I love my dad. I really do. Only, aside from a mutual love of dim sum, we have always been painfully awkward in each other’s presence. I don’t even know why, but it hangs over us like a cloud of bad gas no one wants to mention. And there is the fact that he’s never approved of me.
To that end, I brace my palms on the worn wooden table and take a breath. “I quit my job today.”
Dad sets down his beer. “Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it does. If you were sexually harassed, I’ll get up and hunt the bastard down, make him sorry he ever lived. If you were bored, I’ll tell you to get over it, pick a better job next time.” He shrugs. “The reason makes all the difference.”
I am warmed by the idea of my dad kicking someone’s ass for me. “I guess you’re right.” I tell him why I quit, the whole time shaking deep within the pit of my stomach. I hate admitting failure. But I hated my situation more.
While I talk, the waitress sets down a steaming basket of fresh soup dumplings. Dad picks up a delicate, pale little rose of a dumpling. The fragrance of chicken broth and ginger fills the air as he bites and sucks down the soup hidden within.
“So,” he says, “lesson learned. Don’t trust sudden friends who are after the same position as you.”
I have a mouthful of dumpling, so it takes me a moment to swallow and gape up at him. “You’re not going to give me shit?”
“Why would I do that?” His brow scrunches up, making the wrinkles in his face deeper.
“Uhm, because you always give me shit about my…” I hold up my fingers to air quote. “‘Flighty nature’.”
He frowns as if he can’t make out what I’ve just said.
“Oh, come on, Dad,” I say, impatient now. “You’ve called me Flighty Fi since I was a kid.”
“Hey, now. It was a nickname. A term of endearment.”
“Your terms of endearment suck, Dad.”
His frown grows to a scowl. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry you don’t like the term. but…” He shrugs. “You are kind of flighty.”
Shit. That shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Enough that I have to blink to clear my vision.
I push back my plate. “Do you have any clue what it’s done to me to know you think that?”
Dad pauses, dumpling halfway to his mouth. Slowly he lets it settle on his plate. “Honey…” He pauses, his mouth twisting as if he’s groping for some platitude to placate me.
I want to get out of here, but I can’t run away from this.
“It hurts, Dad. You and Mom, you’re both so proud of Ivy. But me? I’m the sad case that keeps letting you down.”
For a sick moment, I really do empathize with fuck-face Elena. Which makes my feelings sting that much more. I sure as shit do not want to find common ground with her.
Dad tosses his chopsticks onto the table where they rattle around. “You do not let us down. You’re just… You have so much potential. We want to see it come to fruition.” He leans forward, the old leather booth creaking beneath him. “Fiona, you’re my kid. Every father wants to see his kid settled. Or he ought to, anyway.”
A shaking breath gurgles in my throat. “Wanting to see me settled and being dubious of my ability to lead my life are two separate things. I know I’m not like Ivy—”
“No,” he cuts in. “You’re like me.”
“You?”
“Don’t look so horrified,” he says dryly.
“It’s just… You’re successful, Dad. People aspire to be like you.”
I swear he flushes. He doesn’t meet my eye as he rubs the back of his head. “I’m a lucky bastard who happened to be tall and coordinated enough to play the game. The agent gig, well…” He shrugs again, grabbing his chopsticks to poke at a dumpling. “I knew the business by then so I took an opportunity.”
I can’t believe he’s downplaying what he is.
“You are, though,” he goes on quietly. “Like me. I too was always searching for something to inspire me, something to get excited about.”