Emily was called every name under the sun during the three months we had left of school before summer break. One time, I even found her name and cell phone number scribbled on a door in the girls’ bathrooms. As much as Christian was a player, he never disrespected me the way Zander did Emily. His rules didn’t just protect him; they protected everyone around him as well.
When the alarm on my phone hollers, I reply to Emily’s text, throw off my comforter, scamper out of bed, then gallop down the stairs.
“Good morning, Princess,” my dad greets me when I hop off the bottom step.
Warmth blooms across my chest. My dad is the number one man in my life. He reminds all the kids in the neighborhood of Father Christmas. His hair is silver, and he has a wiry beard that covers his jawline. He doesn’t like to admit it, but his rounded belly also adds to his Santa appeal.
“Good morning, Daddy.”
While greeting my dad with a hug, my mom saunters into the kitchen. My mom is often described as having a Barbie doll appearance. She has long blonde hair that sits halfway down her back; she's four inches taller than my five-feet-four-inch height, and she's also eighteen years younger than my dad.
It doesn’t take a genius to work out I was born only six months after my parents married, and only eleven months after they met. I'm the very definition of a shotgun wedding baby.
My dad has often told me the story of how they met. He was a partner at the law firm where my mom did her internship. My father had spent eighteen years of his life working his way up the ladder at a very lucrative law agency in Hopeton. He said my mom was a shy twenty-year-old stenographer who made his heart flutter every time she entered the room.
He asked her out numerous times over a period of three months. Every single time she said no. One late Friday afternoon, after my dad had just won a very impressive case, he decided to try his luck one more time.
That time, my mom said yes.
Once their courtship started, my dad helped my mom apply to college. Even with being pregnant and then raising a small child, my mom graduated with distinction and was accepted to attend law school. She's now a partner at the same law firm my dad gained his partnership at over nineteen years ago.
They have what I'd describe as an odd relationship. They communicate every day, but when you watch them interact, they appear more like long-time friends than husband and wife.
My parents aren’t lacking money. Our house sits on over an acre of manicured lawns in the middle of town. We have seven bedrooms—actually, it may be eight. I can’t remember because I’ve never used any room but my own. I’m an only child, so it’s a little strange we live in such a large house. Even when Emily and Nicole stay over, we all sleep in my room.
Needing a stiff shot of caffeine, I make my way to the coffee machine in the corner of the kitchen.
“Let Maria get that for you.” My mom’s tone is as snappy as her hands as she shoos me away from the three thousand dollar machine. “It’s her job to make you breakfast.”
I roll my eyes. Maria is our housemaid. She's the sweetest little old lady I’ve ever met. She was my dad’s nanny when he was a child and became his housemaid before my mom was in the picture. I’ve always seen her as a grandmother, whereas my mom only sees her as a maid.
“It’s fine, Mom; it’s just a cup of coffee.”
When my dad snickers at my response, my mom’s eyes narrow into thin slits. My dad coughs to clear his throat before he pretends to read the newspaper resting next to his empty plate.
Many times the past two years, my mom has requested that my dad hire a new housemaid. Maria is well past retirement age, but neither dad nor I want anyone else. If Maria is happy living with us, Dad and I are more than happy to pretend she's doing the tasks required to fulfill her employment, even when she isn’t.
When Mom leaves for the day, Dad and I do the washing and vacuuming, then pretend Maria completed them. My dad only works part-time now that he has also hit retirement age. He prefers spending his days on the golf course instead of in the courtroom.
* * *
Once I’ve finished breakfast with my dad, I throw a load of clothes into the washing machine then make my way back to my room. Just as I enter my room, my phone pings, indicating I’ve received a text message.
Unknown Number:Is it Saturday yet?
My lips tug high as my palms slick with sweat. After saving his number under an appropriate alias, I sit on my king-sized bed to reply to his message.
Me:Not yet.
My palms grow clammier when his reply arrives a few seconds later.
Blue-Eyed-Hottie:Bummer…. do you have any plans today?
Usually my Sundays are spent with Emily, but she's a little preoccupied today.
Me:No.
Blue-Eyed-Hottie:Do you want to go out today?
