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1
LEIGHTON
Iwish I hated my father. If only I did, then all the ways in which he carelessly toys with my heart wouldn’t hurt so much. This overbearing crush on my chest or the gut-wrenching spasms in my stomach wouldn’t exist.
But, dammit, I love him.
Rupert Price can be a cold, heartless bastard, and I’m still here, forever askinghow can I please you?
The no-nonsense tone of my father’s executive assistant, Lois, cuts through my agonizing thoughts. “Leighton, I’ve already told you, he can’t talk right now.”
Two minutes, that’s all I need. I’m not asking for much, but I’ve been put on hold twice for no reason other than Lois is stonewalling and hoping I’ll give up.
“I need to talk to himnow.” To ease my raw nerves, I take another gulp of champagne. The effervescent bubbles cause the tickle of a sneeze and my nose twitches.
“He’s on a call while on his way to the airport. I can’t interrupt, and he doesn’t have the time.”
He never has time. Not for his daughter. No matter how many times I’ve heard that familiar refrain in my twenty-four years of life, the prickly point of reality never dulls. I rub at the stabbing ache in my chest.
“Airport?” My picture-perfect reflection glares at me from the bathroom mirror as another reality sets in.
He’s abandoning me. Yet again. Why can’t I accept that my father lives for his work and nothing else? She expels a prolonged sigh as if talking to me is a chore but offers nothing.
“Lois, where’s he going?”
“Home. He has a meeting here in Toronto. First thing tomorrow morning. He can’t miss it. I’ll get him to call you when he can.”
“We’re supposed to leave LA tomorrow and drive to Toronto. Together.” I slap the empty flute onto the marble countertop, and the fizzy alcohol burns my stomach.
Crack.A tiny fissure spreads along the base of the glass, much like the one widening inside my chest. I’m going to be sick.
“There was no way around it. He needs to be here.”
If so, why didn’t he tell me?
I spin away from the mirror, disgusted by the pathetic, on-the-brink-of-waterworks girl staring back at me.
Why did I bother with the stylist and makeup crew? They only just left. My entire afternoon was spent primping and priming, and for what? I no longer want to go to this stupid party. I never did. All I want is to crawl into bed and cry.
My lips press together to stifle a sob, and I stomp out of the bathroom. Fallon will be here any minute now.
I shake out my clenched hands. “When did you arrange for his flight?”
Silence, the ever-present third party to our conversation, eats at the dead air hanging between us. She understands the significance of my question. We have a private jet, and this could’ve been decided at the last minute. Thatmightlessen the blow. Though I suspect this flight was planned.
“Lois, you still there?”
“Uh-huh.” She smacks her lips followed by another goddamn sigh, and I so wish I could reach my hands through the phone and strangle her. Or more like my father.
“I arranged it”—her clipped professionalism causes the knots in my stomach to tighten—“two days ago. It all happened so fast.”
Two days ago.
The excuses spill from her lying lips. Making excuses for Rupert is her job, and what a drag it must be. He never follows through on his promises, at least not to me.
And there isn’t anything she could say to make me understand why my dad didn’t tell me about his flight home. Tonight. Especially when we were to leave tomorrow.
What did he say when, in tears, I confessed that I couldn’t get on a plane?“It’ll be an adventure, Leighton. A road trip from Los Angeles to Toronto. We’ll have all this quality time together.”
