Page 51 of Upshot

“I’m not here to coddle whatever fantasy life you think you’re living in,” he snarls.

“What do you mean fantasy life? There’s nothing pretend about it.”

His eyebrows raise to his hairline. It’s probably the first time I’ve questioned him. In my old life, I wouldn’t have cared what he thought about my apartment. But this is so much more personal. This is more than just my house, this is my family home.

“Your work is suffering,” he states. Which has some truth to it. But I’ve been busting my ass lately to make up for it. In my defense, I’ve had a lot going on.

“Just a temporary hiccup until I get everyone settled into my working remotely. I’m still closing deals and tending to projects. I just need a little understanding until the baby is born.”

He snorts in derision. “No.” Asking my father for understanding is like asking the wind not to blow. Something snaps inside me. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation or more than my share of stress. I’m not sure, but I’ve had enough.

“No? What do you mean, no? There’s no other option.”

“You’ll be coming back with us,” he says, as if I’ve not spoken. “You’ve had your fun. The attorneys will make sure she gets a reasonable settlement to provide for the baby. I won’t let you ruin your life. You’ll be returning this afternoon. This mess can be handled quietly.”

“You mean you don’t want it to inconvenience your life. Your only concern is how much I make you. If you gave even one shit about me, you’d want me happy.” My blood is boiling. My father is all about the all-mighty dollar. It’s always come before country, friends, and even family.

“You’re delusional if you think this will make you happy. If you weren’t so naïve to start with, you wouldn’t be in this position,” he yells. “I didn’t send you to the best schools and set you up with a job others would kill for only to be saddled with some whore and her brat. You’re making us a laughingstock.”

“Is that what you think?” I scream back. “That she’s nothing but a whore? She means nothing to me. I don’t want anything to do with the blowby inside her. You—” His eyes shift from me to something behind me. A triumphant smirk settles on his face.

I spin around to find Brontë standing in the open door. The absolute look of sorrow on her face tells me she heard what I just said. It freezes me in place.

He knew exactly what he was doing. I should have known. He’s always been a master at manipulation. I have to fix this. But. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.

She spins around so fast, I worry she’ll fall. “Brontë? What is it?” I hear my sister ask from the porch. Brontë doesn’t slow down. A ringing in my ears begins, and my legs move stiffly off the porch. I catch up with her as she reaches her car.

“Wait,” I say. “I didn’t… you didn’t hear—”

“I know exactly what I heard,” she hisses. Her glare makes me take a step back. “Why, Rand? Why didn’t you just leave us alone? We would have been better off. We never needed you anyway.”

She jerks open the door of her car. “Just go back to where you belong. Forget about us. I don’t want to see you again.” She slides into her car, and I watch helplessly as she drives away.

“What did you do?” Geneva asks behind me. Spinning around, I race past her into the house. My phone is sitting on my desk. I grab it and call Brontë. It goes straight to voicemail, as do the next three.

“Rand?” My sister’s voice warbles like it used to right before my father would hit me. She throws her arms around me when I toss my phone back on my desk. It’s the same thing she used to do after I had been beaten.

* * *

I got on the plane. But don’t give up on me. I am going back to California, just not for the reason he thinks.

From day one, I knew I’d never move back here. Nothing that happened has changed that. I still believe with my very soul that the only place I need to be is near Brontë and Baby B. It’s what I’ve started calling the baby.

Brontë asked several weeks ago if I had any suggestions for names. Now that’s been taken away. But I know whatever she chooses will be perfect.

The drive back to the airport was chaos part of the way. Geneva started out arguing with me about my choice to leave until our father finally threatened her. I’m sure the driver had plenty of fodder to share that night.

Then she just gave me the silent treatment. She still is. Mom was about as much help as ever. I guess she brought baby Gucci to the baby shower. Brontë should have the best-dressed baby in town.

“So what’s the plan?” Pete asks, dropping onto the couch in my office. I was expected to show up at the office ready to work the next day. So here I am. What my father doesn’t realize is I am working, but on something completely different.

I spent most of the night trying to contact Brontë with no luck. I’ve tried her sisters. They ignore me too.

“Working,” I say noncommittally.

“I can see that. But what on?” I close the folder I’m pouring over and motion for him to close the door. When he sits back down, he stares at me. “Spill. Geneva gave me the angry, female version. What went down?”

“Simple. Brontë overheard something she wasn’t meant to. I was kicked to the curb before I could explain. Now everything is all fucked up.”

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