Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 53233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Even though my visit to Safe Harbor yesterday was caught by one photographer, most of the reporters and photographers have backed off now. I decided to return to the security procedures I’ve always used for Giselle, which is two guards following her in separate cars anytime she’s driving her car or riding in someone else’s car. I can’t risk someone taking her for ransom, or worse.
“Olivier?” Hassan asks as I’m about to leave his office.
I turn to look at him, and he says, “How about sunflowers?”
I smile. “That’s perfect. Thanks, Hassan.”
I head into my meeting about the status of the real estate company I’m acquiring, hoping I can keep my mind on the many details of the deal. It’s hard to keep my thoughts from wandering to Daphne, though. Now that I’ve seen her office and I know a little more about her, I’m even more intrigued. I just have to show her there’s more to me than a lot of money.
Later that evening, tumbler of bourbon in hand to celebrate finalizing the acquisition at today’s meeting, I’m standing outside my daughter’s closed bedroom door, trying to persuade her to open it. Or at least respond.
“Giselle…I know you’re in there, your car is in the garage. And you’re not in the shower, because I can’t hear it running.”
Nothing. I’ve been home for half an hour and I haven’t seen a sign of her.
“Should I text?” I quip. “Or go get you a venti latte mocha grande espresso?”
I’m shit at ordering from Starbucks. The baristas look at me like I’m about a hundred years old when I order a large black coffee. Giselle has to remind me several times what she wants, or better yet, order it herself.
“It’s a tall iced caramel macchiato, Dad,” she says, her tone grumpy and nasally.
So she’s been crying. Fuck.
“You want one? We can take the McLaren. I’ll let you drive.”
“I just want to be alone,” she says.
“Why don’t we get some dinner and then you can be alone?”
After a pause she says, “I’m not hungry.”
“Giselle.”
“Go away, Dad.”
“You sound like you’ve been crying. I can’t go away when you’re upset.”
“Yes, you can.”
I lean a hand on the doorframe, taking a sip of my drink.
“I could, but I don’t want to. Will you just open the door?”
Silence. I walk over to a table in the hallway and set my glass down, then unbutton my shirt sleeves and roll them up, needing to get out some nervous energy. My instinct is to yell and bang on the door until my daughter opens it, but the therapist I saw when I took full custody of her told me not to do that.
Talk it out, she said. So I lean both hands on the doorframe and take a deep breath, trying again.
“Giselle, your old dad’s been through some shit over the years, you know. Whatever is going on, I just want to listen and help.”
I hear laugher mixed in with tears. “Yeah, right. You’ll kill the guy, Dad. I don’t want more attention on any of this. Just leave me alone.”
Guy. All I heard was guy, and my daughter telling me I’ll want to kill him for whatever he did to upset her. I want to punch a hole through the door. Even though I know the door is locked, I try the handle again, and when it doesn’t budge, I walk down the hallway, hands on my head.
I’m not cut out for this. Renee and I were supposed to be raising our daughter together, but now there’s just me, trying to navigate the needs and moods of a teenager. It’s so much fucking harder than it was when she was a little girl. An ice cream cone and a piggyback ride solved every problem back then.
I jog down the stairs, then go into my bedroom, where I grab a pillow and set it on the bed, then punch it about thirty times. Once I’m out of breath and feeling a little less homicidal toward the guy who upset my daughter, I go back upstairs.
“Giselle, I’m your father and I’m telling you to open this door.”
“Will you just leave me alone? God. Like it matters whether I eat dinner tonight.”
“It’s not about dinner, it’s about you being upset.”
I hear her walking, and then her voice is louder, so I know she’s on the other side of the door. “It’s nothing you can help with, okay? It’s just going to make you mad and I can’t handle that right now.”
I squeeze the sides of the doorframe until my knuckles turn white. Talk it out.
“What if I promise not to get mad?”
She laughs. “That’s not possible.”
“Are you pregnant?”
Another laugh. “Are you serious? No, I’m not pregnant.”
I relax slightly, and take a deep breath in and out. “Did someone physically hurt you? Is that why you don’t want me to see you?”