If I'm Being Honest(80)

But I’m not good enough. And if I’m not good enough now, I’m realizing I won’t ever be. I’ve fought and hungered for his recognition. It’s kept me going, driven me through hard classes and harder conversations with Mom. But the respect, the worth I hoped to hold in his eyes—I’ll never have it.

I fumble for my phone. My thumbs dial out the number I know by heart before I’ve thought out what I’ll say. I listen to the ring, realizing that with the time difference, he’s probably in the middle of dinner. I don’t care.

“Daniel Bright’s phone,” Chelsea answers after the third ring.

“Put me through to my dad.” My voice cracks on the last word.

“Cameron?” she asks like she doesn’t know exactly who’s calling. “I’m afraid Mr. Bright’s with a—”

“I don’t fucking care!” I shout. My eyes are burning, but I clench them shut, trapping any tears. “I’ll keep calling until you put me through.”

The line goes silent for a moment. I’m sure Chelsea’s used to cursing and yelling from Daniel Bright, but I’ve never so much as sent a passive-aggressive email to her in the past.

“I’m very sorry, Cameron. Could we—”

“Listen to me!” I interrupt her again. For a moment I feel bad for her. She’s not the one at fault. But I call on the rotten, nasty piece of myself I’d thought was gone. “I’m not about to let some little assistant keep me from speaking with my own father.” I breathe heavily into the line, the tightness only a run can dispel lodging in my lungs.

“One moment,” Chelsea says softly. The phone beeps, then rings again.

“Cameron, this is completely inappropriate,” my dad answers, his voice clipped in the way that always precedes a dismissal.

“How could you reject me from your own company?” I ask, the words exploding from my lips. “It’s an internship. I’m not good enough to sort your mail and get your coffee?” To be in your life?

Clinking glasses, chatter, and low music fill the silence. “We have strict criteria for every position, internships included,” he says evenly. “It’s very competitive.”

“I’m your daughter.” It comes out a whimper, and I hate the sound of it. The desperation and vulnerability behind a sentence that should be little more than a statement of fact.

I think he hates the sound of it, too. His voice comes through harder, each syllable slapping the speakers. “Being my daughter does not make you qualified. Frankly, this call only confirms our decision.”

Our. Not their. One tear slips down my cheek. I furiously wipe it away.

“Clearly,” he continues, “you do not possess the professionalism we require. I knew you were spoiled, but this level of immaturity is disappointing, Cameron.”

“Because I have to be professional every time I talk to you, right?” I say in a rush. I stand up, facing away from the mirror to hide from the redness in my eyes. “Because everything I do, every phone call—”

“This is exactly how your mother would respond.” His words cut me to the knees, and I stumble to my bed. He pauses, like he knows how big a blow he’s struck. Like . . . he’s enjoying it. “Calling me to fix your problems because you couldn’t put in the hard work on your own?” The knife of his voice becomes silken, patronizing, and low. “I’ve given you more than your fair share of opportunities. It is entirely your own fault you’ve failed to capitalize on them.” The sounds of the bar or restaurant or wherever he is get louder, and I assume he’s walking back to whomever he’d been in the middle of meeting when I called.

“I don’t care about the opportunities,” I spit down the line, every nerve in my body raw. “I just wanted a dad.”

I end the call before he can hang up on me. It’s not enough he’s two thousand miles away. I throw my phone into the corner of my room, enjoying the heavy smack it makes against the carpet.

Something drips onto my chest, and I look down to find tears bleeding into the silver of my dress. My face is wet, my makeup ruined. Sticky clots of mascara pull at my eyelashes, stinging and itching my eyes. My breath comes in painful gulps, like I’m suffocating. I’d forgotten the feeling, it’s been so long.

I don’t reach for my running shoes. I don’t stop myself.

For the first time in years, I cry.





Thirty-Nine



I TOLD BRENDAN I NEEDED ANOTHER FORTY minutes to get ready. By the time he texts me that he’s outside, I’ve cried until my chest heaved with hiccups, iced my puffy eyes, and redone my makeup. I slip my heels on and walk outside, trying to recapture the excitement I felt for the evening an hour ago.

But I can’t. I feel tired, like I’ve been sprinting uphill for years and my legs are too heavy to take one more step.

Paige’s car is parked in the driveway, but Brendan’s behind the wheel. He gets out when he sees me. “Wow,” he says, his voice soft and reverent. “You look beautiful.”

I drop my eyes from his, taking in his clothes instead. Pressed pants, blue button-down, and a perfectly knotted navy tie. His hair’s slicked back with something. He looks handsome, clean-cut and adult. I muster a smile. “You look really great, too,” I say, covering the ragged edge in my throat.