I head down the hall to my dad’s office, but when I near it, something stops me.
A voice.
And it’s not my dad’s.
A dart of worry pricks my chest as I listen to the next thing the man with my father says. “Saturday morning? I don’t think so, Tate,” he says in a deep, raspy tone that makes me shiver.
Which concerns me.
Because…I should not be shivering at my dad’s office.
Maybe I’m hearing things. Maybe this is a new symptom of my OCD. I walk cartoon-character slow, keyed in on the voice.
“Oh, c’mon. You’re going to slack off?” my father goads, but he’s clearly baiting the guy in a buddy sort of way.
“Yeah, I’m a slacker,” the man says dryly, and my shoulders tighten with worry.
“Better not be. We have that bet with the other triathlon team.”
“Well, I’d hate to lose,” he says.
“Perfect. Then I’ll see you this Saturday at the crack of dawn so we can kill it,” my father says in a lighter tone than he ever takes with me. I tiptoe closer now, a few feet from the open door. They can’t see me, and none of the paralegals or lawyers are walking down the hall. The office is half-empty at this time of the evening.
“Appreciate the hard sell, but not this Saturday,” his friend says, drawing a line in the sand.
My heart climbs up my throat uncomfortably. No, please, no. Just let them sound similar.
“I guess someone has a fun Friday night planned,” my dad says, a little too dude-bro for my tastes. I picture my dad lifting his eyebrows, asking what’s on tap for tomorrow night. Gross.
“We’ll see,” the man hedges, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
In it is the echo of other words. Words like…Open wide. Need to fuck that pretty mouth.
And…I want you to come again. On me.
I want to scream. This can’t be happening. My father’s running partner—the guy he does triathlons with—can’t be my phantom, my Gatsby, my Friday night secret date.
I draw a deep but quiet breath, then take one more step.
“You better show up Sunday morning, then,” my dad says.
“You do know when we win that bet, it’ll be because of me,” the man counters.
That voice.
“Fucking show-off,” my dad says with a friendly scoff.
“It’s not showing off if it’s true,” the man says.
I wish my OCD brain was playing the meanest trick on me with some new and awful intrusive thought. But I know it’s not. Still, I need to be sure if it’s really him. If I just peer carefully into the doorway, I can see most of Dad’s desk, but he won’t be able to see me.
Praying I’m mistaken, I peer carefully into the office. My father sits at his desk, cracking a rare smile as he chats with the man across from him.
In slow-mo, like I’m watching through horror-movie fingers, I turn.
I. Die.
I roll my lips together, sealing up all my screams. That jawline covered in scruff. That hair, thick and brown, with a few silver streaks. Those broad shoulders.
I’d know that half profile anywhere.
Even though I only saw him in the dark, that’s the man I kissed at the masquerade. The man who made me come hard by the books.
The man whose cock I sucked good and thorough…is my father’s best friend.
Finn Adams.
I swivel around, race-walk down the hall, then duck into the ladies’ room.
I guess I’ll risk being late this time.
6
BACKING OUT
Jules
My father finishes a bite of his salmon, washes it down with water, then asks, continuing our dinner conversation, “And what did Renata say about your track record with Opening Number?”
Is your best friend still married??? Because I’m sick to my stomach right now. Like, I want to die.
I’m twenty-five, so it’s not like I hang out a lot with my father and his buddy. They only became friends a few years ago. It’s not like Finn came over to barbecues when I was a teenager, or, worse, to piano recitals when I was in braces.
I shudder at those thoughts but strive to keep my poker face as I answer his question about the executive I’ve been working with at Webflix, the streaming service that carries Happy Enough. “Well, I didn’t exactly say here’s my track record. Instead, I did what she asked me to. I ran the budget for the show they’re going to carry.”
My even tone doesn’t give away the relentless loop playing in my head. My father’s best friend wants to fuck me and I’m pretty sure he’s married.
I can barely take another bite of this mushroom risotto. From across the table, my father’s wife watches me as I push food aimlessly on my plate. She’s poised like a cat, staring at my dish.
But before the only-eats-salads health nut can jump in, my dad continues down work-talk road. “You should find ways to let her know, Julia,” he says. He’s the only person who calls me by my given name. I’ve been Jules forever. “We made sure you landed a job at one of the top production companies in the world for a reason—so you could have the job you’ve always wanted.”
We?
He’s trying to take credit for my job with Bridger? Fine, he introduced me to Bridger when I graduated, and Bridger hired me as an intern. But I had to prove myself. I had to work my way up, and over the last three years, I’ve done that on my own terms.
But I don’t point that out. I don’t plan to tell him, either, that I’ve been dying to work on The Rendezvous. He’d probably call Bridger and diplomatically suggest he move me onto that show, saying Streamer would be lucky to have me working on its flagship production.
No thanks.
Besides, I have a bigger mission at this meal—moving the conversational chess piece to the guy who’s no longer a phantom. I already googled Finn while I was in the ladies’ room at my dad’s office. He’s not on social, so I didn’t find anything that would tell me his current relationship status. No photos of him recently, but plenty over the last few years at charity events with his wife, Marilyn.
Who I met a year ago.
Dad had texted me at the last minute to join him at a nearby restaurant with some of his friends. When I arrived, Finn rose, shook my hand, and said, “Good to see you again, Jules. This is my wife, Marilyn.”
My chest caves just thinking of those words. He didn’t have a ring on at The Scene, because of course he didn’t have a ring on at a kink masquerade.
I even contemplated texting Layla to ask if Finn’s married, once I’d put two and two together and realized my Finn is Nick’s brother. She’s mentioned Finn in passing a few times, including at poker, but of course I hadn’t known he was the same Finn. Or my phantom. But even now that I know, there’s no reason why I’d ask her. If he is married, I don’t want to let the cat out of the bag that he cheats. And I definitely don’t want my friends to think I’d hook up with a married man because I wouldn’t knowingly do that ever. I don’t want to do that unknowingly either.
“I’ll find a way to let Renata know,” I tell my father, though I won’t, but I add, “Anything else you think I should do?”