52 Reasons to Hate My Father Page 21

  “So what,” he continues sarcastically, “you’re just going to throw it all away and run back to your spoiled, indulgent life like nothing ever happened?”

  “Hey!” Mendi steps between us again. “You have no right to talk to her like that.”

  But Luke is undeterred. He walks past Mendi and gets right in my face. His nose inches away from mine. “I have a right to point out what a huge mistake you’re making.” His eyes burn into mine as he takes hold of my wrist. “I’ve seen what you’re capable of—I’ve seen what you can do—and it’s worth something, Lexi. You’re worth something. You’re more than just a frivolous, shallow party girl. If you go with him you’ll only be running from one crutch to another. Instead of learning how to stand on your own.”

  “Oh, like you care,” I mutter.

  “I do care,” Luke insists.

  “The only thing you care about is my father and his quarterly stock report. You don’t want me to leave because then it’ll make you look bad in front of him. You don’t give a crap about me.”

  “That’s not true,” he counters. “I admit it hasn’t been easy dealing with you. You’re no picnic, Lexi. In fact, you’re everything I hate about upper-class America. Everything that I have to work my butt off for, you were handed on a silver platter. And you took it all for granted.

  “But I agreed to do this because I believed in what your father was trying to do. He was trying to help you. To show you that there’s more to life than partying and shopping.”

  I yank my arm free and shove against his shoulders. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” I roar. “You think just because your father left, and you grew up with no money, and have to work your way through a psychology degree that you know everything about me and my life? You don’t know anything! You don’t even realize what a hypocrite you are!”

  “I’m a hypocrite?” he fires back.

  “Yes!” I thunder. “You can’t idolize my father and hate me in the same sentence. Don’t you know how contradictory that is? I am who I am because of my father. He made me this way. Everything you worship about him—his work ethic, his obsession with his job, his detachment from emotions—I’m a product of all that. Do you really want to know what it was like growing up here?” I’ve lowered my voice but the intensity is still there. “I’ll tell you. It was learning to play pool from the butler and soccer from the gardeners and poker from the chauffeur. Because there was never anyone else around to entertain you. It was coming home from school and showing off your artwork to the maid. It was spending Christmases with the nanny and birthdays with whatever girl was hired to dress up like a Disney princess and knock on your door with an armful of presents. You’re not the only one who grew up without a father, you know? But at least you didn’t have to spend your life wondering when he would walk through the door and how long he would stay. You didn’t have to lie in bed at night, counting the number of words he said to you on his latest phone call from Japan, and then celebrating quietly to yourself when it was a whopping three more than the last time.”

  Luke has lowered his gaze. His breathing seems smoother. Less ragged than it was a few minutes ago. But mine feels like a tornado. I pull up on the handle of my suitcase and start pulling it toward the door, pausing long enough for one final glance in Luke’s direction. “You should be grateful your father left and never came back.”

  DEFYING GRAVITY

  “Something to read?” The flight attendant’s chipper voice interrupts my thoughts, and I tear my gaze away from the window to see that she’s holding a tray with several magazines splayed out across the surface like playing cards.

  I smile graciously at her as I scan the selection. Underneath the latest issue of Glamour I can see half of my father’s face peeking out. With curiosity, I push Glamour aside and study the cover of this month’s Fortune. Of course it’s a cover story about my father’s upcoming merger. The headline reads: NEXT STOP: GLOBAL DOMINATION. Then, in smaller letters underneath his photo: An exclusive interview with Richard Larrabee on his humble beginnings, bumpy romances, and the upcoming merger that will make him king.

  I reach for the magazine but Mendi’s hand swoops in right before I make contact and snatches it out from under me. “She doesn’t need to read that,” he tells the flight attendant. “It will only upset her.” Then he plucks this week’s issue of Tattle from the tray and hands it to me.

  I murmur a small thank-you and start flipping through, rather uninterestedly. Although I am grateful I’m not on the cover yet. That will be next week when I’ll be far, far away from here.

  I glance somewhat contemptuously over at Mendi, who’s been jabbering nonstop into his cell phone and has barely said two words to me since we left the house. I’d forgotten about that small yet annoying trait of his. With Mendi, you’re everything—the earth, the moon, and the stars—until his phone rings. Then you’re but a speck of meteor dust floating around a lonely universe, waiting for the gravitational pull of some planet or sun to reel you in and make you part of something significant.

  The pilot’s voice comes over the speaker, informing us that there’s another jet on the runway that’s unable to take off due to mechanical issues so we’re going to have to wait here, at the hangar, until it’s been towed away.

  I close my magazine and stare out the window, forcing myself to picture azure seas, giant villas, and glamorous masked balls. Holly, who’s been snuggled between me and the edge of the seat, stirs slightly and I reach down to scratch behind her ears.

  I’ve decided not to call Jia and T to tell them about my imminent arrival. It’ll be much better as a surprise. That way they won’t have time to get mad at me for showing up with Mendi. I know they’re not going to approve. But hopefully they’ll be so ecstatic to see me they’ll be able to overlook that detail. Besides, if he’s the one bringing me there—springing me from my father-made jail—then they can’t be too upset. Right?

  Plus, I don’t even know if we’re officially back together. I mean we kissed. And we’re going to Europe together. And we plan on staying in Europe together, but what does that really mean?

  Then, of course, there’s the other problem. The one I’ve been trying to ignore since we left the house—but obviously I’m failing miserably.

  Luke.

  Why does his face keep popping into my mind every time I let my thoughts wander for even a second?

  Why do I feel like I’m betraying him simply by being here?

  Almost as though we were together or something. I mean, not in that way obviously. We’ve never even kissed. Unless you count that huge mistake in the club, which I certainly don’t. But in some other way. Some strange way that I’ve never experienced before.

  It’s like we were both a part of something. We had this common goal. And yes, neither one of us particularly enjoyed each other’s company but we were still in it together. And no matter how bad things got—how many toilets I had to scrub, how many dishes I had to wash, how many graves I had to dig—Luke was always there. He was the one constant that could be counted on through the whole nightmare.

  He was willing to go the distance. He was willing to stick with it and see the entire thing to the end. And I gave up. I abandoned it. I left him hanging. Without even a real explanation.

  I look over to Mendi, who’s finally finished his call and is now e-mailing someone from his phone.

  “Mendi?” I ask.

  He barely looks up. “Yeah.”

  “How is this going to work?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I mean, with us,” I clarify.

  He finally sets his phone down in his lap and pulls me deep into his gaze, into the center of the universe again. “Well, we’re together now, aren’t we?”

  “Are we?” I ask back, and marvel at how calm and collected I sound. I don’t think I’ve ever been this rational when talking to Mendi about our relationship. Normally this type of “defining” conversation is accompanied by screaming and pac
ing and throwing stuff. Lots of stuff. Last time we got back together I broke an heirloom that had been in his family since the French Revolution.

  But not today. Not right now. For some reason I feel in control.

  “Of course we are,” Mendi says, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips.

  I shiver from his touch. “But how is it going to work when we get to Europe? I mean, I have nothing now. No money. No houses. No cars. Nothing.”

  He smiles tenderly at me, tugging gently at my hands until our faces are inches apart. Then he kisses me long and deeply and I nearly lose track of time and space. Are we on a plane? Are we still on the ground? Or did the runway finally clear and now we’re in the air? I certainly feel like I’m flying.

  “You don’t have to worry about any of that,” Mendi says when he pulls away, leaving me breathless and heavy once again. “I’ll take care of you.” He touches my nose with the tip of his finger. “As long as we’re together, you don’t have to worry about anything.”

  There’s something in the way he says it that causes me to pause and stare at him inquisitively. Although his tone is just as soft and tender as it always is when he’s talking to me, the words feel cold and callous. Like they are typed on a piece of paper—in a boring black font—not tumbling forth from the mouth of the guy I’m supposed to be falling back in love with.

  Then, as if my mind is separate from the rest of my body, I hear myself say, “And if we’re not together?”

  Mendi laughs at me, implying that I’m being ridiculous again. “But we are together,” he points out. “Just as it should be.”

  “But we break up,” I point out. “All the time. We’ve been breaking up and getting back together for the last two years.”

  Again, my rationality and ability to think and process information pertaining to the facts of our relationship is mind-boggling.

  “Well, then let’s not do that,” Mendi says, as though it’s the easiest, most straightforward answer in the world. As though the tumultuous nature of our relationship has been a simple choice and we’ve been continually choosing wrong. How silly of us.

  I can’t help but feel the emotion creeping in. However, it’s not the usual emotion that comes with this conversation. It’s a new one. One that can only be described as frustration with Mendi for not taking this conversation as seriously as I am. For not seeing how important this detail is.

  But then it suddenly dawns on me. Of course he doesn’t see it. It’s not important to him. If we break up, it’s not he who will be in danger of becoming a vagabond, a street vagrant, another statistic in Europe’s already sky-high unemployment rate. It’s not he who’s leaving behind his entire family and everyone who has been a part of his life since the day he was born.

  If we break up, he’ll be totally fine.

  But then again, I’m not sure why I’m surprised. That’s the way it’s always been. He wasn’t the one who crashed his Mercedes into a convenience store. He wasn’t the one found passed out on the floor of a gas station bathroom. Because regardless of whether we’re together or not, Mendi is always fine. I’m the one who falls apart.

  I’m the one who always finds myself emotionally (or in this case literally) homeless.

  “But what if we do break up?” I ask, hating the desperation that’s starting to seep into my voice. “What will become of me?”

  He shrugs and goes back to his BlackBerry. My fifteen minutes are officially up. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess you’ll go back home. Or stay in Europe. Whatever it is you do when we’re not together.”

  “But I can’t!” I scream, causing the flight attendant to peek at us from behind her curtain to make sure I’m okay. I instinctively lower my voice. But not by much. “Don’t you get that? I can’t go back. I’m totally cut off! I have nothing, Mendi. Do you even understand what nothing is?”

  As soon as I’ve asked the question I know what the answer is. Of course he doesn’t understand what nothing is. The same way I didn’t understand what it was five months ago, either. It’s not a word in our vocabulary. But I understand it now. I’ve seen it every place I’ve worked in the past twenty weeks. I’ve seen what it does to people. How it motivates them. Even me.

  “Well, I guess that settles it,” Mendi says distractedly, tapping away on his phone. “You better not leave me, then.”

  Although he laughs when he says this, I know it’s not a joke. It’s the truth. I better not leave him if I want to eat. I better not leave him if I want to survive. I better not leave him if I want to live the life I’ve grown accustomed to. If I want to have what I’ve always had.

  I better not leave him if I want money.

  And in that instant, I realize what this really is. What I’m really doing here.

  This isn’t a conversation about our relationship.

  It’s a business negotiation.

  The intercom squawks to life and the pilot’s voice comes over the speakers. “Sorry about the delay, Mr. Milos. It looks like the runway has been cleared and we’re ready for departure. So I’m going to ask you and Miss Larrabee to buckle your seat belts now for takeoff.”

  I glance over at Mendi as he switches off his BlackBerry, buckles his seat belt, and stretches his long toned legs out in front of him, resting his head back, and closing his eyes. As I stare at him, looking so peaceful and untroubled and perfectly content to fly across the world with me at the drop of a hat, I know the pilot is not actually asking me to buckle my seat belt. He’s asking if I really want to do this. If this is really where I want to be. Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life, Miss Larrabee? At the whim of someone else’s unpredictable and possibly even nonexistent emotions? Because if you buckle that seat belt, if I take this plane into the air, that’s it. There’s no turning back.

  He’s offering me an ultimatum. Speak now or forever hold your peace.

  And when have I ever been known to hold my peace?

  I tuck Holly under my arm and leap up from the seat, stepping over Mendi’s outstretched legs to get to the aisle. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t do this.”

  Mendi opens his eyes and looks up at me in surprise. “What?”

  I reach into the overhead bin and pull down my laptop. “I have to go.” Then I call to the flight attendant, “Excuse me? Can you tell the pilot that I need to get off the plane?”

  I can see Mendi’s visible struggle to stay patient with me. It’s a look I know too well. The last time I saw it was fifteen minutes before I drove my Mercedes through the window of a convenience store.

  “Baby,” he says, standing up and taking my hand, “sit down. You’re being dramatic. Look, let’s fly to Europe and see how it goes. You can’t live your life worrying about what will happen next. You have to just close your eyes and let go.”

  I pull my hand free and use it to touch his face. I rest my palm on his cheek and absorb his heat for the last time. “I’m sorry, Mendi,” I say softly. “But I’d rather live my life with my eyes open.”

  Then I reach down and swipe the Fortune magazine from his lap and walk off the plane.

  THE OTHER LIST

  Mendi doesn’t follow me. Not that he ever has. But for the first time in our dramatic two-year relationship, I’m grateful. The man working the front desk at the hangar asks if I need transportation. He motions to the long black limousine that Mendi and I arrived in and tells me that Mr. Milos’s driver will be happy to take me wherever I need to go. I shake my head and ask if he can just call me a cab.

  He appears surprised by my request but doesn’t argue. He places a quick call and then informs me that my taxi will be here in ten minutes.

  Left with nothing to do and about three vacations’ worth of baggage, I have no choice but to squat down on the top of one of my suitcases and wait.

  I open the magazine in my hand and flip to the cover story about my father. I’m not sure why I’m so interested, but something compels me to look.

  The article consists of
three pages and there’s a whole introduction about the upcoming merger with LaFleur Media. It goes on about how powerful Larrabee Media is going to be once the two companies are combined and about how my father will be presenting the merger to the shareholders to vote on.

  Basically the same stuff Luke told me yesterday.

  Jeez, was that only yesterday?

  It feels like months ago. It’s amazing how much can happen in a single day. I’ve been exposed to the press, sold out by my father, swept off my feet by Mendi, shunned by Luke, and now abandoned on an airport runway. Although to be fair, that last one was by choice.

  And now I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  Go back to work, I suppose. Finish my fifty-two-week-job sentence, collect my check, and get the heck out of here.

  I start to flip the page of the magazine but a photograph catches my eye and I stop.

  It’s of a man with a broad face, a long nose, salt-and-pepper hair, and horn-rimmed glasses. It’s one of those corporate promotional photos with the dull background. Essentially the grown-up version of those horrible portraits they make you take back in elementary school.

  But I honestly could care less about what kind of photo it is. I’m more concerned by the person in it.

  I know him.

  But how?

  I read the photo caption: Pascal LaFleur, founder and CEO of LaFleur Media.

  Oh, right. He’s the guy they’re negotiating the big merger with. Basically the French version of my father. That must be why he looks so familiar.

  But the longer I study his face, the more unconvinced I become.

  Why would I recognize the guy my father is conducting business with? It’s not as though I keep tabs on these things. That’s Luke’s domain. Did Luke show me a picture of him once? I don’t think so. Or maybe I saw him on the news or something? Luke said the story has been running on CNBC for weeks.

  I snort at the thought.

  Me watch CNBC? Sure. Sounds just like me.

  Well, maybe Horatio was watching it in the kitchen and I walked in and caught a glimpse of this guy’s face.