"I tried to make her see reason," he says. "But you know how she is. I can only imagine what that call was like for you."
"I don't know if we're speaking anymore," I say. "Dad, I ruined everything. How can you not be angry?"
He waves his hand. "Akira Ito can pull out of the deal if he wants to," he says, shrugging. "There's a morality clause Gaige very well could have broken all on his own anyway. There will be other sponsors."
"You're not mad about the deal," I say.
My father walks over to his bar and takes out a cigar. He clips the end of it slowly, looks at me like he's about to impart the most profound wisdom ever. But he just shrugs. "You win some, you lose some."
"That's it?" I ask. "It's millions of dollars."
"Honey, there will always be more money to make. It's replaceable. Besides," he says, with a sly smile, "I had an insurance policy on Akira-san. And your boss Chelsea won't find she has the employment opportunities she thinks she has."
"What?" They sell insurance for this kind of thing? My father is having Chelsea black-balled?
"Not literal insurance," he says. "I had a back-up sponsor, someone waiting in the wings. Just in case. It's Gaige we're talking about here."
"But Gaige and I –" I start. "It's all over the news, the tabloids, supposedly. You're not upset?"
"I'm going to smoke this," he says, holding up his cigar and pointedly ignoring my question. "Come out onto the terrace with me."
I follow him outside and stand with him on the terrace that overlooks the grounds, while he lights his cigar, slowly and methodically, like some kind of ritual. He takes his time with it, and I wonder if he's even going to answer me. Finally he turns. "I've not been so lucky in the love department, you know."
"Dad, I – " I start, but he puts up his hand.
"Hush," he says. "I'm not asking you to reassure your father, or some such nonsense. I'm just stating the facts. My point is that I'm in no position to judge anyone else's relationship."
"We're not in a…" Relationship, I start to say. "Wait. So you don't care?"
Beau puffs on the cigar and then looks at me. "Let's not go that far," he says. "You're my only daughter. I'm not going to shoot off Gaige's kneecaps when he walks in the door, if that's what you're asking. Even though I could."
Relief washes over me, and I can barely suppress my giggle. Okay, that might have been exactly what I was thinking. "I'm glad you're not going to murder him," I say.
"Are you happy?" he asks.
"I think so," I say, nodding. "Yeah. I'm happy. Or, I was happy. I don't even know if we're anything, or – I mean, Gaige is Gaige. I'm not sure he even feels the same about me, or –"
"The printout of the email is on the desk," Beau says. "I'm going to finish my cigar. Take it with you, and then you can decide."
"Are you sure everything's –"
"Go," he says. "It's on the desk. Read it. I didn't peg Gaige for being so goddamned sappy, but if that's what you like…"
Sappy? I think. Gaige is anything but sappy. "Thank you, dad."
"And Delaney?" He calls my name, his back facing me as he blows smoke out away from the terrace.
"Yeah, dad?"
"I'm still your goddamned father," he says. "You should make sure to let him know that if he breaks your heart, I've got multiple shotguns and access to a great defense attorney."
I choke back a laugh, but mostly because I'm not sure my father is joking. "Thanks, dad."
"Now, get out of here and leave me in peace," he says. His words are gruff, but his tone is playful. "And for Christ's sake, try to stay out of the tabloids, will you?"
I carry the email up to my room, but I don't look at it until I've closed the door. When I scan it, my hands are shaking. I'm not sure if I'm even supposed to be reading it.
But when I do, everything in the email blurs together, the words fading into the background while the three most important ones seem to jump off the page.
I love her.
Gaige told my father he loves me. And I left him sitting at the hotel in Tokyo.
A nearly thirteen hour flight back to Dallas and I've been on an internet blackout, of my own choosing. Before I even left Narita airport in Tokyo, my phone had been buzzing with text after text from people who'd seen the stupid story about Delaney and me on some gossip website. I'm sure that was all Chelsea's doing; the first call she probably made after quitting Marlowe Oil was a tabloid.
When I started getting texts before boarding the plane, I read the first message, a "holy shit" text from one of the guys on my team, followed by a snarky one from an old booty call. Then I shut off my phone and spent the entire flight not checking my email and not logging into the internet. Instead, I alternated between lying in my seat not sleeping and thinking of Delaney and watching shitty movies and thinking about Delaney.