Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

“That’s irrelevant. He’s not my boyfriend.”


“Oh,” her mother says with a hint of overly-saccharine politeness. “I see. Then bring your very good friend who is a boy but not your boyfriend who you see late at night.”

Tina glances over at me. I give her a thumbs up.

“Fine,” she says. “I will. But only if you promise not to call him—”

“Oh, would you look at the time. Too bad. I gotta go. Bye, Tina. See you in a week.”

The call ends. Tina looks up at the ceiling. “Oh, God.” She doesn’t say anything else.

I glance over at her. “It’s hilarious that your mom calls the police pigs. Seriously, where did she pick that one up?”

“She’s down with all the idioms for the police,” Tina says. “If it’s immigration or crime, my mom is all over it. But just watch what it’s like when my dad and I try to explain Beyoncé to her.”

“I like your mom,” I say. “I wouldn’t mind meeting her.”

“That,” she says succinctly, “is because you’re not related to her.”

“Probably.”

She sighs, shakes her head at her laptop, and stands up. “Well. I’m going to start dinner.” She looks over at me. “Are you sure you won’t let me feed you?”

“That would be cheating,” I say glibly.

“Because I think you’re losing weight, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

I am saved from answering this by the sound of the Imperial March emanating from my watch. I swallow, check to make sure that Maria isn’t in the room, and then very carefully, I hit accept.

“Blake.” My dad is sitting at his desk, which is unusual. Usually he stands, paces even, like he can’t bear to be still for even the duration of a video conversation. Today, he looks…tired. More than tired. I’ve seen him tired before, and usually, he can hide it. This? He has dark circles under his eyes.

“Dude.” He lets out a sigh. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days.”

“I’ve been answering your emails.”

“And I’ve been telling you we need to talk.” He glares at me.

“Okay. So.” I don’t look at Tina. “Talk.”

“So. We have to talk over the Adam/Blake scenarios for the Fernanda launch. I actually liked your number three.”

I try not to glance at Tina. Like is not the word I would use to describe how I feel about her third scenario. It’s the closest I can come to the truth at present. In her draft, Tina’s written us with our usual banter, our typical friendliness—except with just a little added distance, a little formality. It’s obvious from the script that I’m trying too hard.

“Blake,” my father is supposed to say at some point. “What’s going on with you?”

“This is the first project I’ve taken on by myself,” I will confess. “I just want you to be proud of me.”

“Always,” Tina has my father saying. “I’m always proud of you.”

I don’t like this scenario. I want it. It makes me feel naked and exposed. It’s not just a true construction; it’s a whisper of my deepest desires.

“Yeah?” I’m carefully nonchalant. “You liked that?”

“It’s heartwarming,” Dad says, “it’s sweet without being maudlin. It’s exactly what I want—something that reinforces the fact that you’re an adult now, entirely capable of anything that gets thrown at you. But I want to ramp up the ending. We need to add in that I’m stepping down temporarily. Effective as of the launch.”

My whole body goes cold. “Dad. That’s three weeks away.”

He looks at me. He doesn’t launch into an immediate argument, and maybe that’s what sends a chill down my spine. Instead, he simply shakes his head gravely. “I know,” he says quietly. “Can you take over for me?”

“I’m in school. I have classes.”

He lets out a breath. “Blake. I know. I know. But—please. Do this for me.”

My hands are cold.

I have always known that there would come a time when my will would get pitted directly against his. When all the misdirection, all the tricks I’ve employed, will not be enough to keep him at bay. I just had hoped I would have more time.

“Dad.” I glance away from him, over to Tina. It doesn’t last long; my gaze is drawn back to his. My hands are shaking. I want him to be proud of me, and I’ve finally come to the point where I either have to lose myself completely or disappoint him. “I don’t want to take over.”

He lets out a breath and rubs a palm against his forehead. “Yeah,” he says. “I know. I kinda figured that one out when you thought it would be more fun to go waste time at a fucking university than stay here. But, Blake…” His hand drops and he looks at me. “If you really wanted to leave, you’d have gone more than forty miles. Right now, you fucking bastard, I really, really need you.”