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Hours have passed since I got to my dad’s office, although it feels like days.
It’s past seven p.m. and he’s still not here. I finally gave in thirty minutes ago and sent him a text message.
Linny: I’m at the office. You need to come down here.
My dad’s response was swift considering the fact that he hates texting.
Dad: I’m dead tired. What’s wrong? I’ll send Mitchell to take care of it.
I laughed aloud, the sound vibrating off the walls and out into the empty offices beyond.
Everyone cleared out by six p.m, many of them stopping in the open doorway of my dad’s office to ask if I needed anything.
They all looked confused. It’s not surprising since they caught me sitting in his chair behind his desk.
I’m still sitting here.
The last message I sent was twenty minutes ago.
Linny: It’s urgent. Only you can handle this.
It only took a beat until his next message popped up on my screen.
Dad: I’m on my way.
I’ve spent the past few hours rehearsing in my mind what I’ll say. That’s been punctuated by memories of my childhood.
My dad taught me how to ride a bike in Central Park. He sat in the bleachers of my high school gymnasium cheering Harmony and me on during all those volleyball games.
He watched me graduate from college, and he was the first person I cooked dinner for in my new apartment.
He’s always been my best friend and confidante.
I hear the elevator ding its arrival on this floor. He’ll walk past my empty, darkened office and then notice the light shining into the corridor from his.
I take a deep breath as his footsteps near.
“I’m here. What is it?” Sweat peppers his forehead, his cheeks flushing. It’s obvious that he put in some effort to get here as quickly as he could.
I’m on my feet in an instant. “Thank you for coming, dad.”
He clucks his tongue. “You don’t look panicked. Is there an actual emergency that warranted me coming down here at night?”
I step closer to him; close enough that he can see the redness of my eyes. “It’s an emergency to me.
”
“You’ve been crying.” He moves quickly toward me. “What happened? Did you lose the Rizon account?”
No. I lost every ounce of trust I had in you, dad.
I glance down at the black sweatpants and college sweatshirt he’s wearing. This is how he looked at night when he used to tuck me into bed when I was a child.
This is the man I miss.
“You told Mitchell about Corbin.”
He reaches for something to steady his balance. His shaking hand lands on my forearm. “Linny.”
