Page 63 of The Pucking Fake Boyfriend

I suppress a wave of nausea as I think of Theodore Furman’s smug face. The thought of what could have happened if I hadn’t managed to pull myself out of that deal still haunts me.

Clearing my throat, my dad looks up from the screen, his eyes narrowing when they see me.

“Britney,” he greets me, leaning back in his chair. We haven’t seen each other much since the day I told Blake abouthis plan almost two months ago. He seems to have added a few gray hairs and a couple of wrinkles since then.

I shut off the part of my heart that wants to feel bad for him. I can’t carry the emotional weight of letting him down along with all of the other baggage I’m carrying.

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

Striding toward one of the chairs in front of him, I take my seat. For the past twenty years, I’d walked into his office and sat here a million times while playing my part of a docile, saintly girl.

Today, I’m finally being myself.

“I need to tell you a couple of things.”

“Thought you got it all out last time.” There’s no trace of emotion in his voice. He sounds like he’s conducting an interview with someone he barely knows. I don’t let that get to me. Knowing my father, he’s probably trying to push my buttons to get me back into that state of co-dependency in which I act exactly the way he wants.

And maybe I’d be tempted to do that if I hadn’t suffered another emotional upheaval two weeks ago. Realizing I was pregnant turned my world upside down. For once, I’m not going to worry about satisfying other people’s expectations.

I nod toward his computer. “Have you heard back from the Furmans?”

He does not even deign to look surprised that I care enough to ask. “Yeah,” he says. “Andy responded this Monday. The incident was unfortunate, but he’s not going to make a thing out of it. We get to keep our jobs. Now, we can sweep it under the rug.”

Molten rage seeps into my veins. “The incident. Is that how you refer to trying to pimp out your daughter?”

His eyes narrow even more. “I told you and Blake,” he says. “I know you might see me as foolish and selfish, orwhatever else you’ve contorted in those skulls of yours. But everything I did was for you.”

Taking deep controlled breaths does nothing to calm me. The floodgates are opening. Even though I assumed this would be a casual, short conversation, I’m starting to think I was wrong. “Is that what you tell yourself?” I ask. “Forcing us to act and behave and do things your way?”

“Yes,” he says, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He leans forward. “Britney, my reasons for my behavior are straightforward. You can find it appalling that I did everything I could to keep my promise to your mother, but I did. There was no lying or sneaking around. You, on the other hand, have some explaining to do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looks incredulous. “You’ve been pretending for twenty-four years, Brit.”

I blink. Did his voice just crack, or was I imagining it?

“And I still can’t figure out why.” His face snaps back to a blank expression. “I saw you fight for yourself some weeks ago in my office. And I remember seeing you back in California after you ran up to Steinman. I thought for a second that you were just growing up, that Alex was making you change. But then, I overheard your co-workers talking about you, how you started making friends with them. And then it clicked. You’ve been acting all your life. And even when it was safe to say things, you thought it was better to play games. You could have just told me all along that you detested the thought of Theodore, and I would have backed off. Why didn’t you?”

“Because of you,” I say simply. His eyes darken, and I continue before he can interrupt me. “When we were growing up, you spent all your time with Blake—”

“He had a future in hockey,” he cuts in. “I had no choice.”

“You did,” I say. “And you chose him. Every time. Andwhen you were around me, you seemed eager to leave. You said on multiple occasions that you never wanted a baby girl, and you were confused as to how to act around her. Around me. As I got bigger, I started to believe you. Then every time you talked about how you thought a woman should behave, I internalized that as well. When I left Philly for college, I realized being silent isn’t my personality at all. It was what I’d been doing to get you to love me. Every time I stepped out of line, you punished me.”

“I never punished you, Brit.”

“Not with hitting me, Dad,” I say, surprised at the new calm I feel. Maybe a baby growing in me is changing me more than I thought possible.

“How did I punish you, then?”

“By withdrawing your love.” It’s my turn for my voice to crack, but I keep pushing anyway. “You took away your attention every time I did something you disliked. On a good day, you treated me as the spare child, the one that took your wife away. Even as recently as six months ago, the thought of directly confronting you about anything made me scared of being punished.”

I expect my father to shoot out yet another disagreement. But he’s completely silent. And when I look up at him, I’m shocked to see tears in his eyes.

“Shit,” he grinds out, stabbing at them with a nearby tissue. “You’re right. I did. I had no idea how else to handle you.”

My father’s realization throws a little bit of light into the dark pit of despair I’ve been in for weeks.

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