Page 89 of The Pretender

He seems to relax, and I shove the whole chip in my mouth and try to look hungry. “Well, it seems like not only have you kept your head down and stayed up with school, but you’ve gained the attention of producers in the process. I don’t understand, Valentina. Why are you making it seem as if you’re a failure?”

Because that’s how I feel.

I feel the heat rush to my cheeks. “I don’t like failing.”

“Is that what you think you’ve done?” His voice is soft and comforting as he hands me the bag of chips. He’s such a softy.

“Yes? No. I don’t know. I just feel like I let Sebastian down by not winning and not picking up that Brick was reporting back to Malcolm.” I stare out the window, admiring others enjoying the best tacos ever.

“What’s this really about, sweetheart? Because there is no way you could have known this Brick guy—Is his name really Brick?”

I double over laughing. “Yeah, that’s his name.”

My dad hands over my bag of three delicious tacos.

“All I’m saying, Vee, is that I’ve never known you to be a quitter. Why would you let this guy win?”

I shrug, taking a bite of my taco and moaning. “This is so worth enduring this session, Dr. Parker.” I wink, and my dad chuckles.

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said hi.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes and then I decide to be brave. I don’t ever want to think I’m not as valued as my brother, like Sebastian feels. “Are you disappointed in me for doing makeup tutorials and not going into music like you and Oliver?” I don’t add my mom, though she is a talented singer as well.

“What?” His face falls. “Is that what you think? That because you didn’t do something in music that I’m somehow disappointed in you?”

Okay, so it does sound a little silly when he says it like that. “I mean, no. I don’t know. I just see how proud you and Mom are of Oliver’s success and I don’t know. I guess, I feel like doing MyView videos seems a little less than impressive.”

A small grin tugs on his face. “Less than impressive? When Oliver was in college, do you know how often he called me for money?”

I feel myself smiling already as I shake my head. Oliver is such a loser. I say that in the sweetest, sisterly way.

“That boy called me every week. He’d either forget to pay his rent or overspend on a new piece of equipment for his board. He was a dreamer with his head in the clouds. Sure, he spent twenty hours of each day playing music and immersing himself in his craft, but you know what he didn’t do?”

I blink, knowing he doesn’t really need me to answer.

“He wasn’t self-sufficient. He didn’t make his own money and pay his own rent. He didn’t make himself dinner. He didn’t do his own laundry. Your mother and I called him so much because we were afraid he wouldn’t eat or he’d fall asleep on the street or something.”

He takes a breath and sits up, so he’s in my face. “Guess how often you have called me for money?”

This answer I know. “Not very often.”

He nods. “Three times.”

Not too shabby. I really thought I called him more.

“Valentina, my love. You’re just like your mother, fiercely independent, determined, and full of fire. You’ve never needed us. Since you were little, the youngest of the kids. You fought your way into the Von Bremen and Jameson’s lives. You wouldn’t let them ignore you or say you were too little to hang out with them. You showed them you were their equal. You, my girl, are a brilliant and beautiful light.”

He takes a breath. “So no, I don’t ever feel any sort of disappointment when it comes to you. You are more than I could have ever asked for. I’d actually love for you to need me, but you don’t—” He smiles. “At least not that often.”

I feel tears stinging the back of my eyes. “You mean that?”

The same brown eyes as mine stare back at me. “With all my heart. You are never a disappointment, my angel.”

At least not to him.

“And you’re not a disappointment in this competition. Win or lose, I know you will have fought and scratched your way to the finish line. It doesn’t matter if you come in first, Valentina. All that matters is you finish the race.”

My dad is right. Malcolm hasn’t won yet. And once I finish these tacos, I’ll prove it.

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