Page 23 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Mari

Now

My mother’s typical do-you-remember-me message makes me chuckle. The drama. I set a reminder to call her tonight so I can reiterate that she doesn’t need to get here early. I do have everything under control.

As I’m putting my phone away, my father appears at my office door.

“Marisol, I have great news!” He sweeps inside holding a few sheets of paper, a big smile on his face. With an uncharacteristic flourish, he sets the papers on my desk.

“What’s this?” I ask, bending at the waist to switch into my pumps. Since I’m due to meet with a potential client in ten minutes, this isn’t the ideal time to pore over legalese.

“It’s a new contract with Crystal Canyon Farm.” He waggles his eyebrows and does a little shimmy.

I sit up and purse my lips, tilting my head to study him better.

Have aliens finally infiltrated the earth and planted body doubles that aren’t as skilled at mimicking humans as they ought to be?

Because this person certainly looks like my father, but he isn’t acting like him.

For one thing, Luiz Campos doesn’t waggle his eyebrows.

And as for the shimmy, I was not aware he could even move his upper body like that.

Wait, did he say Crystal Canyon Farm? Oh God, the wedding venue. What has he done? I lunge for the pages, inspecting them more closely. “What’s going on? What’s changed?”

He slips his hands into the pockets of his slacks and puffs out his chest. My father isn’t an overly expressive person—or an affectionate one. There isn’t much other than money (or the prospect of making it) that could get him this animated. A shiver runs through me.

“Se calma, Marisol. Everything’s fine. Great, in fact. I was thinking that you’re my only daughter, and I need to do my part, so I paid for a few upgrades. Essentially, they’re making us their priority for the entire weekend, and they’re including a tour of the vineyards after the wine tasting.”

“Pai, you didn’t have to do that,” I say, absolutely meaning it. “We’re perfectly capable of staying within budget.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, that’s my point. You shouldn’t have to. I don’t want to spare any expense when it comes to this wedding. And I don’t want your mother to say I didn’t do enough. Plus, you and Alex deserve to get married in style. After all, you’re only going to do this once, right?”

“That’s the plan,” I say evenly.

What my father doesn’t understand is this: I chose Crystal Canyon Farm because the setting is naturally exquisite.

It doesn’t need any embellishments or add-ons or whatever he has in mind.

Alex and I just want an intimate wedding where we can celebrate with the people we love.

But as usual, my father’s focused on making a statement—to our guests and to my mother, especially, not that she’d care.

If I don’t monitor him closely, he’ll hire Cirque du Soleil to perform at our reception.

Considering he’s already aiming to make this wedding a circus, that would be entirely fitting.

Even so, I need to be careful about how I curb my father’s enthusiasm; given how rarely it makes an appearance, I don’t want to quash it altogether.

“When it comes to our big day, Alex and I think less is more,” I tell him carefully. “You have your style, and we have ours. I appreciate that you want to contribute, but please run these things by me before you make any changes.”

I internally high-five myself. That felt great to say out loud.

“Okay, okay,” he says, throwing up his hands. “I didn’t realize that a father giving his daughter the wedding of her dreams would be a problem.”

The wedding of his dreams, maybe.

I rise from my chair, round my desk, and kiss his cheek. “I have someone waiting for me in conference room A. Can we talk more about this later?”

“Fine,” he says, frowning.

He picks up the contract from my desk and follows me out of my office.

We walk alongside each other in the direction of the smaller of the firm’s two conference rooms. A few of the administrative assistants in their cubicles lower their heads as we pass.

That’s the Luiz Campos effect: Everyone wants to hide when the surly boss is near.

Sometimes I get a little thrill knowing he doesn’t trigger that reaction in me, then I remember that he’s my father , and I get a little sad that not being intimidated by him is somehow a win.

Sasha’s dad smothers her with love and affection; my father’s more likely to smother me with criticism.

You’re not aggressive enough, Marisol.

That hair’s a little much for a business setting, no?

We’re not running a charity, you know.

Sure, I no longer shrink in my father’s presence, but I don’t flourish in it either.

We reach the conference suite, a sleek space with a single floor-to-ceiling window panel that spans the length of the room and a glass enclosure that makes its occupants visible from the outside.

There are no late-night shenanigans to be had here on my father’s watch (those happen in the copy room).

He looks past me and studies the person patiently waiting for me, a steaming cup of coffee resting on a coaster in front of her. “Who’s that?”

“Lisa Randle, an indie filmmaker. She’s interested in getting our advice on privacy issues that might come up for the documentary she’s working on.”

“That doesn’t sound lucrative.”

I snort. “For us or for her?”

“Either,” he says, faking a smile as he waves to Lisa.

I’m not a particularly creative person, but I love facilitating creativity.

I respect artists’ contributions to society and want to help them get their work out to their audiences.

My father likes creatives too—but mostly because they make him money.

I can’t deny that my father has built a formidable business from nothing.

I just wish he were motivated by more than maintaining his own social status.

He used to say he worked so hard because he wanted to make his immigrant parents proud.

Wanted their sacrifices to mean something.

But they’re gone now, and he’s surpassed their wildest dreams, so he can no longer use them as an excuse for the person he’s become.

I point a thumb behind me. “I need to get in there.”

“Hope it’s worth it,” he says before walking in the direction of his corner office.

What he’s really saying is that he expects it to be.

As I’m poised to enter the conference room, he calls out to me.

“What’s up?” I ask, my hand on the doorknob. I’m mindful of Lisa Randle’s time; my father is not.

He looks down at the Crystal Canyon Farm contract. “There’s a list here of the room reservations I’m paying for. Who’s this Javier Báez person?”

I frown at him. “That’s Javi, my friend from college. You had dinner with him once, remember? He’s going to be the man of honor.”

“You still talk to him?” he asks, his brow lifted in surprise. “I thought you two lost touch.”

“We ran into each other in New York a couple of years ago. We’re more than good now.”

We’re good friends too—as we should be.