❝ who knew the summer isabel conklin got a glow up would bring this much angst? ❞
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where macedonia castillo, the famous authors daughter, is forced to befriend conrad fisher when he starts helpi...
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"sorry, sorry i'm late." i rushed into the book store, unraveling my bun and quickly pulling my fingers through the knots.
my dads segment was at five, we said we'd all meet at four fifteen. it was four twenty.
i looked up to see my dad, sitting alone.
"you aren't the only one." he sighed.
my jaw tightened, "where's conrad?"
a shrug made me sigh as well.
43 minutes later, a distressed conrad weaved himself through the line of eager readers, here for dads segment. i had tried to prepare him the best i could, i had been learning a lot through my internship. not necessarily sailing advice, but nautical all the same.
conrad finally pushed his way to the door, stumbling in the bookstore. his pace slowed as he saw my father was already talking to the reporters, and his face fell.
he made eye contact with me, and as much as i didn't want to, i made my way over to him.
"hey," he breathed heavily, shoulders shrunken down.
"where were you?" i kept my voice serious.
"i-i'm sorry, i got caught up." he barely glanced at me, kept his eyes on my father.
"look, i know who you are." i looked him up and down once, "i know you'd rather down vodka shots and get wasted then help my old father," he finally made eye contact with me, "and i know your mother probably set you up to this. so if you don't want to do it, just don't." i forced my eyes to not fill up with water, like they did whenever i felt an extreme amount of any emotion. even anger.
i would not cry in front of conrad fisher.
"i know you don't want to waste your time, don't waste ours, too. just leave us alone." i muttered under my breath, walking away from him to stand behind the reporters, and send my dad two thumbs up. i would be here for him, i always was. i was all he needed.
and he seemed to be staying afloat. he'd make up a fact or term here and there, but the reporters bought it, and as soon as he started talking about his ideas for the novel, nobody cared about accuracy. my father was a literacy genius. he was adored.
my eyes caught conrad shift over, to sit on a bar stool on the side of the shop, next to the vintage books. anger boiled up inside me again, i wished he would just leave.
