Page 35 of Daddy's Pretty Baby

“I know he doesn’t love me,” I said slowly, “because he had me sign papers when I left, saying that everything was done, that I couldn’t talk about it with anyone, that we were going our separate ways and that I could never contact him again.”

“Really?” asked Curtis, turning around to look at me, eyes skeptical. “Who puts together papers like that? Man, this guy is a psychopath.”

I hung my head then.

“Really rich people do it, I guess,” I said defeated. “Really rich men who can afford lawyers to put together papers, with people jumping at their beck and call. So yeah, I signed them, and it’s one and done. He wanted me gone, and so I left.”

“I dunno honey,” said Curtis in a kind tone. “Did you get those papers looked at by an attorney?”

I paused for a moment.

“Well no, of course not,” I replied. “I can’t afford that.”

“Well, what were you signing then?” my buddy asked reasonably. “You know you can’t read. You got more common sense than that.”

And I sighed. God, my dyslexia was always messing up my life, such a central source of mistakes and inconvenience.

“You’re right,” I acknowledged. “I didn’t read what I was signing, but I know what the papers said. I was to leave and never come back, and I should never reach out to him again.” I couldn’t add the part about the money, it was just too sordid, me getting paid for sex like that.

But Curtis shook his head doubtfully.

“Baby girl, I’ve known you a long time now,” he said, frying away at something, raising his voice so that I could hear. “You didn’t read those papers, both you and I know that reading isn’t your thing. Hell, when you were working here, the menu was a mystery until you memorized it, looking at the foods and remembering exactly how they were prepared. Not that I’m judging you,” he said, raising his voice once more as the spatters shot out from the stove. I stepped back, not wanting to be hit by hot oil. “But you have to do right by yourself honey. Make sure those papers say what they say, and not what you think they say, or what you want them to say. Because maybe it’s different. You’ll never know unless you read them, or find someone to read them for you.”

I shook my head.

“It’s no use,” I said in a low voice. “I’ve already been kicked out. I called a Lyft and got myself out of there, it was so bad, I couldn’t stay there any longer.”

At that, Curtis’s head swiveled, his brow furrowed.

“What’s this thing Lyft? I never heard of that.”

And I nodded slowly. Like I said, Curtis is older, so he’s never heard of ride-sharing services.

“It’s like a taxi,” I explained. “I called for a taxi and one came to pick me up.”

My friend paused then, his brow creased.

“So you called a car for yourself after you were kicked out? They told you to leave, and left you to call a car for yourself?”

I sighed. Lyft can be hard to explain, the new sharing economy has opened frontiers that didn’t exist even five years ago.

“Sort of. I knew he was going to ask me to leave, so I did the honors myself. I left in the middle of the night, when he was least expecting it. I didn’t want to say goodbye, I didn’t want to have this long, uncomfortable, drawn out thing. So I called a car myself and did the honors, around midnight last night.” Of course, I didn’t add that I’d literally left Robert in the middle of sex, slipping off his dick to never come back. That was going too far, even if Curtis had nine kids, it was too much for anyone’s ears.

But Curtis shook his head again.

“Baby girl,” the old man said doubtfully. “If he kicked you out, that’d be one thing. But right now, it sounds like you kicked yourself out. You say you were kicked out, but you actually left on your own. You say he made you sign all these things, but you actually never read any of the things you signed. You say he doesn’t love you, but …” his voice trailed off.

“But what?” I asked slowly. “What?”

“I dunno,” shrugged my friend, turning back to a quiche in his hands. “I can’t say, you have to ask him.”

And I shook my head.

“It’s too late for that,” I murmured, “It’s too late.” Because of course, Mr. Lancaster already had another girl lined up. In another few days, Michelle or whatever her name was, would be arriving at Valley Pine to be his newest little. So my throat swelled again, the lump making it almost impossible to breathe, to talk. I was yesterday’s trash, forgotten, unloved, already on the side of the street.

But Curtis has raised nine kids and glared at me then, in full-on dad mode.

“You don’t know nuthin’,” he proclaimed authoritatively. “And there’s no such thing as too late. If you love this man, then you gotta tell him. I tell my Letty every day that I love her, and there’s no day that it doesn’t make both of us feel good. So you need to do the same.”

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