Page 23 of Tight Ends & Tiaras
SIENNA
Squinting,I smack my hand against the bedside table as I reach for my phone. It’s eight in the morning. Only one person ever calls me this early, and if I let it go to voicemail one more time, he’s liable to show up on my doorstep this afternoon.
I cough, which makes my temple pound. “Hi, Dad.”
“Don’t ‘Hi, Dad’ me. ¿Porque no viniste? You promised you’d come.”
He only yells at me in Spanish when he’s really mad. Cringing, I listen to his tirade. He almost sounds hurt, but my father is built of Teflon, so that’s probably wishful thinking. Not that I want to wound him, but it would be nice to know he cared.
If I based my expectation of romantic relationships on what happened with my parents, I’d be a total cynic. Fortunately, my mother found Richard. He’s a nice guy, and he treats her ten times better than my father did at the end.
Still, I love my dad, even if he is too absorbed in his work, but you don’t become a titan of industry by being half-assed. At least that’s what he tells me.
“Dad, I left you messages. My flight got cancelled, and we had torrential weather.” Let’s not forget the stitches in my head or the maniacal freak-out where I trashed Cal’s shit. All quite memorable, I think sullenly as I gently rub the gash on my noggin.
“I have it on good authority the weather on Saturday was perfect. You would’ve made it in time for the banquet.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I know I let you down.” But really, when don’t I?
I probably saved him from embarrassment by not coming. He was being recognized as one of the top Hispanic entrepreneurs in the country. Some reporter would’ve tried to interview me in Spanish, and I’d have humiliated my father by not being fluent.
It’s not like I don’t want to speak the language. But my dad once got ridiculed for his accent when he was younger, so my brothers and I weren’t allowed to learn it until high school because Dad wanted us to speak perfect English. Kyle and Cole are uber-smart, though, and picked it up easily. I did not. I can understand most conversations, but my mind goes blank if I have to speak in Spanish.
“Your brothers flew in.”
Of course they did. They’re perfect sons with their Stanford degrees and Yale MBAs. I love my brothers, but I’m not a brainiac like they are and never will be. The sooner my dad accepts this, the better. He and I both know Stanford should’ve waitlisted me based on my grades. The only reason they didn’t is fuming on the other end of this call.
“The Stanford dean was in attendance,” he says, like he can read my mind. “It would’ve been the perfect opportunity for you to discuss grad school.” He pauses, and I brace myself for some reason. “You know, you could probably transfer back for your senior year.”
Not this again.
“I love it here.” No one kisses my ass based on who my father is. The counselor must know, but she never got the memo that I’m supposed to be treated like tech royalty, and she makes me wait in line like everyone else. I respect that. “I was miserable at Stanford.” It wasn’t the school. It was the fact that everyone knew who I was, and I could never trust whether friendships were genuine.
He clears his throat. “I’ve never asked you this before, but... did it have anything to do with Penelope?”
The mere mention of her name makes me want to gouge out my eyes. “Why do you care? Are you planning to break up with her anytime soon?”
He’s quiet, which means no.
I realize I sound like a brat instead of a twenty-one-year-old woman, so I shut my mouth. But I’m finding that I’m still sometimes a little girl on the inside when it comes to my dad, and I don’t want him with a gold-digger.
“She’s not that bad,” he says finally. “If you gave her a chance—”
“I did give her a chance, remember? She was my friend first, or perhaps you forgot.”
That’s right. Penelope Davenport was a friend from my yoga class, who weaseled her way into my life so she could hook up with my father. The whole thing makes me gag.
It’s so reminiscent of what happened with Destiny and Cal, how she used me to be close to him, that bile pushes up the back of my throat, but I choke it back.
Why do people always use me? I really want to know. Do I have a sign on my forehead that says ‘Dumbass?’
Of all men’s miseries the bitterest is this: to know so much and to have control over nothing.
I feel you, Herodotus. I feel you.
My father sighs. “Listen, I don’t get a lot of chances to socialize, so when—”
I cackle. Legit, out-of-breath cackle. It makes my brain hurt and those stitches tug, but the blatant lie is too much to swallow. “Please. Every time I Google you, you’re at another function, flanked by celebrities. Don’t lie to me, Dad. I can’t handle one more person lying to me.”
