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“I’d kill for an espresso,” Dad chimes in.
“You mean an espresso would kill you,” Mom corrects, then turns to me with an exasperated wave of her hand. “See what I have to deal with?” She casts a loving glance at my father before slipping out of the room, leaving us alone.
“She means well.” Dad manages a grin, but it accentuates the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. “I’m glad you’re here.” He gestures to the empty seat by his bedside. “Did you enjoy your time in New York?”
“I did,” I say honestly and without hesitation.
“But it’s good to be back.” It sounds more like a statement than a question.
“Yes,” I answer after a pause, even though I have mixed feelings on the subject. “But the circumstances could be better,” I add, aiming for some levity.
“Amen to that. But tell me. How does it feel to finish a decade’s worth of Christmas Commitments?”
“Technically, I still have one left,” I admit, praying he doesn’t ask what it is. Although I’ve regularly reported on my progress, I’m not surprised the final task fell through the cracks as he’s kept count. I’ve done my best to avoid mentioning it. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote it down. I certainly didn’t consider how it would play out when I finally had to reveal what I’d chosen. But in the moment, it had gripped me with such intense urgency, I couldn’t think of anything else.
“Well,” he quips, “nine out of ten is close enough.”
“What do you mean? Close enough for what?”
“I mean,” he says with dramatic emphasis. “I want you to take over as the new marketing director. Effective immediately.”
He’s staring at me intently, waiting for my response, but I merely gape at him for what feels like five full minutes while his heart monitor beeps impatiently. Finally, I mumble, “B-but I didn’t finish the list.”
“That may be true, but I make the rules, so I’m allowed to break them.” He chuckles, but it sounds raspy and weak. Not at all like his usual robust laugh. “Extra Energy Drink loved your proposal. They want you to implement it right away. And given the circumstances”—he waves a hand over his prone body—“I’m going to need a new right-hand man—orwoman, I should say—sooner than I thought. Congratulations. I’m proud of you, kiddo.”
He lays a hand on my shoulder, and apart from all the protruding tubes and wires, this moment is exactly how I’d always envisioned it would be—my father smiling in a soft, understated way as he says the four words I’ve waited my whole life to hear. The words that mark the completion of my Christmas Commitments.
Make Dad proud.
I can finally cross off the final task.
Part of me doesn’t believe it. And I consider asking if he’ll say the words again, to make sure I hadn’t blacked out and imagined them. But I don’t get the chance.
“Knock, knock.” Matt sweeps aside the curtain and steps inside, followed by Veronica.
At first, I hardly recognize her. My perpetually put-together sister looks rumpled and unkempt, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes red and puffy. There’s even smeared mascara below her lash line that she hasn’t bothered to fix.
“How are you doing, Dad?” Matt asks, coming to stand by his bedside.
“Better now that all my kids are here.”
“What do the doctors say?” Veronica’s voice is strained with worry, and she unsuccessfully hides a sniffle behind her sleeve.
“That I need to slow down and take things easy.”
“We’ll help,” she offers quickly. “We can each take on more responsibility at work.”
“About that…” Dad squeezes my shoulder. “I’ve asked your sister to take over Steve Bailcroft’s position. She really knocked it out of the park with her Extra pitch. You two should see it.” He points to his laptop on the side table. “Hand me that, would you, Matt?”
As my brother grabs the laptop, my pulse sputters, and I barely stop myself from lunging at him and snatching it from his hand. Although I know the campaign has already surpassed my father’s expectations—and secured me the coveted promotion—I can’t help revisiting every miserable moment in my childhood when my work was put on display only to be ridiculed.
I briefly close my eyes, trying to ground myself in the knowledge that their opinions don’t define me. My campaign is good, and I don’t need their acknowledgment for those words to be true. As my eyes flicker open, the video I created for Extra Energy Drink is showcased on the screen. The action shots of men and women accomplishing extraordinary feats are familiar. So is the slogan.When you feel like giving up, don’t quit. Just take a sip.The stock video clip shows an image of a runner, sweaty and exhausted, taking a sip from a plain soda can—on which I superimposed Extra Energy Drink’s logo—before bursting across the finish line, her strained features giving way to triumph and euphoria.
I smile, recalling the exact moment the slogan sprang to mind, sparked by something Ethan had said.Ethan… A sharp twinge stabs my chest, and I attempt to focus on anything other than the pain. I divert my attention to my father’s face, amazed by the unbridled admiration sprawled across it. It’s a look I’ve seen before but never aimed at me. “Well, what do you think?” he asks my siblings, who’ve remarkably remained quiet through the entire commercial.
“Wow.” Matt whistles. “It’s impressive. Congratulations, Quince. You deserve the win.” He sounds so sincere, and I can’t help contrasting this moment with our fight less than twenty-four hours ago. It’s as if our shared concern over Dad’s condition erased it from our collective memory.
Veronica glances in my direction, and maybe it’s due to her disheveled appearance, but I can’t read her expression. She turns back to Dad and says, “The campaign is great. And if you think Quincy is the best one for the job, we’ll do whatever we can to make it a smooth transition.”
