The wordfatherscrapes my throat raw. My eyes gloss and I blink. He doesn’t say anything, just stares.
“I’m probably just making this worse,” I mutter, already stepping back.
“Apologies don’t retroactively make an interview stronger,” he finally responds before I can leave, his voice even. “Your portfolio will either hold up or it won’t.”
I swallow. “Understood.” I should go now. Instead, I hear myself say, “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t trying to be dramatic.It was context.” Worth nods, and I straighten. “But I’m aware of timing, Mr. Miller. I also thought owning a misstep mattered.”
His mouth tips. “Owning it. Noted.”
My cheeks flame again.
Worth exhales, looking at my fidgeting hands. “I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent,” he says, a little less clipped, “but I understand loss. When you lose someone or something you thought would always be there, it leaves a big hole. Sometimes it closes. Sometimes it doesn’t. But either way, it changes you. That’s all.”
Then he adds, almost dismissively, “You’re still young. You have time to find your footing again.”
The way he says ‘young’ lands like an insult. As if grief has an expiration date. As if pain means less when it comes in a younger body.
I swallow the anger down.
Because from someone like Worth Miller, I believe it’s the closest thing to comfort I’ll ever get.
He clears his throat and checks his watch. “If you’re asking for an answer, I don’t have one for you. If you’re selected, you’ll hear from HR by week’s end.”
I nod, throat tight. “Thank you for your time.”
He gives a single, dismissive dip of his chin and glances at Brianna. “I need to get my daughter to school.”
“Of course.” I force myself to turn away, feeling the sting of his cold professionalism like frigid air on an open wound and hating that a part of me still wants to look back.
7
MYA
My stepdad walks into the kitchen just as I’m putting the final touches on my famous seven-layer dip that he begged me to make for game day. He’s wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I’m a Cowboys fan, inherently because of my dad. But Devon is an Eagles fanatic, which makes us arch-nemeses.
We’re a huge football family, so Sundays aren’t just for dinners in the Dessen-Jones household.
“You ready to lose, loser?” When he doesn’t respond, I look up; his expression is solemn, and I immediately go into worry mode.
“Are you okay?”
He heads to the fridge, grabs another beer.
“I’m just thinking…” he starts, his serious tone making my stomach flip, “about how sad you’re going to be once my team kicks your ass!” He breaks into wicked laughter as he hunts for the bottle opener.
I swat the back of his head playfully. “Don’t be an ass!”
My stepdad and I have always had a great relationship. When he came into our lives, he brought sunshine with him in the form of his smiles, his warmth, and Tiana, who instantly felt likea sister to me. At first, I was hesitant. I was ten, still grieving my dad, and the idea of another man stepping into the picture felt like a betrayal. But even at that age, I could see how happy he made my mom. The house soon began to feel alive again; brighter days replaced the gloomy ones.
My mom sat me down once and explained that Devon would never replace my dad, never erase his memory. And he echoed the same promise. That’s why we still talk about my dad openly, and why his pictures still hang proudly on our walls.
Devon pops the cap off his drink and takes a swig, smirking at me over the rim.
“You know, when the Cowboys choke this season—and theywillchoke—I’ll be here with tissues and your seven-layer dip to comfort you.”
I scoff, grabbing the tortilla chips. “Please. The Cowboys have more fight in them than your precious Eagles. I’d start stocking up on tissues foryourself, old man.”