Page 312 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Then you bomb them,” I said, keeping my voice relaxed, trying to reassure him that we’d deal with whatever happened. “And we’ll figure out your next steps together.”

“Right. Thanks, Trent.”

“Anytime, Jimmy. I mean that.”

“I know you do. All right, well, call me back and let me know how everything goes.”

“I will. You go hit the books.” I hung up, walking through the revolving door and stepping into the Luxe’s polished lobby before I could change my mind. I’d chosen this particular place to meet my parents—a brand-new hotel in midtown—because it had no connection to the business, or to our family, or to the divorce. There’d been no birthdays or anniversaries celebrated here. No business meetings taken. No board members schmoozed.

It was neutral territory as far as I was concerned, and that was exactly what I needed. That said, I still had no idea if my parents would even show up. Neither of them had responded to the email invites Pam had sent. After how hard they usually worked to get in touch with me, it was difficult to imagine that they wouldn’t show, but I was done trying to figure them out or anticipate how they might react. If they showed up, great—I had something I was determined to say, and I wanted them to hear it. If they decided to leave me hanging, they’d get the news in a follow-up email tomorrow.

Either way, it would be done, once and for all.

“Good afternoon,” the hostess said, greeting me at the entrance of the restaurant. “Do you have a reservation?”

“It’s under Saunders,” I said. I’d had my secretary request a secluded table when she made the reservation.

“Right this way,” she said, leading me through. The space was classy and elegant, all crystal chandeliers and black accents.

“Thank you,” I said, spotting my mother at the table doing a fabulous job of ignoring my father who stood at the bar, chatting up the blonde bartender.

“Trent!” my father called, raising his hand in greeting, the other wrapped firmly around his scotch. He walked over to the table, my mother shooting him a look that said she was already annoyed. “What’re you drinking?”

“Nothing for me,” I said, waving off his question.

He sat down, and so did I. Christ, it had been forever since I’d sat with my parents like this. The closest we got was the board meetings, but during those, we were never alone. It was worlds away from comfortable, but I’d endured worse. And if I had my way, it wouldn’t last long. “Thank you both for coming,” I started.

“Yes, I quite enjoyed the cryptic email,” my mother said. “Are you about to tell us you’re dying?”

I felt my blood pressure rise.

“Now, Lara, play nice,” my father said. “No need to ruin lunch.”

“I believe it already was the moment you showed up,” she said, sipping her wine.

“God, you two are insufferable,” I muttered. Two pairs of eyes cut toward me. “Look, I’ve asked you two here today because…Well, frankly, I’ve made some mistakes lately.”

“Haven’t we all?” my father laughed, clapping me on the shoulder.

I shrugged off his touch. “Well, unlike you, I’m trying to fix them.”

My father scoffed as he sipped his drink.

“I’ve hurt the people I care about,” I continued. “One very important person in particular.”

“If you’ve brought us here to whine about Natasha—” my mother began, rising to her feet.

“Sit down,” I snapped. She gave me a hard look, but she returned to her seat. “I’m not here to whine. Quite the opposite. I’m here to take ownership over my life. Part of that means accepting responsibility for what I’ve done, and part of it means letting go of responsibility for the things I never had any control over at all. And at the top of that list is the way you two fucked me up.”

“Whoa, hang on!” my father said, choking on his drink as he laughed. “What the hell have I done?”

“Oh please,” my mother said, rolling her eyes. “What haven’t you done?”

“You’re both to blame,” I said. “For making my childhood miserable. Do you have any idea how toxic it was, growing up surrounded by your fights, your total lack of respect for each other, your complete lack of concern for Jimmy and me? Did you ever think of what kind of example you were setting for me? What lessons I was learning from you?”

“Just because we tried to raise you to be strong and self-reliant—” my mother said coldly.

“You raised me to be closed off and distrusting,” I shot back. “To believe that any attention or affection I get must have a price tag on it, because I only got either of those from you when there was something you wanted from me in return. Thanks to you, it’s hard for me to trust even the people who have always been honest with me.” Honest to a fault, I thought, feeling a surge of wistfulness at the thought of all the times Natasha had been incredibly frank. “I’m always waiting for people to disappoint me because that’s all you two ever did.”