no trouble using it on my father. That skillset had been learned through years of abuse.
“I saw one of your old cohorts in the courthouse and she mentioned you were relocating to Atlanta,” he continued. “Are you staying in private practice, or will you join a firm?”
“Why do you care?” I asked, careful to keep my voice even but firm. Inside, I was anything but calm and collected. But I felt all the emotions, from curiosity to rage to fear to anguish. Because I had no idea what was coming next.
“Just making conversation. Demita, I realize that things haven’t been pleasant between us in years.”
“Is this your way of making it right?”
“I’d like to be able to converse with my daughter.”
“Now, I’m your daughter?” I snorted. “’Cause, I remember you telling me that I was dead to you just a few years ago.”
It was the first time I’d faced him in court. I presented my client’s case effectively and efficiently, winning a sizable settlement from his client. He’d lost it in the hallway, scolding me like I was a child. The insult didn’t land like he’d hoped it would, though. Especially after I thanked him for making my job easier by being a subpar attorney who only got as far as he did by using baseless, lawless, and childish tactics to defend his clients. The incident had caused quite a stir among his colleagues and, as a result, he’d lost a lot of credibility among his peers. And revenue when several of his clients’ spouses sought me out for representation.
“I was angry. I didn’t mean it.”
I refused to tell him anything about my life or my career. “Why are you here? I’m not a ten-year-old girl fighting for Daddy’s attention anymore. You can stop pretending to care.”
“I need a favor.”
I knew it. “What makes you think I’ll help you do anything?”
“Because you love a challenge. You’ve devoted your life to besting me in court.”
Raising a questioning eyebrow, I said, “I’ve already bested you in court. Several times. And, no, I devoted my life to helping women leave men like you without losing everything.”
