Page 25 of The Do-Over

The next week, Dad called me into his office. Tucked in the back of the building, it looked one paper stack away from an episode of Hoarders. Boxes lined one entire wall, six feet high, all with labels written in hasty black marker. Stacks of papers and files covered his desk. A very dead houseplant drooped from the cabinet in the back corner. Photos of the family covered the only available wall. Not one picture frame was straight.

Sometimes I thought Dad liked to be fenced in, like a barrier from the outside world. It was a source of comfort, even if it gave everyone else an eye twitch. In his office at work, he was also free from the watchful eye of my mother.

“Have a seat, Cupcake.”

I dumped a stack of books from one chair to another and slid into the freed seat, staring at his salt-and-pepper head as he scribbled a note. “What did you need?”

He finished writing and peered over his half-moon reading glasses. “I wanted to see how things were going.”

“Fine.”

“And you and Brent?”

Oh, that. Brent and I had danced around each other all week, only speaking when necessary—and I made a point that it was never necessary. My father seemed oblivious to any awkwardness. I tried to pretend it didn’t matter. The thing was, it was starting to matter. A lot.

“Like I said, it’s fine.”

“You’d tell me if it wasn’t fine, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure.” No, I would not. On a list of Things I Didn’t Want to Talk to My Father About, my relationship with Brent was at the top.

“Is there a chance the two of you could get back together?”

I sighed. “Daddy.”

“Sorry, I know. Your mother asked me to ask you and you know it’s just easier…” He waved a hand in the air. “Never mind. I just want to know that you and Brent can work together without any issues.”

I forced a smile. “Of course. Not to worry.”

He stood and rounded the desk, almost tumbling a group of shoeboxes stacked on the floor. “Cupcake, you know I love you and I’m always on your side. But business is business, and Brent is great at his job. I don’t want to lose him.”

I rose and stuffed my hands in my pockets. “I understand.”

“That’s my girl.”

Was I? I wondered once I was back in my office and digging into my emergency supply of chocolate. I know Dad loved me, but I also knew Mom was “his girl,” not me. He’d always take her side over mine. If she wanted Brent and me back together, then so did Dad. Even when Mom wasn’t in the room with me, her presence was like a dark cloud. With a sigh, I bit into the chocolate, but it tasted more bitter than sweet.

Despite the tension, the best part of my week was that I completed my review of the Grangers’ finances and was happy to recommend them for a loan. I pulled my report together and sent it off to Brent on Friday afternoon for his approval.

I’d just returned from lunch—orange chicken, fried rice, wonton soup from the place down the street—when my phone buzzed.

“Go out with me tonight,” Mathias said in place of a normal greeting.

“Hi. I’ve had a good day, only one Brent sighting. Thanks for asking.”

“Did you hear me?”

“I’d probably hear you better if you asked nicely.”

He snorted. “Perci Mayfield, would you do me the honor of going out with me tonight so we can have a couple of overpriced drinks?”

“See? How hard was that? What’s gotten into you?”

“I—” He paused, and the background noise changed. So did his voice, dropping low. “Phee called me this morning. She asked if I’d do the photography for the wedding.”

“What?”

“After I got off the phone with her—”