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I shudder, then slam the door on those terrible memories.
When I reach his floor, I smile at the firm’s receptionist. “Hi, Anita.” She knows me since I see him for dinner regularly.
“Hello, Jules. Tate’s just finishing up with a friend, but he said you can go in anytime.”
“Sweet,” I say, then I run a hand down my twin-set sweater. It’s short-sleeved and mint green with an embroidered cherry on the front. Very mod and vintage—perfect for the TV biz with its artsy vibe. I paired it with a black pencil skirt, and I have my glasses on. I like to wear them at work and save my contacts for going out and for friends.
I head down the hall to my dad’s office, but when I near it, something stops me.
A voice.
And it’s not my dad’s.
A dart of worry pricks my chest as I listen to the next thing the man with my father says. “Saturday morning? I don’t think so, Tate,” he says in a deep, raspy tone that makes me shiver.
Which concerns me.
Because…I should not be shivering at my dad’s office.
Maybe I’m hearing things. Maybe this is a new symptom of my OCD. I walk cartoon-character slow, keyed in on the voice.
“Oh, c’mon. You’re going to slack off?” my father goads, but he’s clearly baiting the guy in a buddy sort of way.
“Yeah, I’m a slacker,” the man says dryly, and my shoulders tighten with worry.
“Better not be. We have that bet with the other triathlon team.”
“Well, I’d hate to lose,” he says.
“Perfect. Then I’ll see you this Saturday at the crack of dawn so we can kill it,” my father says in a lighter tone than he ever takes with me. I tiptoe closer now, a few feet from the open door. They can’t see me, and none of the paralegals or lawyers are walking down the hall. The office is half-empty at this time of the evening.
“Appreciate the hard sell, but not this Saturday,” his friend says, drawing a line in the sand.
My heart climbs up my throat uncomfortably.No, please, no. Just let them sound similar.
“I guess someone has afunFriday night planned,” my dad says, a little too dude-bro for my tastes. I picture my dad lifting his eyebrows, asking what’s on tap for tomorrow night. Gross.
“We’ll see,” the man hedges, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
In it is the echo of other words. Words like…Open wide. Need to fuck that pretty mouth.
And…I want you to come again.On me.
I want to scream. This can’t be happening. My father’s running partner—the guy he does triathlons with—can’tbe my phantom, my Gatsby, my Friday night secret date.
I draw a deep but quiet breath, then take one more step.
“You better show up Sunday morning, then,” my dad says.
“You do know when we win that bet, it’ll be because of me,” the man counters.
That voice.
“Fucking show-off,” my dad says with a friendly scoff.
“It’s not showing off if it’s true,” the man says.
I wish my OCD brain was playing the meanest trick on me with some new and awful intrusive thought. But I know it’s not. Still, I need to be sure if it’s really him. If I just peer carefully into the doorway, I can see most of Dad’s desk, but he won’t be able to see me.
