Page 14 of P.S. I Dare You

He remarried (to my nanny of all people) less than six months after we buried my mom, so I can only assume.

Running my finger along the smooth edges of the frame, I blink away the damp sting in my eyes and sit the photo back on the mantel.

Today, my father looked me in the eyes and gave me an impossible decision to make, one that will go against every promise I ever made to my mother as she lay dying.

If I were a man who talked to inanimate objects, I might offer a verbal apology in honor of my sweet mother’s memory.

I can’t let Samuelson buy WellesTech.

I can’t.

My mother would understand, I’m sure. But it doesn’t make this any easier.

Ambling to the bar cart that rests against the north wall, I fix myself two fingers of single malt Scotch and ignore the spilt drip that lands on the glass top.

I don’t consider myself a slob, but letting that drip linger is a silent act of rebellion.

I was barely thirteen and still attempting to process the loss of my mother in my own way when I started getting into trouble. It started with stealing my father’s favorite vintage Corvette for a little joyride around our estate, escalated to stealing my father’s vodka and sneaking out in the middle of the night, and ended when my father shipped me off to a military-style boarding school.

All I wanted was his attention.

He gave me the complete opposite.

Bridgeforth Academy was an expensive prison, wrapped in brick walls and iron gates, with corporal punishment a regular occurrence for those of us unwilling to bow down to an existence of controlled restraint.

We couldn’t take a shit without asking permission first.

Left your bed unmade before leaving for class? Toilet duty for a week.

Wrinkles in your uniform? Three day in-school suspension.

Anything less than an ‘A’ on a test? Loss of phone privileges for two weeks.

The last one didn’t faze me though. I never called my father. He never called me.

I take a sip of Scotch, one hand resting in my jeans pocket, and plant myself next to the window overlooking the streetscape below my apartment.

I don’t have a view of Central Park—quite the contrary. There’s an Indian restaurant, a dry cleaner’s, and a parking garage.

But I wouldn’t trade this for the world.

My apartment is comfortable but modest, paid for with money I earned on my own as I refused to touch a single dime from the outrageous trust fund my father established in an attempt to win me over several years back.

I couldn’t even tell you what it’s worth now.

Don’t know, don’t care.

I’d take freedom over ostentatious wealth any day of the week. I’d much rather spend my money on experiences than things.

I glance down at my unfinished Scotch and walk the cheap crystal tumbler to the sink, pouring it down the drain and placing the glass amongst the other dishes I’ll get around to washing when I feel like it.

For reasons I can’t explain, I’m no longer in the mood to be alone with my thoughts. The quiet is too loud here. The walls too confining.

Checking my watch, I determine by the time I get to The Lowery, it’ll be five o’clock and I might still be able to snag a seat at the bar before the local nine-to-five schmucks take them all.

I’ve been going to The Lowery long before it was featured on some reality TV show, long before it was the ‘cool’ place to drink.

Heading to my room, I freshen up and order a Lyft. It’s only when I’m giving myself a once-over in the full-length mirror that I notice a brown splotch toward the hem of my shirt. It takes me a second, but I deduce that it must be from bumping into that coffee-carrying girl earlier today at my father’s office.

Yanking the shirt over my head, I grab a clean one from my closet, tug it on, and head downstairs to catch my ride.

Passing the communal bulletin board on my way out, I spot a handwritten flyer. Someone advertising their personal assistant services, only they’ve spelled “personal” like “personel.”

I have to admit, I’m curious as to why my father would hire an assistant for me before I’ve so much as agreed to even consider his proposition. Either the years have eaten away at his shriveled excuse for a brain, or his illness has stolen his ability to think rationally.

I’m not sure why he’d think I’d need or want a “concierge.”

Stepping outside of my building, I spot my Lyft parked half a block away, hazard lights blinking, and I head that way.

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in front of The Lowery, contemplating my first drink of what’s going to be a long night.

I’ve got a head full of all kinds of shit I need to rectify, things I need to come to terms with. I need to make peace with the fact that I’d sooner die than let Samuelson buy my father out, which means I need to make peace with all the ways my life is about to change.

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