“You insist on painting yourself as a victim,” he said, his words so close to my own thoughts abouthimthat I clenched the phone painfully tight. “You must understand that your actions have consequences that affect all of us. When things started to go poorly foryou…”
“When two books in a row tanked and my publisher cancelled my contract, you mean. Please, don’t spare the truth on myaccount.”
Another sigh. “Even after the first book did badly, you became a differentperson.”
“Well, noshit.”
“You didn’t smile, you didn’t want to socialize, you refused to discuss alternate plans for yourfuture.”
Alternate plans, like a career ininvestments.
“I wasn’t fun anymore,” I agreed. And I hadn’t wanted to socialize—not when every conversation seemed to revert back to discussing my failure: What was I working on? What would the next stage of my life bring? Why wouldn’t I justtryworking for my father? The first two, my so-called friends had asked with undisguisedschadenfreude.The last, which had been Ingrid’s constant refrain, had led to our separation long before my disastrous last book wasreleased.
“When people care about you, they don’t want to see you struggling,Daniel.”
I clenched my jaw. “It’s funny, Dad. I always thought when people who loved you saw you struggling, they’d want tohelp. To encourageyou.”
“Which is why I keep offering to help you!” His frustration was nearly palpable. “To give you a position at Michaelson Investments, to get you contacts, to stake you financially if you needit!”
I closed my eyes and leaned back on thesofa.
Round and round and round again. The things he wanted to give me were the very last things I needed, and the only things I wanted from him were somehow impossible for him toprovide.
“I don’t need money. And I don’t want to work for you. I’m happier when I’m writing, and I’m finally back to it after months and months. Now was there another reason for yourcall?”
“That woman got to you, didn’t she?” he demanded angrily. “This is all herfault.”
I was confused for a second.Thatwoman?
“She called me, you know,” he continued. “When she couldn’t get ahold of you. Said she’d left you a dozen messages, and you hadn’t replied to any. Said she needed to discuss your future, said she had offers for you. I told her to mind her own damnbusiness.”
“What?Who?”
“Sabrina, of course. Youragent.” He spoke the word like it was code forthe leader of your satanic cultoryour drug dealer. Orboth.
“Sabrina called you? Huh.” I couldn’t help but smile alittle.
Sabrina Sanford was a one-hundred-pound whirling dervish of sarcasm and optimism, a unique combination that was part of the reason I’d signed with her, even though there was a time when I could have found someone with a higher profile. If you fell down one flight of stairs, she’d remind you that at least it wasn’ttwo. And when the first negative reviews on my last book had poured in, she’d reminded me that at least I was still tall and no one could take that away from me, which had made me grin for maybe the first and only time lastyear.
She’d texted me a million times when things had first gone tits-up, and still contacted me every few weeks. She’d sent me emails, voicemails… pretty much everything but singing telegrams. She had offers to discuss. She believed in me. She knew my next book would be another bestseller and I’d be back in the game. But it was Sabrina’s job to say that shit, and I’d been determined not to take her down with me on my shame spiral, so I’d ignoredher.
“She called me,” he confirmed. “And I told her you weren’t interested. She didn’t go into detail, but the offers she had weren’t from any publishing company I’d ever heard of. And anyway, I told her you were moving on. That this phase was over and donewith.”
Scale of one to ten, how immature was it that even though I’d killed off the idea of publishing again completely—had shot it, stabbed it, strangled it, and buried it six feet under in my mind—the idea had fresh appeal now that my father had decided I couldn’t doit?
There were some people in your life who encouraged you with positivity, and others who encouraged you with criticism, but there were some, like my parents, who encouraged withdiscouragement.Anything they believed I couldn’t or shouldn’t do became irresistiblytempting.
“Why are you fielding my offers?” I demanded. “Since when is that any ofyourbusiness?”
“I’m not. I’m cleaning up your messes. Sabrina said she’d tried to contact you multiple times, but you hadn’t replied. She contacted me to see if I could get in touch withyou.”
“Wait. Just so I understand,” I said patiently. “You want Sabrina to stop calling me and youwantme to ignore her, but somehow when I ignore her, this makes you think you have the right to meddle in myaffairs.”
My father heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I haven’t meddled in anything, Daniel.Honestly. So much drama. I’ve had a couple of conversations. None of the offers she’s had sound like anything you’d be interestedin.”
I counted to ten in my head. “Let me say this clearly, so you can’t misunderstand.Stay out of it. Stay out of mylife.”
He paused, and for a second, I wondered if I’d actually gotten through. But when he spoke, he sounded more bewildered than ever. “Daniel, you’ve accused your mother and me of not supporting you.But when I get involved, I’m involved too much? I truly don’t know how you want me to be. I don’t know how to care just enough, but not too much, and only in the right ways.” He exhaled harshly. “You make it so difficult to love you,son.”
