Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I guess I’ll risk being late this time.
6
BACKING OUT
Jules
My father finishes a bite of his salmon, washes it down with water, then asks, continuing our dinner conversation, “And what did Renata say about your track record with Opening Number?”
Is your best friend still married??? Because I’m sick to my stomach right now. Like, I want to die.
I’m twenty-five, so it’s not like I hang out a lot with my father and his buddy. They only became friends a few years ago. It’s not like Finn came over to barbecues when I was a teenager, or, worse, to piano recitals when I was in braces.
I shudder at those thoughts but strive to keep my poker face as I answer his question about the executive I’ve been working with at Webflix, the streaming service that carries Happy Enough. “Well, I didn’t exactly say here’s my track record. Instead, I did what she asked me to. I ran the budget for the show they’re going to carry.”
My even tone doesn’t give away the relentless loop playing in my head. My father’s best friend wants to fuck me and I’m pretty sure he’s married.
I can barely take another bite of this mushroom risotto. From across the table, my father’s wife watches me as I push food aimlessly on my plate. She’s poised like a cat, staring at my dish.
But before the only-eats-salads health nut can jump in, my dad continues down work-talk road. “You should find ways to let her know, Julia,” he says. He’s the only person who calls me by my given name. I’ve been Jules forever. “We made sure you landed a job at one of the top production companies in the world for a reason—so you could have the job you’ve always wanted.”
We?
He’s trying to take credit for my job with Bridger? Fine, he introduced me to Bridger when I graduated, and Bridger hired me as an intern. But I had to prove myself. I had to work my way up, and over the last three years, I’ve done that on my own terms.
But I don’t point that out. I don’t plan to tell him, either, that I’ve been dying to work on The Rendezvous. He’d probably call Bridger and diplomatically suggest he move me onto that show, saying Streamer would be lucky to have me working on its flagship production.
No thanks.
Besides, I have a bigger mission at this meal—moving the conversational chess piece to the guy who’s no longer a phantom. I already googled Finn while I was in the ladies’ room at my dad’s office. He’s not on social, so I didn’t find anything that would tell me his current relationship status. No photos of him recently, but plenty over the last few years at charity events with his wife, Marilyn.
Who I met a year ago.
Dad had texted me at the last minute to join him at a nearby restaurant with some of his friends. When I arrived, Finn rose, shook my hand, and said, “Good to see you again, Jules. This is my wife, Marilyn.”
My chest caves just thinking of those words. He didn’t have a ring on at The Scene, because of course he didn’t have a ring on at a kink masquerade.
I even contemplated texting Layla to ask if Finn’s married, once I’d put two and two together and realized my Finn is Nick’s brother. She’s mentioned Finn in passing a few times, including at poker, but of course I hadn’t known he was the same Finn. Or my phantom. But even now that I know, there’s no reason why I’d ask her. If he is married, I don’t want to let the cat out of the bag that he cheats. And I definitely don’t want my friends to think I’d hook up with a married man because I wouldn’t knowingly do that ever. I don’t want to do that unknowingly either.
“I’ll find a way to let Renata know,” I tell my father, though I won’t, but I add, “Anything else you think I should do?”
Dad motors on about work ethics, reminding me once again that I shouldn’t ever be late to work, like I was late for meeting him earlier, and then it hits me. Earlier he and Finn were talking about training. All I have to do is ask my dad about running.
When there’s a pause in the conversation, Liz sets down her fork next to her plate of lettuce, then asks, “And how is your risotto?”
That’s not what the carb hater really means. “It’s great,” I say quickly, then look at my dad. “Hey, how’s your triathlon training going? You’re still running every weekend in the park?”
It’s a bit obvious but maybe not too obvious.
“Great. We have another race coming up in a month,” he says.
“Who’s we?” I ask, acting confused. “Oh, that guy you train with? What’s his name?”