Page 41 of Big Daddy

The same way I’m sure my own daughter has seen it for years.

“Oh yeah?” Brielle asks, sipping her water.

I nod. “Listening. And being less of an asshole.”

We stare at one another and before long, Brielle smiles. The same toothy grin I remember getting from her when she was just ten. My chest squeezes at the memory, at how beautiful, smart and mature she is now.

“Can you believe you’re going to be graduating with your master’s?” I ask, causing her to stop mid-drink and lower the glass to the table.

“First you’re listening more and now you’re reminiscing.” She leans in, eyes suddenly wide with concern. “Dad, are you sick?”

I can’t help but laugh. “No. Not sick just… aware that I can do better.”

She’s not wrong to look suspicious, and if she only knew that the catalyst to my awareness was her best friend, we’d have big problems. But that is an issue for future Quincey, so I take the last drink of my scotch, and fish my wallet out.

The waiter passes by, and I hand him my card.

Brielle studies me from across the table as I pull something else out of my wallet.

I put her apartment key down, and push it toward her. “It’s your apartment. I don’t need this.”

She shakes her head. “What’s going on?”

I shrug. “Like I said, I can do better. That is your apartment. End of story.”

Winnie’s words, once again, are deep in my psyche.You’re weird. And overbearing.

She eyes me. “If you’re dying, it’s gonna put me in therapy for years if you don’t tell me.”

“I’m not dying,” I assure her. Changing the subject, I say, “How’s the rest of life going, you know, outside of work? You only talked about work tonight.”

Brielle sighs, pulling her long hair into a ponytail. “Well, I only talked about work because that’s pretty much all I have going on right now.”

I sip my water now that the scotch is empty. “What about your friend? You don’t spend time with her?” When Brielle finds out about me and Winnie, she’ll think back to this conversation, and all the truth and honesty I’ve spoken about myself and our relationship will be soiled from this singular question. She’ll think I only talked about wanting to be better to her because of Winnie. But I can’t help it. I cannot fucking help myself. I lick my lips and add, “She’s in the master’s program as well, right?”

Brielle nods. “Yeah, she is. Graphic design,” she tells me, despite the fact I clearly already knew that. “Haven’t seen much of her lately. We were gonna grab a drink after dinner tonight but she canceled.”

My ears burn and my pulse quickens. “Canceled on you?”

Brielle waves it off as if it’s no big deal. I know it’s no big deal to her, but it’s a big deal to me. “Decided to go out with her roommate.” She adjusts the back on her earring, casually adding, “She hangs out with those guys all the time. It’s fine.”

“Which—” I stop myself. Quincey Parker does not know the names of the men living with Winnie Collins. I take another sip of water, rerouting my brain to a questionI canask. “Which of the two did you like better?” I ask, nodding to her empty plate, in reference to the variety of entrees she ordered.

“Dolmades, as usual,” she says, leaning back in her chair, using the napkin to blot the corners of her mouth.

An idea comes to me, one I can’t easily find in five seconds of thought and find an answer to, so I roll with it. “Why doesn’t your friend live with you, at your apartment? Isn’t that what young women do? Share apartments?”

Fuck. As soon as I lay it out, I see where there are gaping holes. First of all, if Winnie did live with my daughterand whatever it is we’re doing turns into more, it would be impossible for us to be together. I could never go to her place, and she’d always have to be sneaking around.

Unless we tell her.

Tell her what? Jesus, listen to me. We haven’t even fucked yet. This is just… I don’t know. A mid-life crisis?

Brielle blinks at me, confusion lightly marking her forehead. I’m sure she thinks I’m dying, because my behavior is so out of pocket for me. I sip my water, trying to cool the panic stirring inside me.

I never panic.

“She didn’t want it to impact our friendship. Living with someone can be tricky, as we very well know,” she says, eyeing me as she slips her readers on to read a message on her phone. “Oh!” She smiles at the screen, “Speak of the devil.”

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