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And then I go to yoga and they tell me my credit card has been declined. I don’t panic immediately, but there’s a little whisper of worry up my spine. For the first time it occurs to me how little I seem to know about my parents. If it’s possible that my mom’s dating an aging rock star and my dad is marrying a girl roughly my age, it’s also possible that he hasn’t been the beacon of financial responsibility I thought he was.
I stand on the deck and take a deep breath before I dial his number, knowing it will be a struggle to sound civil. It would have been anyway, but under these circumstances — his absolute failure to even try to contact me during all of this — it’s twice as hard.
“I’ve been meaning to call,” he says.
“What stopped you?” I ask.
“Your life isn’t the only one that’s gone haywire, Elle.” I’m not surprised by his attitude — that’s vintage Andrew Grayson. He’s everyone’s best friend and biggest supporter until he registers even a hint of criticism.
“I would think,” I reply, “that given your role in the ways my life has gone haywire, you might have made the effort.”
“You know, your little part in all this hasn’t made my situation any better either,” he retorts.
“My part?” I ask. “Exactly what part is that?”
“The network might have managed to spin this better if you hadn’t already done so much damage.”
“He was your friend, and I thought that was why he was helping me out. Are you really faulting me for that?” I hear the anger in my voice, a rasping kind of anger that could bleed to tears at a moment’s notice.
“You couldn’t have been so naive as to think he just wanted to take you to dinner every night, Elle,” he chides.
“Are you shitting me?” I snap. “You raised me and you can suggest that?”
“You need to watch your language.”
“And you need to watch yours, because I swear to God if you ever even hint that I knew what was happening I will never speak to you again.”
“You’re overreacting,” he says, sounding bored.
“Whatever,” I hiss. “I’m not calling about that. My Amex got declined this morning. What’s up?”
“I changed your limit,” he replies. His tone is both defiant and uncertain at once, as if he’s trying to defend something even he doesn’t believe.
“Changed it to what? Zero? Because I only tried to charge $20 to it.”
“Your credit limit is now $250, and it’s for emergencies only. Holly thinks you need to learn some responsibility,” he says.
“Responsible like her, perhaps? Should I get knocked up by my married boss as well?” I spit out.
“I’m not going to listen to this,” he says. “And you’re going to have to reimburse me for the current balance of that card.”
I’m so staggered I can’t speak. The arrangement we had is one he suggested — no, encouraged: I’d spend summers and breaks interning, he’d cover my expenses. I never got paid a dime during all those years I worked for him.
“And what is the current balance on that card?” I ask.
“About $3000,” he says.
“$3000?! I haven’t charged anything close to that amount!”
“I haven’t paid it off in a while. I think it’s probably those work clothes you bought in New York.”
“You told me to buy those work clothes. You said ‘go see Anne at Saks, she’ll take care of you’.”
“You can send me smaller monthly payments until it’s paid off. I’m not trying to be a monster.”
“Too late, Dad,” I laugh. “And you know what? You’re not getting a dime from me. We had an agreement.”
“You’re going to ruin your credit,” he warns.
