“She keeps calling you.”
The Single Dad rubbed one hand over his face.
“Don’t let her leave.”
“I’ll be there.”
He ended the call.
His Daughter had already paused the movie.
“You have to go.”
He hated the resignation in her voice.
“No.”
“You just said you’re going.”
“I need to help somebody.”
“Her.”
“Yes.”
His Daughter looked down at the popcorn.
The Single Dad felt something twist.
Three months earlier, he had missed her science presentation because the CEO scheduled a client meeting with fourteen hours’ notice.
Six months earlier, he had arrived halfway through her school concert.
Last year, he missed a father-daughter breakfast because an acquisition presentation had to be rewritten before sunrise.
Every time, he had explained.
Every time, his Daughter said she understood.
Children said that because they had no power to change adult decisions.
The Single Dad crouched beside her.
“I’m calling your aunt.”
His sister lived nearby.
“I’ll be back.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
His Daughter looked toward the frozen television image.
“You promised.”
“I know.”
He did not defend himself.
That mattered more than another explanation.
“I’m sorry.”
His Daughter nodded.
Then quietly asked:
“Is she in trouble?”
“Yes.”
The child sighed.
“Then go.”
He looked at her.
She added:
“But she owes me movie night.”
Despite everything, he smiled.
“I’ll tell her.”
His sister arrived eleven minutes later wearing pajama pants beneath a raincoat.
She looked annoyed until he explained.
Then she became more annoyed.
“At your boss.”
“Yes.”
“The nightmare one.”
“Yes.”
“The one who made you work Christmas Eve until nine?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Oh, excuse me.”
The Single Dad grabbed his jacket.
His sister caught his arm.
“Be careful.”
“I’m picking up a drunk executive.”
“Exactly.”
He stared.
She continued.
“People become very confused about boundaries when someone powerful wakes up embarrassed.”
He understood.
“Nothing’s happening.”
“I know that.”
“Make sure she does too.”
He nodded.
Then drove into the rain.
The CEO was sitting alone at the far end of the hotel bar when he arrived.
For one moment, he barely recognized her.
At work, she was precision given human form.
Hair perfect.
Suit perfect.
Posture perfect.
Emotion rationed as though it appeared on a quarterly budget.
Tonight, her extremely long platinum-blonde hair had come loose and fell messily across one shoulder.
She wore a glossy black satin blouse with several upper buttons undone, a fitted white skirt, sheer stockings, and one black heel.
The other rested on the floor beside her.
A faint red-wine stain marked one cuff.
She looked beautiful.
That was inconvenient.
The Single Dad approached.
The bartender saw him.
“Thank God.”
The CEO lifted her head.
Her blue-gray eyes struggled to focus.
“There.”
She pointed.
“He came.”
The Single Dad stopped beside the stool.
“You called me six times.”
“Seven.”
“Congratulations.”
She smiled faintly.
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“At least you’re honest.”
The bartender handed him her keys.
“She had four glasses before I cut her off.”