Page 51 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

He’s so small, I suddenly think. I never thought of my father as a small man. But here he is, at least a head shorter than me, not having to bend to rest his tear-streaked cheeks above the spot my heart beats.

Pulling my arms tighter around him, I hold my dad and rock him gently where we stand. I turn my head to one side and lap my cheek on his graying head.

I’ve been home and helping my folks for months. But this is the first time I understand the shift that has occurred — that is occurring even in this moment.

My parents have always been there for me, encouraging me, nurturing me, tending to my needs and then teaching me how to meet them myself.

Today, our roles have reversed, perhaps forever.

Now I am the nurturer. It is my turn to encourage them, to tend their needs, to dry their tears and help them not to give up hope.

This is what they’ve always done for me. It is the very least that I can do for them in their time of need.

I don’t know how long Dad and I stand there in the kitchen, both of us crying, me holding my father together the best I can. But I stay there as long as he needs me to, as long as he lets me hold him like the terrified infant that still lives somewhere inside of him, even after all his long years.

When he finally pulls away and takes my face in his two hands, I can see in his eyes that he too understands the shift that has taken place here.

“You’re a good boy, son,” he says, voice rough and weary. “A good man.”

I offer a weak smile, the best I can muster. “I had a great role model,” I reply, meaning every damn word.

Shira

Pushing my glasses up on the bridge of my nose, I squint at the numbers on my computer screen. According to these statistics, Blush is doing well.

Like, really well.

I bite my lower lip. Do I even need the investors? Blush has and continues to outperform my wildest expectations. Which, admittedly, were low.

But still. The app is doing great. Really freaking great.

Maybe Laurent was right. Maybe I don’t need those assholes who want to meet my man before they can decide whether or not Blush is worthy of their investment.

Something flutters in my belly at the thought of the exotic dancer. At first, I think it’s the macaroni salad I had for lunch coming back to haunt me.

Then I realize it’s butterflies.

I have actual — and by actual I of course mean metaphorical — butterflies in my freaking stomach. Me, avowed awkward sidekick of Valentina and perpetual single woman.

And sure, a lot of the reason that I’m single is because guys never take a second look at me. The first look tells them all they in their slim logic have decided they need to know: unkempt hair, nerd glasses, pudgy bod, weirdo nerd mannerisms.

But it’s also because I’m picky. Maybe pickier than I have any right to be. If I’m going to lock lips with a guy, it’s got to be one that ignites my insides. Otherwise that saliva exchange is just plain nasty.

And Laurent? Yeah, he definitely lights me up.

The only problem is that he’s my fake boyfriend of convenience. At best it would be unprofessional of me to develop feelings for him, and totally unfair to him at worst.

I won’t do that.

I refuse. Hell, I’m not that desperate.

Even if when I’m in bed and the lights are off, I like to imagine an alternate reality where a man like him could be interested in a girl like me.

Frowning, I force my eyes to refocus on the figures gleaming from my computer screen.

Numbers.

Data.

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