Page 17 of The Apparent Trap

“The other day. In Carmen’s office. When I walked in and uh, you were all there.”

“Yes, how could I forget that fun family moment?” I snort. He looks at me quizzically, but I just shrug. It’s not my fault that I mask awkwardness with humor.

“You called your dad Mark,” he repeats.

“What’s the question?” I stall.

He shakes his head, exasperated. “Why did you pretend like your dad wasn’t your dad?”

“Well . . .” I say, deciding honesty is probably best here, even though I have no idea why this question is relevant. “My brain was already exploding, so I assumed yours was, too, and I didn’t think I needed to add that extra layer for you.”

He nods, like that’s enough. “Carmen told me about him at dinner the other night,” he explains. “And when I looked him up later—”

“Such a dad move.”

He sighs, like he wants to laugh but isn’t allowing himself to. “I saw that he was your dad.”

“You don’t know me,” I say, more defensive than I’d like, but come on.

“Of course I know who you are . . .” he says with a pause, and for a moment I can’t breathe. “You’re my daughter’s producer.”

I exhale, the end of his sentence hitting with a thud. I search his eyes for any recognition, wondering if maybe I made that entire night up. But no, I’m just that forgettable or, if I want to be kinder to myself, he was just that drunk.

“Okay, so why does that matter?” I ask, my whole body itching to end this conversation.

He rubs his face like he’s exhausted. He swallows, and I watch the way his throat bobs. I shouldn’t be noticing this man this much. “I don’t know, but I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this, and I have no idea what to do. If anything.”

That stills me, because he’s articulated the one thing I’ve been feeling all week. “So . . . what do you think?” I ask, fishing.

“What do I think about my daughter dating a guy thirteen years older than me?”

He says it like the answer should be obvious, and of course it is. But I don’t trust him enough to let him see what I’m thinking yet. As much as it’s clear we’re both in agreement about having misgivings, my loyalties still lie with the one idiot whose misgivings I care most about. I’m not sharing anything about my dad with this guy.

And even beyond my dad, when it comes to Carmen, I’m not sharing that with him either. Even though their dynamic isn’t really my business, if I had to choose, I wouldn’t take the side of a (formerly?) deadbeat dad over the daughter I need to maintain a good working relationship with.

“Yes, what do you think?” I finally reply, betraying nothing.

His sigh is so weary I almost feel sorry for him. “I think I have absolutely no right to say anything to her about who she dates or what she does.” Self-awareness, who knew it existed? “I’m also extremely concerned that there’s no outcome here where one or both of them doesn’t get hurt.”

That softens me. “I’m concerned about that too.”

He shifts on the desk, that tapping foot still going a mile a minute. “I didn’t mean to ambush you. I’ve just been tossing and turning every night, because I can’t get past this absolutely impossible conundrum. I shouldn’t comment on her choices. But her choices are almost certainly going to hurt her. And that’s a knot I can’t untangle.”

“I . . .” I hesitate. The guy’s out on a limb. And even though I can’t deny all the reasons there are to not talk to him, I’m also so desperate to talk about this that maybe I can allow this conversation for just a little bit. “I feel the same way.”

His gaze meets mine, gratefulness radiating out from under those expressive eyebrows. He’s all heart right now, like he’s taken his out and placed it on the desk next to him. Whatever caused him to have a poor relationship with his daughter—youth, not caring enough, or just plain laziness—it’s clear in this moment that he has a lot of regrets.

Which is something I can unfortunately relate to. And mine have all been walloping me this week. My dad’s smile when he looks at Carmen beams out across all the memories where I unknowingly shielded him from finding someone again. That comfortable shell we wrapped around ourselves to keep us safely insulated maybe kept him from so much joy.

But I have the same images Lee probably has of the future. A future where my dad gets discarded when reality inevitably catches up.

“There’s nothing to do, right?” he asks. I wonder what he’s hoping my answer will be.

“Well, I can’t say anything,” I assert. “I can’t tell my dad who to date. And Carmen is my colleague.”

“Well I can’t say anything either,” he counters. “Even if I was a . . . a normal dad . . . dads can’t tell their daughters who to date. That’s renowned for going well,” he says, now with a hint of a smirk.

We’re at an impasse. He’s staring at me, watching to see how I respond, and I hate that just by having his gaze dropped onto me, I’m back in that bar, consumed, drawn in. I hate that I’m imagining that smirk curling into his lethal smile. There’s nothing I want less in this moment than to remember I’m inconveniently attracted to this man after spending so many weeks trying (and failing) to shove him from my mind.