Page 6 of Hale Yes (Highway to Hale #1)

Pop snorts before quickly clearing his throat and attempting to sound stern. “Nicolette, you know Bridget adores you, but she has to make sure Angelica feels important too. Your sister has had such a hard life.”

“Yeah, receiving so much affection growing up must have been really hard on her,” I scoff, spotting the problem on the screen and initiating a sequence to get rid of the malware. I don’t mention that any difficulties in Angelica’s life were of her own making.

Pop sounds uncomfortable, and from the corner of my eye, I see him massaging the back of his neck. “Well, I’d like to be affectionate with you too, but I know you don’t like being hugged.”

I turn my head slowly to face him, my eyes narrow. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugs. “You know, when you were about ten or so, you told your mom you didn’t like anyone hugging you. So she let the whole family know.”

That’s not exactly what I said. I told her I didn’t want her hugs anymore. Guess she decided I didn’t deserve affection from anyone.

I don’t like sparring with my father. Though he falls short in so many ways, he’s the only one in my family that gives half a damn about me. And half a damn is better than no damns at all.

So I stay silent.

“She suspected you were autistic like in that movie with Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise. Uhhh…” Pop snaps his fingers in concentration.

“ Rain Man ,” I supply, and he points a finger at me.

“Yeah, that one. Because you were so smart like that guy. She said you must be autistic.”

I cross my arms over my chest while the computer works. “Then why didn’t Ma ever have me tested instead of diagnosing me from a movie she saw before I was born?”

Pop stares at his shoes. “I don’t know. She said we should just be more careful around you. Maybe I should have… I don’t know.”

It wasn’t the first time someone suggested I might be on the spectrum. I’d been called a savant more than once in my educational career, but I don’t think I am. Most savants have some sort of neurodevelopmental condition, such as a traumatic brain injury or autism.

My dad’s face is flushed bright red, and I take pity on him. “Don’t worry about it, Pop. When I got to college, I had myself tested by a neuropsychologist. I’m not autistic; I’m just… gifted and have a high aptitude for the sciences.”

The doctor actually told me my IQ score put me in the genius bracket, but I decide not to share that with my father. I’ve never shared it with anyone because I’ve been conditioned not to talk too much about myself or my accomplishments. Tonight’s dinner is the perfect example of why.

“Oh, well, that’s good. You always could take care of yourself, Nicci.”

Out of necessity , I don’t say aloud.

My eyes flash to the screen, and after a few more keystrokes, Pop’s computer is back in working order. I stand.

“Okay, it’s all done, but this thing is ten years old. I’ve installed all the updates it can handle. Why don’t you use the laptop I sent you, Pop? It’s top of the line and will do everything this old desktop does but better and faster. Plus, it’s portable.”

He rolls his lips in and doesn’t meet my gaze. “I, uh, let Angelica use it. She said she needs it for her business.”

Of course.

I try to bite my tongue. I really do, but… “Wasn’t the cost of a computer included in her small business loan?” I ask.

A muscle twitches beneath Pop’s left eye. “She didn’t end up qualifying for the loan, so I, um…”

A heavy breath shoves its way up my throat, ending in a long sigh. “So you’re footing the bill for yet another career change. What is this? The sixth one?”

Pop’s green eyes, so much like my own, flash with annoyance. “Angelica is trying, and she needed help. I’m her father.”

There’s so much I want to say, but I’m done with this night.

And it never does any good to criticize my sister and her questionable life choices anyway.

That only pisses him off. My father’s biggest fault is his ability to remain oblivious about the things going on around him.

And he insists that everyone else maintain that same level of obliviousness.

Don’t talk about it, and it didn’t happen. Makes for a happy family, right?

I soften my voice and look pointedly at all the overdue invoices on his desk. “You want to talk about this, Pop?”

He follows my gaze and begins gathering the papers into a stack without looking at me. “No, no. It’s nothing. Just been a slow month. It happens, you know?”

I watch silently as he finishes, holding the invoices against his chest and faking a smile.

“Do you need me to float you a loan?” I finally ask, and his eyes go round.

“No, of course not, Nicci. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

Nodding, I say, “Okay, Pop. Let me know if you change your mind.” I know he won’t. He’s too proud to accept any help.

As I depart, I’m overcome with the sudden urge to hug my father. But I don’t. I haven’t had an embrace from anyone in my family in over two decades, and to do so now would just feel… awkward.

The drive back to New York City takes over an hour, and I’m exhausted by the time I trudge into my brownstone in Brooklyn Heights.

Because my aptitude for science extends to the computer sciences, I go straight to my laptop and hack into three of the companies I saw listed on some of Pop’s hardware invoices. Then I pay the bills in full for him.

Yes, I know I’m enabling him to enable my sister, but goddamn.

She’s bleeding our parents dry, and I can afford to help.

He’ll know it was me next time he tries to make a payment and finds out it’s already being taken care of.

Neither of us will mention it, and we’ll carry on like it never happened. That’s just how it is in our family.

Then I open my email and find the one from Hale Cosmetics letting me know they’d like me to come for an interview. Clicking on it, I read the words for the hundredth time, and key phrases jump out at me.

…exactly what we’re looking for.

…at a time of your choosing.

…look forward to hearing from you.

After staring at it for a good ten minutes, I finally respond that I can come for an interview this Friday. As soon as I hit send, a warmth floods my body like a soothing bath of contentment. Speaking of baths…

Pushing from my chair, I cross the laminate tiled floor and go straight to my bathroom to fill the tub. While I’m waiting, I open the Amazon app on my phone and change my password. Angelica is thirty-five-fucking-years old, and she can open her own account.

She pays for virtually nothing on her own since she moved back home with Ma and Pop last year. And tonight I found out our father apparently paid to refurbish the small house next door to serve as her beauty salon.

As I sink into the warm water a few minutes later, I close my eyes and inhale the scent of lavender. Today is done and dusted, and I couldn’t be happier, even though dinner at the Bell household exhausts me.

Yeah, Monday can go fuck itself with a big, smelly, diseased elephant dick.