I Can Explain (Awkward Love 2)

I’d been wanting to do that for a long time.Chapter Seven

Alana“Alana,” Dad says, frowning at me. I wince, because I know I’ve been distracted right through dinner over what's going to happen when I get to work tomorrow. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I say, playing with my steak. I frown as I swirl my fork around the plate. I don’t even bother pretending like I usually do, because I know there’s no way he’ll believe that everything’s okay.

“Let me guess. It's work.”

I nod, praying to God he doesn't try and pry more information out of me because that would just be the cherry on top—explaining why I was on my boss’s balcony, all but naked, in the early hours of the morning. Why don’t I just recap the blow job conversation while I’m at it?

I sigh, feeling awful.

No matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about it. I spent today doing everything I could to try and forget, but every time I close my eyes, I see him leaning against the doorframe, smirking at me. And that chest. I swallow. God, why did he have to have those muscles out on display like that? Seeing him with no shirt on had me thinking things I shouldn’t have been thinking. For about half a second, I found myself hoping he’d put the moves on me, but then reality set in, and I realized what a bad idea that would be. Way too complicated.

“Lanni,” Dad says gently.

I snap out of my thoughts long enough for my face to flush. I know I’m the worst company today, but I can’t help it. And I know I’m doing nothing to diffuse his concerns about work, either.

“I think you should seriously consider finding something else. All you seem to do is stress about that place. Surely, it can’t be worth it?” Dad asks with a frown.

I cringe because, although he's right, this time it's entirely my fault. In his defense, Chase has been nothing but polite, professional, and courteous. It’s me that’s been the walking sexual harassment case.

“It’s not that bad, and I'm handling it,” I assure him.

“Really? You’re far from coping from where I’m sitting. You’ve barely eaten, and you look like you haven’t slept in days,” he points out. “Maybe I should go down and have a word with your boss,” he adds.

“Please don't do that,” I say, mortified at even the thought.

Suddenly, I’m ten and back in elementary school, when my father went to talk to the principal about the two girls in the year above me who relentlessly picked on me for not having a mother. His interference made the next six months pure hell, though I’d told him that they had stopped.

I don't need him to fight my battles. I can fuck things up on my own.

“I’m fine,” I say with a little more force. I just want this conversation to end already. “I promise you, if this situation gets more than I can handle, then I’ll leave,” I say, trying to reason with him. I reach across the table and place my hand over his, hoping there’s nothing but sincerity in my eyes. I must be believable, because he relaxes and then nods.

“You know I’m just worried about you, don’t you?” he asks.

“I know, but maybe I should be the one worrying about you,” I tease.

“Why?”

“You’re getting older. You live alone. You don’t have anyone to lean on other than me,” I say. “Should I go on?”

He glances down and focuses on folding his napkin into quarters. I watch him, and then it hits me. Is that what he wanted to talk to me about? To tell me that he’s seeing someone?

“Why did you want to have dinner again?” I ask.

“To see how you’re doing,” he says dismissively.

“But you said you had something to talk to me about?” I press, not letting this go. If I’m right, then I’d be nothing but happy for him.

“It’s not important,” he says, his face going red. My father, blushing? Now I know I’m right. “We can talk about it next time.”

“Okay,” I say, with a smirk. “If you’re sure.”

He’ll tell me about her when he’s ready.I’m exhausted when I get home, but I know sleep isn’t going to come easily. I feel like I’m awaiting my execution and doing everything I can to avoid thinking about it. But distracting myself doesn’t change the fact that the end is coming. God, I haven’t felt this nervous since Tyson Mills pulled my pants down in front of the entire third grade in elementary school.

Maybe on some subconscious level, I ask for this kind of thing to happen to me. It can’t be a coincidence the number of horrifyingly embarrassing situations I’ve found myself getting caught in. Maybe I need to take some responsibility and own up to that. I laugh. So now, I think I’m sabotaging myself? I shake my head, certain that delirium is setting in. It must be the fatigue.