I’m just finishing up one of my short stories when Mom and Dad come into my room unannounced. It’s not an abnormal thing for Mom to do, but I’m surprised to see Dad with her. He should be off at the bar drinking away his paycheck or blowing it on another game of poker that he’s “dead sure” is going to change things for the family. I close my laptop as they come in.
“Still working on becoming the next Ernest Hemmingway, eh?” my dad asks, showing his teeth. I can see he’s already a couple beers deep and pray that Mom will be the one driving tonight.
“More like Agatha Christie preferably,” I reply.
“Got a better chance of winning the lottery while being struck by lightning,” he says, drumming his dirty fingers across my desk.
“Gee, thanks, Dad.”
“Just being realistic, darling,” he says in that tone that he always uses when he thinks he’s imparting some vital father-daughter knowledge to me. But to be honest, I really don’t want to hear anything he has to say right now.
Writing is a passion of mine—my only passion. It’s a dream I’ve had since I was a little girl, to grow up and be a professional author. It was my way of escaping when things got too rough or too dark in my life. I would grab a pen or pencil and a notebook, or a laptop later once I was able to get my hands on a used one, and write a story that had something to do with what I was going through.
I had hoped my parents would encourage me to pursue my passion, but my mom, who has worked as a receptionist at a hotel for as long as I can remember, just sort of shrugged and smiled whenever I brought it up. And my dad…well, my dad loves telling me how unrealistic of a career path it is. This coming from a man who loves telling his family how he would have been a professional hockey player if he hadn’t hurt his ankle back in high school and that’s the only reason he’s a car mechanic now.
“Well, thanks for the reality check, Dad,” I say. “You and Mom going out?”
“Yes, we’re going to get some tacos,” my mom replies. “Are you seeing Reed tonight?”
I nod. “I think so.”
My mom frowns and pokes me in the arm. “You better not look that miserable when he gets here! He’ll think you don’t like him or something! Put a smile on. That boy is a catch!”
My mom winks, causing my stomach to turn. But I force a smile just to make her happy. She smiles back, pats me on the shoulder, and she and my dad leave my room and head out to the car.
To be honest, I’m pretty sure at this point my mom likes my boyfriend, Reed, more than I do. But it has nothing to do with Reed himself. It has to do with the fact that Reed’s family is completely loaded, and mine is not. But that’s not a reason to be with a guy, is it? I mean, if she had her way, I’d be engaged to Reed tomorrow and his stay-at-home wife by the end of the year.
But the truth is, I’ve been less and less enthralled by my relationship with Reed as of late. I don’t know how to really put my finger on it, but it seems as though he just doesn’t like me anymore. I mean, he does all the boyfriend things it seems like he thinks he’s supposed to do; he pays for meals, opens my car door for me, and even buys me the occasional present. But when he says “nice” things to me, I get the genuine feeling that he just doesn’t really mean it. It’s like he’s just saying them to say them – like it’s expected of him.
He was much nicer when we first met, when he came into the coffee shop where I work and ordered a shot of espresso and a biscotti and asked me for my number. But after we became official, things just changed. He almost treats our relationship like more of a chore or a responsibility than something he actually enjoys now, and I’m not really even sure why I’m still going out with him.
Actually, that’s not true if I’m being completely honest with myself. One of the reasons I’m still with Reed is because of Grant.
Who is Grant? Grant is Reed’s father.
Even now, just thinking about Grant and how he makes me feel, I have to close my eyes and lean back in my chair. Just picturing his handsome face, his salt and pepper stubble framing his high-set cheekbones and strong, unyielding eyes, I feel butterflies swimming around in my stomach.
If Reed seems like he’s meeting an obligation by giving me a compliment, Grant seems like the complete opposite. Everything he says to me, which hasn’t even been a lot yet, seems so true. So genuine.
I remember the first time I met him after Reed and I came back from some dumb club he wanted to go to where his friends were all hanging out. He brought me to his dad’s house in Malibu because he thought he wouldn’t be home, but he was. He was in the kitchen pouring himself a whiskey on the rocks. He took one look at me and said, “Well, don’t you just class up the whole house?”
My heart just about stopped right there. It was just then that I felt myself falling for him – falling for my boyfriend’s father—
My phone vibrates obnoxiously beside me like a splash of water to my face, snatching me from my daydream. I snatch it up and see a text from Reed.
Outside.
Short and to the point. Just like he always is. I honestly don’t even want to go out with him tonight, but I quickly grab my purse, slip on my flats, and head out front, where he’s waiting in his Audi.
“You look nice,” he says as I get in, his eyes still on his phone. He has it angled away from me, but I can see by the reflection in the window that he’s watching a girl’s TikTok video. A very spicy TikTok video.
“Oh, thanks,” I reply.
Reed sets his phone aside and pulls off, heading in the direction of his off-campus apartment. Reed is a sophomore at USC and plays for their lacrosse team, which I pretend to be interested in, but I think he can tell that I’m just not. We’ve been dating for almost two months now and haven’t “sealed the deal,” and I sometimes wonder if that’s why he’s not as nice as he was at the beginning of our relationship.
But if he thinks being short and acting like he doesn’t even care about me is going to get me to make him my first, he’s sorely mistaken. That’s only going to happen with someone I truly care about, and the more I’m with Reed, the more I feel like that’s really just not him.
We pull up to his apartment and park. Reed sends a text then glances over at me. He looks me up and down like he always does, which makes me feel like a piece of meat. “I like those shoes.”
I shrug. “You said that last time I wore them.”
“Well, I liked them then too,” he replies. “How come you never wear heels, though?”
For some reason, this question really irritates me. Not only was his compliment not genuine, but now he’s trying to ask me to wear heels for him without just asking me to wear heels for him. He’s not even smiling or trying to be charming either. In fact, he’s reminding me of my dad…
“I don’t know,” I reply, letting the sass flow. “I guess I like being able to walk without worrying about breaking my ankles.”
Reed makes a face. “Geez, okay. Didn’t mean to wake the dragon or whatever. Let’s go inside.”
I don’t know why I do, but I say okay and we both go upstairs into his second-floor apartment. It’s ridiculously nice, paid for by his father, and probably costs more than the mortgage on my family’s house. Once we’re inside, Grant casually points to his wet-bar by the pool table as he heads for the bathroom.
“I gotta piss, but make yourself whatever you want.”
Charming.
“’Kay.”
I’m only eighteen, so I don’t really drink, but I wander over to the bottles anyway and pretend like they interest me. The whole apartment is really a college jock’s wet dream. Pool table, wet-bar, a table to pull out for beer pong whenever his friends are over. He even has posters of girls in bikinis on the walls that he doesn’t bother to take down when I come over.
Contemplating what it is I’m doing with my life, I go over to the couch and collapse down into the cushions just as Reed is coming back from the bathroom. He flashes me the same frat-boy grin he always gives when he’s doing his best to come off charismatic, and saunters over to the bar to pour himself something.
“Did I ever tell you how much I like dating a working-class girl like you?” he asks. His question takes me aback. Working-class girl? Have we stepped back into 1800s England?
“Um, no?”
“Yeah,” he replies, coming over to the couch. “Rich girls, like from my class, are just always spoiled and obnoxious. Girls like you are much more down to earth. Much more grateful for things, you know?”
I’m still processing and trying to figure out how to respond to his question as he takes a seat beside me. But as he does, the cushion behind him lifts up and that’s when I see it: a flash of seductive red. I recognize it immediately, and my chest tightens.
“Um…Reed?” my mouth goes dry. I immediately wish I’d poured myself something to drink.
Reed, completely oblivious and clearly unable to read a girl’s body language or facial expressions, leans in and places a hand on my knee. “Yeah, baby?”
I cough and clear my throat. “Why do you have another girl’s thong in your couch cushions?”
For a split second, Reed’s face shifts. He recovers quickly, but it was long enough for me to see the guilt in his eyes. He glances back at the panties, then looks at me and shrugs.
“Oh, that? Those are from a girl Brian was smashing the other night when I let him stay here—”
“I’m leaving,” I reply, getting to my feet. For some reason, I expect Reed to follow and try to stop me, but he doesn’t. He actually falls back on the couch and sighs as I tug open the door to outside.
“Ugh, whatever, bitch. You’re so not worth all this.”
“Worth…all what?” It’s a question I know I shouldn’t be asking, but I ask anyway.
Reed waves his hand around the apartment. “This. I could have girls ten times hotter than you over here spreading their legs for me. All I wanted was to pop your cherry, but it’s not worth putting up with your mediocre bullshit. Get the hell out of here!”
It’s a good thing I don’t have any real feelings for this guy, because if I did, what he just said to me would tear me apart. As it is, I feel my whole body start to go hot and my cheeks start to blush with embarrassment. I was about to leave, and now he thinks he can kick me out? Part of me wants to stand here, fold my arms, and not go anywhere just to spite him. But I don’t do that. I dig deep and pull out the best response I can come up with.
“I pity the poor girl who decides to put up with you just to marry you for your money.”
And before he has a chance to respond, I’m out the door and ordering an Uber on my way down the stairs.
I don’t cry on the car ride home. No, Reed isn’t worth my tears. I do think of all the ways I’d like to beat him up if I was a big, tough man, though. The car drops me off at my empty house, and I go inside, change into a pair of sweats and a big comfy sweatshirt, and plop down in front of the television.
I’m there for the next hour or so when I see headlights out front. Assuming it’s my mom and dad coming home, I get up and start to head back to my room. But when I glance back over my shoulder, I see some kind of absurdly fancy black sedan parked in the driveway that definitely doesn’t belong to anyone in the family.
Could it be Reed?
No. That wouldn’t make any sense. After everything he said, why would he be here at my house? And he doesn’t drive that kind of car either. But then who could it be?
But then, the driver’s side door opens, and my question is answered as Reed’s father, Grant, steps out wearing a charcoal-colored suit with a white dress shirt opened at the collar. I’m wet instantly and almost have a heart attack at the same time.
His eyes catch mine through the window. His lips curl into a smile that feels like a warm blanket being draped over my body, and he points to the front door as if to say, “May I come in?”
I nod as if to say, Yes, sir, but in my mind all I’m thinking is, Um, abso-fucking-lutely you can!
