Page 24 of Tight Ends & Tiaras
He goes deathly quiet. “Sienna, did something happen?”
Everything happened.
“Nothing worth mentioning.” The only bright spot last weekend was Ben. Torturously handsome and emotionally unavailable Ben Rodriguez.
Although, now that I think about it, we did have a moment while we were eating in the park where I could’ve sworn he was staring at me as if he liked me. That had to be my imagination because I looked frightful with bloody gauze on my head and two black eyes.
My father’s voice softens to that eminently charming croon, the one he uses on investors. “Honey, I know we haven’t spent much time together lately...” I mentally flip through his calendar, what I know of it. I wasn’t invited on that cruise through the Mediterranean he took with Penelope, but I consider myself fortunate because listening to my father bang my former friend through those thin walls would’ve been horrific. “...and I know your mother misses you.”
I roll my eyes, having a hard time believing he would care what my mom feels, though I know he’s right. She does miss me. I don’t bother telling him she flew in two weeks ago to wish me an early birthday so we could spend some quality time together before she left on a cruise. She and I don’t talk as much as I’d like because she works a lot at her salon, but I know she cares.
“You’re saying if I came home next week, I’d see you more than just across the room during some banquet where you spend most of the time schmoozing?” When he doesn’t say anything right away, I have my answer. “When you genuinely have time, let me know, okay? Minus Penelope because... well, just because.”
Time with my father is fraught with tension if she’s there, and it would be nice to see him just once without her hovering and pretending to care about my life.
“Sienna, we had a deal.” My stomach drops. The croon is gone, replaced by that steely tone he breaks out in the boardroom. “You promised to visit, and I said I’d consider funding your little yoga project.”
Ah, here come the threats.
When he says the “little yoga project,” he means the health initiative I want to bring to South Texas schools. While I was living with Gabby last year, who spent the summer substitute-teaching in Dallas, we started talking about what a difference fitness could do for kids who are struggling. So I spent some time researching this topic and found that students stay more focused in class when they have an athletic outlet. And unfortunately, many districts don’t have enough money to put toward nice gyms and athletic fields. In rural areas, sometimes there aren’t enough kids to even have team sports.
It got me thinking. I became interested in yoga when my parents divorced. It gave me an outlet and helped me relax. Because nothing is worse than listening to your mom and dad scream at each other.
Since yoga doesn’t need fancy studios or equipment to accomplish, I thought it might be something that could help students shake off whatever personal difficulties they face. Plus, it’s a fantastic workout. People sometimes make the mistake of thinking yoga is just sitting cross-legged while chanting, but it can range from gentle warm-up poses to intense moves that leave you sweaty and pumped up on adrenaline.
This project is literally the only thing I’ve ever asked my father to help me fund. And I didn’t even mean I wanted his money. If he could just point me in the direction of his investor friends who might be interested, that would be huge. Although, for a man who runs a charity, he could fund it if he wanted to.
He mutters something in Spanish, which I don’t quite catch. “I’m cutting your allowance. This is for your own good. You need to learn to be responsible. And God help you if you don’t graduate in May.”
Yeah, it stings to hear what he thinks of me.
I chew my thumbnail as I try to look on the bright side, which is my default mode. Because I’m not a big spender, I’ve saved my money. Although I’ll definitely need a roommate, I won’t be totally destitute. It’s time I pay for my own crap anyway. I’ll just pick up more yoga classes. Maybe get a job waiting tables.
Of course, my dad might stroke out when he hears about it because he’ll argue that me working in food services reflects poorly on him, but I say there’s no shame in doing what you need to pay your own way.
Besides, if he assumes this’ll send me running home, he has another think coming.
When I don’t say anything, he barks at me about how I’ll never make it in his world if I don’t buckle down. As if I want entrée into his world. He’s still under the delusion I’ll magically turn into someone who loves coding and corporate ladders.
At least he doesn’t bring up the foundation. My dad has been trying to get me to help him with it, but if I do, people will figure out who I am down here, and it’ll blow my cover. And nothing is worth that. Because anonymity is bliss. Blowing my cover will mean getting a full security detail, compliments of my overprotective father, and there is no way I’ll go for that again.
I let him rant while I stare at the glass vials on my bookshelves that contain sand from all of our family trips when I was a kid. How I wish I could go back to those times. Before fame catapulted my father onto the national stage where he got pulled away from me and my mom, and, to some extent, my brothers.
By the time I get off the phone, I’m too exhausted to do more than pull the covers over my head and fall asleep. It’s not like anyone will care if I don’t get out of bed this week.
My throat gets tight when I realize my father forgot my birthday. Again.
I force myself to stop being such a soap opera. Deep down, I know my parents love me. It’s not like I’m really all alone. Even though I feel like I am sometimes.
When I close my eyes, I worry I’m going to have another nightmare about what happened Friday night, but instead of Cal’s drunk escapade, I dream of soulfully-dark brown eyes.
