Page 60 of Big Daddy

That’s not fair. It’s not his fault. In fact, I think I fell for him first.

“Almost done?” Dante nudges me, and it occurs to me that I’ve sat silent in a stew of my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I say, pulling out an EarPod, despite the fact I wasn’t even listening to anything. “One more day. Just working on the ability for the site owner to send a curated newsletter to anyone who buys or simply subscribes.”

Dante nods, moving across the tiny room to his plastic drawers stacked on top of an old dresser. He tugs out boxers and some jeans, throwing them across his bed. “You did good. And hey, how’s it going with that dude that came by?”

Dante drops his towel, but I keep my eyes on my screen, entering the last bit of code needed for what I’m currently working on. His feet thud as he steps into his boxers, then jeans, and when I know it’s safe, I close my laptop and face him.

“Complicated.”

Dante shoves a hand through his hair as he flops down on his bed, reaching for a new pair of socks next. “How complicated?”

I let out a sigh larger than life, and take a sip of my Diet Coke. Today, not even the holy drink is helping. “He’s my best friend’s dad and they have a shitty relationship and he went and confronted her about the throuple she’s in and while he was doing that, she saw my number in his phone.”

“Oh shit,” Dante breathes, eyes widening. He stops mid tug on his tube sock and stares at me. “So she knows about you guys?”

I shake my head, my stomach clenching nervously at the topic. “No, she doesn’tknowknow about us. She thinks I just told him where her boyfriends live, and she’s really fucking pissed about that.” I chew the inside of my cheek, imagining her face. “She’s been calling, but I haven’t answered.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks, finishing one foot, moving to the other.

“I’m finishing my project tomorrow and turning it in. Then I’m going to go talk to her.”

“Coming clean?” Dante wonders as he pulls a polo over his head, reaching across his bed to snatch his cologne from the upturned box he uses as a bedside table.

I shake my head. “Not about me and her dad. I’m just going to apologize for telling him where she was staying, and for ghosting her for two days. I feel fucking awful.”

Dante nods, spritzing his wrist, then smearing them together. “She’s gonna ask why you ghosted, you know. And,” he says, eyes narrowing on me in a way that makes the back of my neck hot. “If you go telling a partial truth, when she finally does find out, she’ll look back on that talk as another lie.”

I continue torturing the sore spot on the inside of my cheek. “I know, and I hate that but I can’t ghost her any longer. I feel like an absolute fucking sewer rat. Ghosting is truly the most trash ball thing a human can do.”

Dante nods. “I agree.”

“So I’m gonna tell a partial truth, yeah. But, it’s the best thing I can come up with for now and when the time comes and she finds out about me and Bi—Quincey,” I correct, feeling embarrassment flood my cheeks at almost using his nickname to Dante. “Well, I’ll have a lot of explaining and groveling to do. I will own and admit to all of it.”

Silence fills in between us, and even though I can’t blame him for asking what we’re both thinking, I wish he wouldn’t. Still, he does.

“What if she doesn’t forgive you?”

I shake my head, unwilling to acknowledge the frightened tears that have filled my eyes in response to that singular question. “I don’t want to think about that.”

I’ve been a terrible friend on all accounts. Hell, I’m the bitch everyone hates—the one who meets a man and immediately spills all her girlfriends’ secrets to put herself in said man’s good graces. “I’m gross for what I did. What I’ve done—fuck, whatI’m doing. I know it. And I hate myself for it.”

“Why’d you do it then?” he asks, replacing the cologne while he reaches for his gold chain, which also rests on top of his box table. “I mean, not tell Quincey where she is but… why’d you get involved with him in the first place?”

I think about Quincey, and the morning he came to Brielle’s and filled the fridge. He was rude, but he paid attention to me, even when I wanted him to leave. He paid close enough attention to not just see I was upset but to want to remedy it. To get me a therapy appointment.

There may be a big tattoo across my forehead that says “daddy issues,” but I don’t care. I’ve dated plenty of men. I dated one of my TA’s, a professor, an internal medicine intern, a bartender, a voice actor, a clothing designer, a barista, a rideshare driver—none of them made me think about the future, none of them made me feel cared for. And maybe I wasn’t it for them either, but all I know is I feel different with Quincey. I want things I thought I’d never have.

A family. A husband. A home. A career and kids.

Growing up without much of a family, I lost the ability to dream about it. I stopped envisioning it. The fear of wanting something so badly and not being able to have it seemed unbearable, so I never imagined it. I never let myself dream. After all, what guy falls in love with and brings home the girl whose parents are dead and has no family?

It’s no one’s dream.

Until it was.

Quincey sees a future with me, and he doesn’t care what my past holds. He wants me, the same raw, unfettered, unexplainable way I want him.

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