Page 34 of Vows in Sin
She’s everything.
She’s the kind of girl you write poems about and then burn the page in embarrassment because your words couldn’t come close to doing her justice.
Dame couldn’t see it. Maybe he’s too young to see it.
But I do.
And that’s going to be a problem.
I’m falling hard and I’m falling fast. I have to claw my way back up. Or let her keep using me, and down I fall.
Her name plays in my mind as I walk to the Village. Back at home, I microwave a slice of whatever casserole the well-meaning Beauties have left me. They think bachelorhood is a surefire way to starve. Kicking off my boots, I sink into my favorite leather chair and snap on a footie match from home.
The one Tabs and I recorded earlier to watch together tonight.
I can feel her call before the phone rings. I swallow back a bite of spicy sausage with a sip of beer. “Tabby Cat. What’s the meow?”
She skips the hellos, diving straight to the meat of things. “Tell me, Dad, are they giving up entirely or just incredibly disorganized tonight?”
“All I know is that there better be some massive changes made at the half.”
“Like coach kicking some sense into the aresholes. Their playing is shite!”
I chuckle. She tends to adopt a bit of my Northern England roughness when it comes to the footie matches.
Between plays, she fills me in. “I’m choking down a salad.”
“God, thought you were scared of veggies.”
“I smothered it in ranch and bacon.”
“Good girl.”
We move on to her week. Little stuff. Drinks with the girls. A meeting with her boss. “I don’t know, Dad. I’m just not feeling the job…”
“Tell me more, love.” She’s come to me with her problems—my chest wells with a warm pride.
“It pays well and all. I’m grateful to have it. I have fun at work, which I know most people can’t say, so I can’t complain.” She sighs. “I don’t know. I feel…”
“Unfulfilled.” Same asI felt before I found my current life’s work.
“Yeah. Like, I’m helping people, but as a stylist? Come on.”
“Stylist to some pretty powerful women, don’t forget.”
“I love my clients, I do. But what do I offer them? Sure, I can move your wardrobe around, add a few pieces, give you an hourglass figure when you’re a rectangle, but what am I adding to the world?”
“Confidence,” I say. “You’re giving young women the gift of confidence.”
“Confidence?” she asks.
“Yes. And God knows, in this city, they need it. A girl would get eaten alive trying to rule the men in these skyscrapers without it.”
“Woman, Dad. Not girl. And I didn’t take you for a poet,” she jokes. “But that’s nice. Thanks.”
After we hang up, I’m left worrying. A father’s love is never-ending, but they don’t tell you that the anxiety is just as non-stop.
I’m worried about Seraphina, too. She said she’d made a huge mistake at work. Is that why she came to see me? To cleanse her of her humiliation?
