Page 1 of Big Daddy

prologue

quincey

Six yearsago

We clink our champagne glasses in celebration, all the while, Brielle’s lips are curved with displeasure.

“Congratulations on completing your first year of your undergraduate degree,” I toast.

“Thank you,” she says before sipping her champagne slowly, pacing herself. I’m glad to know that she hasn’t been perfecting her beer chugging skills all year, like most freshmen. Not my Brielle, she’s on the straight and narrow. She wants to make documentaries about trees.

“So,” I hedge, unfolding the napkin swan atop my untouched bread plate. I brought her to one of my favorite places in San Francisco—a three Michelin star restaurant. We’ve had a glass of wine, hors d'oeuvres, and now we’re onto my favorite part—the main course. “How has the first year been?” I ask, draping my napkin over my thigh.

Brielle rolls her eyes. “As if you don’t know. You call every fucking day. And hey—stop coming into my apartment, stopbringing over groceries and shit. What if I'm, like, naked or something?”

“Lower your voice,” I hiss, my face hardly moving as I scold my daughter over a perfectly cooked steak. “And don’t curse. You sound vulgar.” I take a bite, chewing, my taste buds reacting, but my brain is fixed on my daughter. She glares at me, arms folded, her salmon sitting untouched. “And if I pay for it,” I add after swallowing, her silence gnawing on my nerves. “I’ll use my key, thank you.” I take another bite of the soft, buttery steak, glaring across the table at my daughter who looks so much like her late mother. Beautiful. She’s smart, too, and I’ve worked hard every day to make sure none of that brain of hers goes to waste. I may micromanage, but that’s how I love—making sure her life is on fucking track. “And if I didn’t, what would you eat?” My face twists in disgust as the contents of her fridge flit through my mind. “Chicken strips? Day-old corner Chinese?” I lean over the table, fork in one hand, knife in the other, my temples throbbing with irritation. “A hot pocket?”

She rolls her eyes at me, something I hate, but can never call her out on since I have been known to, from time to time,alsoroll my eyes. “Chicken strips and hot pockets with privacy are better than microgreens and quinoa withyoubutting in,” she growls back at me as the waiter approaches, refilling our champagne flutes.

Arguing with her is not what I had planned for the evening, so I do my best to veer away, taking another bite of steak. She takes a bite of her salmon, too.

“How’s your friend, the one you met the first day?” I ask, sipping the Moet. It burns on the way down, and I don’t even like champagne, but Brielle pulled a 4.2 this year, so a celebration was in store.

Brielle’s face lightens. “Winnie,” she says, filling in the blanks. “She’s my best friend, Dad, so try to remember hername.” Her frown lifts to a gentle smile as she thinks about her friend. “And she’s good.”

I nod my head, vaguely remembering the name now. “Remind me of her situation?” I also vaguely remember her having a harried backstory of some sort.

“Hersituation,” Brielle quips, “is that she’s a straight-A student, super funny, everyone loves her, guys arealwayshitting on her, and I love her. She’s great. That’s what.”

Guys are always hitting on her? I don’t like that. I don’t want my daughter around someone like that, because that draws eyes on Brielle. Then again, Brielle favors her mother—beautiful blonde hair, shining wide eyes, elegance and class radiating from her in drowning waves. Winnie or not, I can’t keep men away. That much I do realize.

Still, trying never hurts.

“Her parents passed away years ago, when she was younger, so she’s pretty much used to taking care of herself. She works two jobs; she has a 4.3 GPA and she’s honestly so funny. Funniest girl I’ve ever met, I swear.”

Winnie seems to be a topic that doesn’t piss her off, so I finish my steak as she tells me all about her best friend, while I smile and nod, tuning out details of some twenty-something I’ll likely never meet.

College friends are just that. College friends. Very rarely do you take those through life with you. In fact, I won’t be surprised if I don’t hear about this Winnie person after this year. But I need to pay attention enough because I may possibly meet her? Unlikely. I just need to listen and nod, do whatever keeps the tone of dinner agreeable.

When we’re both finished, I pay the check, and Brielle excuses herself to use the restroom. The valet pulls the car around, and when Brielle returns, I nod toward the front, wherethe car waits. “C’mon, the valet pulled the car up front.” She doesn’t move.

“Winnie is picking me up. We’re going to the store and having a s’mores party tonight at my place.” She glances out to the car on the curb behind mine. I didn’t notice it a moment ago. She must’ve texted Winnie from the bathroom, and Winnie was near. Interesting.

“Is that your car?” I ask, narrowing my eyes past my reflection, out the glass door to the curb.

“Yes, and yes, I added an extra driver to the insurance. She doesn’t have a car, but she’s a great driver, so I let her use mine.”

Peering out the window, I strain my eyes to get a glimpse of Brielle’s best friend, but with impending nightfall, the fog of the bay and shadowy eaves, I can’t see her face. Only bare thighs resting beneath the steering wheel.

Beautiful thighs, at that.

Brielle rises to her toes and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you for dinner, Dad. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Congratulations on a wonderful first year,” I repeat, kissing her cheek back. This is the time where we’d exchange "I love you’s” if we did that. But we don’t.

She smiles a bit awkwardly then waves me off, pushing out the door, skipping down the pavement to her car. Winnie leans over the console then the passenger door rushes open. I still can’t see her face but her torso becomes visible, full breasts squeezed into a tiny white tank top, those creamy thighs on display, her denim shorts rising up as she reaches.

Fuck.

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