Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(47)

“Always,” Tina has my father saying. “I’m always proud of you.”

I don’t like this scenario. I want it. It makes me feel naked and exposed. It’s not just a true construction; it’s a whisper of my deepest desires.

“Yeah?” I’m carefully nonchalant. “You liked that?”

“It’s heartwarming,” Dad says, “it’s sweet without being maudlin. It’s exactly what I want—something that reinforces the fact that you’re an adult now, entirely capable of anything that gets thrown at you. But I want to ramp up the ending. We need to add in that I’m stepping down temporarily. Effective as of the launch.”

My whole body goes cold. “Dad. That’s three weeks away.”

He looks at me. He doesn’t launch into an immediate argument, and maybe that’s what sends a chill down my spine. Instead, he simply shakes his head gravely. “I know,” he says quietly. “Can you take over for me?”

“I’m in school. I have classes.”

He lets out a breath. “Blake. I know. I know. But—please. Do this for me.”

My hands are cold.

I have always known that there would come a time when my will would get pitted directly against his. When all the misdirection, all the tricks I’ve employed, will not be enough to keep him at bay. I just had hoped I would have more time.

“Dad.” I glance away from him, over to Tina. It doesn’t last long; my gaze is drawn back to his. My hands are shaking. I want him to be proud of me, and I’ve finally come to the point where I either have to lose myself completely or disappoint him. “I don’t want to take over.”

He lets out a breath and rubs a palm against his forehead. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. I kinda figured that one out when you thought it would be more fun to go waste time at a f*cking university than stay here. But, Blake…” His hand drops and he looks at me. “If you really wanted to leave, you’d have gone more than forty miles. Right now, you f*cking bastard, I really, really need you.”

He doesn’t explain why. I have no doubt that he’d probably choke before telling me the truth. But I’ve been watching him fossilize slowly in his office over the last year. I’ve worried about him. I don’t want to fail him.

I can say no to his brashest commands. But this?

I can’t, Dad. I have a problem. But now, both he and Tina are watching. It’s been better, a little bit, these last few weeks. I know it has. I’m sure it has. I just need more time.

But Dad would only beg if he was on the verge of breaking down. I have a problem, I want to scream. But I swallow those words.

“Fine,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds very, very far away. “Promise me it’s only temporary. Because I can’t do for long.”

I can make it a month, I tell myself. Six weeks.

I’m already running in my head. Even though I’m standing here, I want to get my shoes and get out the door. At least if I do, I’ll disappear my way.

But Dad lets out a long breath. “I promise,” he says. “I’ll talk to the Board. And Blake—thanks, *.”

I’m still standing in place when the conversation ends. It’s only in my head that I’m reduced to rubble. Tina is looking at me. I press my hands firmly together.

“Wow,” she says. “That was harsh. Does your dad usually call you an *? And a f*cking bastard?”

“Yeah.” I turn away from her. “But he doesn’t mean it like you think he means it.”

“Oh, yes. The well-known other meaning of f*cking bastard.”

“It’s a joke,” I say. “An inside joke.”

“Ha ha. So funny.” She makes a face.

“It is. Kind of. Five years ago, Peter—um, that’s Peter Georgiacodis, who used to be the CFO—told my dad that if he didn’t learn to watch his mouth, he was going to get sued one day. So he forced my dad to take corporate sensitivity training.”

“That worked well,” she says sarcastically.

“Actually, it kind of did. He’s…better, now. Really. With most people. But Dad said he wasn’t going through that sensitivity bullcrap unless Peter and I did it with him. And he was a little belligerent about it, as only he can be. Halfway through, he tried to explain that he just didn’t think that cursing was that insulting. Look, he said, I didn’t mind, and I was barely eighteen. So how bad could it be? In any event, the instructor lost his temper and told him that he could call the people he loved ‘you f*cking bastard’ as much as he wanted, but that he had to treat his employees like real people.” I shrug. “Ever since then, that’s been the way we say ‘I love you.’ We swear at each other.”

She looks at me. “You know that is deeply f*cked up, right?”

I smile at her. “Aw, I love you, too.”

She shakes her head. “I guess I’m hardly in a position to judge. My mom tells me she loves me by explaining the best way to transport meth.”

For a moment, we smile at each other.

And then reality hits: I just agreed to take over for my dad. The launch is in three weeks. After that, there will be no more afternoons with Tina. I won’t have time for a job washing dishes. This trade will be over—and I still don’t have a solution to my stupid problem.