Page 234 of Power Play

The Westerly was exactly the kind of restaurant my father liked. Dark wood, white tablecloths, low lighting, and servers who never interrupted at the wrong moment. It was the sort of steakhouse where prices were missing from some menus because everyone involved understood that asking was gauche.

My father had reserved the private dining room for sixty of his closest friends and family. Conversation filled the elegant space when I entered, punctuated by the quiet clink of expensive glasses and laughter from people who had known me long enough to feel entitled to comment on how grown-up I looked.

My parents sat near the center of the longest table. My father stood when I approached, smiling broadly enough to draw the attention of everyone around him.

“There she is.”

I returned his smile and kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday, Daddy.”

He looked pleased. My mother’s eyes traveled over my dress before returning to my face.

“You wore it.”

“I did.”

“It still fits beautifully.”

The words hit the raw place her message had already created, but I forced myself not to react. “Thank you.”

Dinner began easily enough, which almost made it worse.

My father talked about work with the guests seated nearby. My mother asked about design studio, and I made the mistake of mentioning that Klein had liked my revision. That opened another twenty minutes of questions about grades, graduation, internships, and whether I had considered New York again.

The anxiety buzzed beneath my skin while the conversation moved around me. My father talked about work, and my mother found ways to return everything to school, design, internships, and the future I was supposed to want.

When my steak arrived, I cut it into smaller pieces and moved them across my plate. I drank water and then a little wine, giving my hands something to do while I kept myself together. The rules I had created in my bedroom counted every bite before it reached my mouth.

My phone remained inside my purse because Ryan had a game. Even though he was angry with me, I knew he wasn’t disappearing.

That mattered more than I wanted to admit.

I repeated it silently every time my father said something that made me feel twelve years old.

Dessert arrived with a candle, and my mother immediately insisted the server take photographs before my father complained that birthdays after fifty were less celebrations and more threats. Everyone laughed. I laughed too because I loved him, and that was what made all of this so hard.

I loved both of them. I loved the people sitting across from me even when they made me feel small and even when I knew the conversation I was about to begin could change everything between us.

Nothing about this was simple, no matter how badly Ryan wanted it to be.

My mother took a sip of wine and set the glass carefully beside her plate. “We should probably start discussing Thanksgiving.”

My stomach tightened.

My father groaned. “Crystal, it’s October.”

“Thanksgiving reservations and catering don’t happen magically.”

“You host every year.”

“Exactly why I need to plan.” She looked at me. “You’ll be home, obviously.”

The opening I had been waiting for arrived, and my pulse went wild.

Ryan’s voice moved through my head.

Go choose me back.

“Yes, I’ll be there.”