Page 14 of Daddy's Princess

I’m the black sheep. If you listen to my mother tell it, she will laugh my choice in college off as just a phase. Something I just need to get out of my system before settling down with a husband and two point five kids in a McMansion in the finest neighborhood in the city. Of course, my husband will be a doctor or a lawyer or a politician.

Don’t hold your breath, mom.

She would have kittens if she knew the kind of man I’m attracted to. She’d probably have me dating someone like Brock or Jack. Rich, entitled, and completely incompatible. Nothing like Oliver. My stomach does a little flip flop at that thought. I wonder what my mom would think of him. Mom is still ranting away. I’ve gotten dressed and made my way out to the living room while she goes on and on…

“It’s just embarrassing. Linda’s daughter is graduating this summer with an English degree. She’s already engaged to a fine man. They’ve already booked The Landing for their wedding!” With every word, her tone gets more and more shrill until I have to hold the phone away from my ear or risk hearing loss.

Candace, my best friend and roommate, waves her arms in the air to get my attention. She’s standing in the middle of our coffee table. When she has my undivided attention, she fluffs her blonde hair and pretends to put on lipstick. I shake my head, no. Candace smirks. I can already feel the laughter bubbling to the surface. I bite my lips between my teeth to keep it in.

Candace then perfectly mocks my mother. She’s been doing this since the first time she met my mom three years ago when I, once again, disappointed the family by moving into a third-floor walk-up in the wrong neighborhood instead of the posh penthouse my mom had picked out. My mom took an instant dislike for my blonde bombshell bestie.

Candace is the opposite of country club chic. She wears short skirts, low-cut tops, break-your-neck high heels, and—gasp—bright colors. I close my eyes so I can’t see her interpretation of my mother, but it’s no use, I can still envision her hand on her hip, her pursed lips, the constipated look on her face when she really gets worked up. She’s really, really good at highlighting my mom’s best features.

“I don’t know what you think is so funny about this, young lady,” my mom scolds. “This is your future we are discussing.”

Whoops.I open my eyes to glare at my friend and see her mimicking my mother’s “polite laughter.” You know the kind. The half-smile, hand on your chest like you can’t contain the amusement, the lean forward, and swat of the air to let the other person know they’re so bad. So freakin’ fake. So very my mom.

I choke back my laughter and make my own gesture at Candace. The menace. “Speaking of my future… I need to get ready for work. I’ve got to catch the train in thirty minutes.”

My mom makes a disgusted noise. “Why you insist on riding that… that…”

“Subway, mom, it’s called the subway.”

“You don’t need to ride on that disgusting thing. You have a perfectly good Mercedes sitting in the garage.”

I roll my eyes. Yet another conversation I’ve had with mom a million times since I moved here three years ago. “Driving in the city just isn’t practical, mom. Parking is a mess. It would take me longer to park the car than to ride the train.”

“There’s always the car service—”

“Sorry, mom, have to go. Tell dad, I love him! Bye!” I say and quickly hang up. I can’t deal with another lecture about living a working-class lifestyle.

“Your mom is such a buzzkill. Who calls at six in the morning just to bitch about their kid going to college and holding down a job?” Candace hops down from the coffee table and heads toward our small kitchen.

“Leanne Larson does. She stopped calling in the evenings because she was tired of being sent to voicemail and only getting a text back from me, apologizing that I’m working late. Now it’s her life’s mission to ruin my day before it even starts.”

I wander into the kitchen needing to pack my lunch and make my usual breakfast—a strawberry, banana, spinach, and blueberry smoothie with a scoop of chocolate protein powder and a squirt of chocolate syrup for good measure.

“I don’t know how you can eat like that. I would be as big as a house if I did,” Candace says for the millionth time. “You don’t even go to the gym!”

I shrug and give her an apologetic smile. “Good metabolism, I guess. I’m sure one day it will catch up to me. At least that’s what my mom said last week when Albert let it slip that we ate at that new burger place downtown when he was here on business.”

“Your mom would have something to say about what was served at the Last Supper. I can just hear her, ‘Really, Jesus, red wine with fish? Can’t you divine us a nice Sauvignon Blanc?’” Candace throws her voice in a perfect imitation of my mother’s.

“‘This bread is stale, my fork isn’t polished, and look, my water glass is spotted,’” I say, doing a not as good imitation of my mom’s voice.

Candace looks at me like she just saw a ghost. “Oh, girl, don’t ever make that face again. It was like you were channeling your inner Leanne.”

I shudder in an overly exaggerated way, shaking out my arms like I’m trying to exorcise the Leanne from my body. “Never compare me to my mother again. Those are fighting words.”

Candace smirks, patting the top of my head. “As if you could take me shrimp.”

“Just because you’re an Amazon doesn’t mean you can take me. I’m feisty.”

That makes Candace laugh a proper belly laugh. “Girl, anyone of average height is an Amazon to you.”

I turn away to shove my peanut butter and honey sandwich in my lunch bag along with my yogurt, fruit snacks, chips, skittles, and a juice box. “I’m not that short,” I whine.

“And I’m not that tall!” Candace laughs. “I’m only five seven. Completely average.”

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