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Niccolo
4 Months Before
God did not allow Caterina Lucatello and me to have children before she passed. Every day, I thank Him for that. My stepdaughter is more than enough for me to handle.
Christine is having a panic attack. “I can’t fit into my dress. Nic! Nic!” She yells as she steps out of her bedroom and into the hallway. “Niccolo!” Her voice echoes through the house, and I consider getting up and locking my bedroom door. “I need you to zip me up!”
My head rings with pain as a migraine forms behind my right eye. A gnawing sensation spreads from the back of my skull and down through my neck. I get up from my bed to search for meds. As soon as I stand, the room starts spinning, and I find myself leaning against the wall for support.
My stepdaughter bursts into the room a few moments later. Her face is flushed as she rushes in, the billowing skirt of her bright pink prom dress held up by one hand.
“Niccolo. I can’t fit into my dress. I need you to squeeze me into it and probably cut me out of it later.” It's a demand, and I can't handle demands right now.
I walk past her to my bathroom. Behind the mirror is a medicine cabinet with four containers: allergy pills, Tylenol, Rizatriptan, and Nurtec. The last two are for my migraines, and I dry swallow one before letting the other melt under my tongue.
“Hello?” Christine storms into the bathroom behind me. “Did you hear me?”
Pain casts a shadow on my mood. Usually, I would love to see my stepdaughter traipsing around in a half opened dress, an invitation for me to chase and pin her to the ground for its removal. But right now, her voice sounds shrill, and every fiber of my being is screaming at me to put in earplugs. “Please, keep it down, Chris.”
She turns, holding onto the door frame to steady herself as she presents her back to me. Christine leans forward, and I can almost feel the curve of her hips resting in my hands. “Zip. Me. Up.”
On days like today, I don’t remember why I accepted responsibility for Christine after her mother’s death. It’s the pain talking, the little voice in my head reminds me, you love her.
I fumble with Christine’s zipper, but she’s right; the dress no longer fits her. The fabric puckers and bunches to let her breathe. “I don’t know if this is going to work.”
“Make it work,” she responds between clenched teeth. “I don’t have any other options, and Kaye is going to be here in an hour!”
I like her best friend; they keep each other grounded. I wish Kaye were here right now to deal with Christine's outburst. “If I get this zipped up, you aren’t going to be comfortable. Why don’t you—”
Christine snaps her head in my direction with a look of indignation. “I don’t care if I can’t breathe once you get it zipped up. I’m fitting into this dress, Nic.”
The little voice in my head says to remember that she’s still a selfish teenage girl. Yes, she turned eighteen a couple of weeks ago. Yes, technically, she’s an adult. But she is still, at her core, a selfish child. “Mind your tone, Christine," I warn her.
She taunts me instead. “Or what? What are you going to do?”
My palm twitches in an inappropriate way. “If you’re going to be a brat, you can wait for Kaye to get here and help you. I have a headache and—”
“All I’m asking is that you zip up the dress. It isn’t that big of a deal. Just do it, and I’ll leave you alone.” Perhaps she has a point, though her tone is grating on my nerves.
I work the zipper while she clings to the door frame. Every inch of progress draws the fabric tighter around her chest. It takes a minute, but the zipper gets halfway up before finally gliding the rest of the way to the top.
When she turns around to face me, I get an eyeful of cleavage. The corset-style top cinches her breasts together into a delicious view.
“Thank you,” she says with faux sweetness in her tone. “Even though you acted like a real ass about it.”
“Hey!” I call after Christine as she turns to leave the bathroom. “You needed my help, not the other way around. You could try being thankful without the attitude.”
She snorts in derision and sweeps away from me. “And you could try being a nicer stepfather. But until then, neither of us will get what we want.”
I’m driven by anger, frustration, and pain—a myriad of emotions and sensations that power me forward before common sense can kick in to stop me. I grab Christine’s wrist and pull her back before she leaves. “Apologize,” I hold her tightly, “now.”
Instead of apologizing, a small smile plays on her lips as she says, “Make me.”
I don’t always take my fatherly responsibilities seriously, but my actions are a reflex to the disrespect. My patience snaps like a twig, and I drag Christine across the room, pressing her face-first into the bed. With one hand on the small of her back, I bring the other down on her ass. The blow is cushioned by the prom dress’ thick material, but it’s a jarring action that catches Christine off guard.
With a small shriek, she glares over her shoulder. “What are you doing?” She demands.
I apply another stroke to her other cheek, feeling my pants tighten and my head throb in disagreement. “If you’re going to act like a child, you’ll be punished like a child.”
