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“I think you nipped that fear in the bud when you took your mother’s last name.” He doesn’t have to tell me that it disappoints him that I’m not proudly a Ramsay.
“Oh, trust me, with social media nowadays, everyone will know who I am the second I get hired on at your company.” He nods once, giving a half-hearted smile before looking down at his shoes. I feel guilty. “I’m not ashamed of you, Dad; that’s not it.” I reach my hand out and touch his arm. “I’m just feeling a little lost is all. You know how it is to be twenty-four.”
I give him a smile and his eyes brighten, his own lips curling into a smile. The truth is I am ashamed of the Ramsay name. For years my dad didn’t have a great reputation. I know he’s changed, or that’s what his new wife Chantelle says, along with a few others, but it’s hard to trust that when the only version I’d known of him was an angry, cheating liar who walked out on me when I was seven and barely showed back up, only to drop off a check or make a half-hearted attempt to celebrate a birthday or milestone too late.
“Okay, this is my last resort. My good friend, Beckham Archer, owns Archer Financial just across the street from my building. He’s looking for an admin immediately. His last one left unexpectedly. I could send him your resume and set up a meeting, if you’d like?”
“Now you’re pawning me off onto your friends who need assistants?” I crook an eyebrow at him. “Dad, I appreciate the offer, but I’m just not sure.”
“Okay, just promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I promise.”
“Come on.” He motions with a quick nod of his head.
“Where?”
“To your gift.” He smiles and grabs my hand, leading me toward the center of the room.
“Dad,” I groan, feeling like I’m that young girl all over again who just wants to spend time with her dad, instead of being showered with elaborate gifts. “I told you I didn’t need or want any gifts besides donations being made to the Chicago Boys and Girls Club.”
“Oh, pish.” He waves away my suggestion in classic Jonas Ramsay fashion. Sure, he gives to charity—what billionaire doesn’t donate more money in a year than most of us will see in a lifetime to various causes—but do they care about them?
My dad doesn’t. Which is why I haven’t told him that for the last several years, I’ve volunteered at a few different nonprofits in the city for underprivileged children, something that has become such a passion of mine I can’t help but keep going back to the idea that maybe I should start my own nonprofit.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s gift time!” He grabs a spoon off a table and clinks it against his glass, the guests turning to listen to his announcement.
“I cannot wait to see what he got you for a gift.” My best friend Sylvia stands next to me along with our mutual friend Taylor, who are both giggling.
“Stop it.” I give them both a glare, but it only eggs them on.
They’ve been by my side for this entire journey with my father and they’ve been in the room with me while he’s on the phone trying to talk me into letting him buy me a new house in the suburbs, a penthouse downtown, or even a flat in London or Paris.
“I wanted to do something special for my baby girl because she not only deserves it, but she’s always wanted one.” My dad smiles at me and motions for us to head outside.
I’m so confused as to what might be on the other side of these walls. I walk next to him as the host walks ahead of us and dramatically opens both doors of the restaurant in a sweeping gesture.
I gasp when I see it.
Parked on the street in front of the restaurant with a giant bow on top is a brand-new cherry-red Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriole.
“Dad, this is too much.”
“Nonsense.” He walks me over to the car and slides the key in my hand. “Remember when you were just a little girl and you’d beg me to take you driving in mine with the top down? You couldn’t get enough of that car.”
He smiles so proudly as he looks at it and for a second I think I almost see a tear in his eye. I’m not sure if it’s a tear about my childhood or if it’s because he loved that car so damn much. He conveniently doesn’t mention when I accidentally crashed my bike into the rear fender and he screamed at me like I did it on purpose. I remember sobbing in my room for hours, my mom coming to rub my back and comfort me, but my dad pulling her out of my room because I needed to think about what I did.
“It’s a hundred-thousand-dollar car, Dad. I don’t have anywhere to put it.”
“We can sell your old car.”
“I like my car,” I say nervously. “And it’s only three years old.”
I feel guilty for not being super excited about a gift I not only didn’t want, but one I don’t need. I like the fact that I saved up and worked hard, busting my ass doing double shifts at the restaurant I worked at to buy my Kia. I was so proud when I did buy it since it was not only new, but had cooled and heated seats, plus a moonroof.
“Chantelle enjoys having a few different cars. She says it’s nice to have one as a daily driver and one when the weather isn’t so great.”
“Yes, well, you two have a ten-thousand-square-foot garage. I have a single parking spot.”
