Big Daddy

Chapter 20

chapter twenty

winnie

What did he do?

What the fuck did that bossy, sexy jerk do?

Something. He did something because Brielle has been calling my phone nonstop for the last hour.

I hate myself, but I can’t bring myself to answer. I can’t face it. Not yet, not now. Plus, as bad as it sounds, I need to talk to Quincey, to find out what he told her, what she knows.

“What’s up?” Dante asks, sauntering into our shared room in a towel, his hair mussed with product. He hovers over my shoulder, peering at my computer screen. “Almost done, eh? Damn, didn’t you just start that like, a few weeks ago?”

“Two months and two weeks,” I correct and no, I don’t track my school projects that way. I do, however, know when this began because I started it not long before I started working for Quincey. Thanks to his generosity, I was able to receive therapy, take care of myself financially and get my final graduate project done with ease.

But, also thanks to Quincey, I have no idea if I’ve lost my best friend or not.

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’t know know 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, what I’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.

We just have it, whatever it is, we have it.

I look up at Dante and give him an unintentionally sad smile. “I didn’t have a choice.”

He studies me, maybe searching for subtext in my eyes. I don’t make him wait.

“I am drawn to him, the way that Frida Kahlo was drawn to paint and her canvas. The way an astronomer can’t pass up a glimpse of the starry sky, the very same way a musician’s eyes fall shut in symbiosis when they hear a single note of music being played.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, ignoring the heat building behind my eyes. My hands are nearly shaking, and I hold them up for Dante to see. “See? Even talking about the way he makes me feel has me trembling.”

“I never believed in fate,” Dante says, getting to his feet, toeing into some well-worn Sambas. “But I’ve never seen anyone this way.” He ducks down to kiss my cheek. “Especially not you.”

He moves to the doorframe and knocks his hand against the frame. “I’m heading out. But Winnie, it’s gonna be okay. Brielle will understand, eventually.”

I nod, swiping beneath my eyes to hide my nervous tears. “Have fun.”

I want to believe he’s right, but I’m not so sure.

In a week, I will have a graduate degree in graphic design. While my final project isn’t graded, I did receive an email from my professor expressing interest in hiring me for his personal website design later. That’s a good sign, obviously.

Still, with a potential job lined up, a decent chunk carved out of my student loan debt thanks to the egregious amounts of money I’m earning at Parker & Pen, and no more stress of school, I’m miserable.

I’m still on my SSRI’s, too.

But my misery is too strong for Lexapro tonight.

I ended up spending the night at Big Daddy’s place last night. Crying in his arms, showing him a side of myself that I’ve rarely even shown Brielle. Telling him I feel so awful for what I’ve done, while also feeling awful for feeling awful, because I actually love what I’ve started with him. What I’ve started with him —I didn’t say I love him. I was careful with my words.

But it’s there. That feeling. That seed. That hint at forever. It’s in my belly and in my bones, it’s dormant in my ovaries, waiting to explode at the right time. Forever—love—it’s in me. Waiting for him, when he’s ready.

He made me feel better, with his words and his arms, and not a moment of it was sexual. Pure affection and care, which I reciprocated by promising we will talk to Brielle, together. Augustus and Lance reached out to set up a dinner a week or so after we graduate, and Quincey and I decided together that would be the time we break the news.

For now, I have to break the ghost and apologize for what I’ve done. Baby steps. And I miss my bestie. I miss everything about her—her chipper morning calls and funny texts, our coffee dates and her updates on work—I miss her, period.

Outside of Augustus’s house, I pick at chipped nail polish, staring at the door like I’m expecting something to happen. What, is Brielle going to come outside, see me, and embrace me and be so glad to see me after ghosting her for a week? No.

Of course not.

Still, I sit and stare, picking my nails with worry.

Big Daddy has been texting me like crazy. I didn’t go into the office yesterday, but today is Brielle’s presentation ceremony for film school. I told him to go to that and focus on that, focus on being present and undoing as much harm as possible. Show her he cares, that he respects what she’s built, that he’s proud of her. That him freaking out the other night was a misstep, but that he’s heading overall in the right direction.

I can tell his head is all messed up over her relationship choice, but after I kindly pointed out that he is a hypocritical asshole, he eased up a bit. Still, I know it’s bothering him.

He may be hard-headed and a successful litigator, but one thing he’s gonna learn is to quit fucking judging everything and everyone. Starting with his daughter.

I only hope she still wants to be my friend after all of this.

I make my way to the porch, willing my racing thoughts to slow enough to figure out my words. Do I start with I’m sorry? I knock on the door, and the clack of heels on the other side has my heart racing.

“Winnie?” Brielle cries as she smooths a hand down her elegant black wrap dress. She looks gorgeous for her ceremony tonight, and under normal circumstances, I’d tell her that. Only now, guilt gnaws at my tongue, leaving nothing but a wobble in my chin.

“How could you?” she whispers, stepping forward, still gripping the door handle with one hand. “How could you tell him personal things about me?”

A knot of emotion clogs my throat, and the back of my eyes burn with frustrated, guilty tears. I’ve been the orphan. I’ve been the sidekick. I’ve been the beauty. I’ve been the poor girl. But I’ve never been the bad girl. The girl who people have a reason—a legitimate reason—to dislike.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter just as Lance appears, dressed to the nines in his fitted black suit and pencil tie. He stands in front of Brielle, serving as her loyal protector, and the back of my neck tingles at his defensive stance.

Big Daddy would do the same for me.

“Who are you?” he asks, looking me up and down.

It was a long night finishing my project, and a longer night in Big Daddy’s arms. I’m exhausted, and managed to come over in shit I threw on after waking up at Quincey’s—a t-shirt, messy bun and sweats. Despite the fact I’ve seen Lance before, he’s never seen me. And this is not how I envisioned looking. Right now, though, nothing matters but Brielle.

“W-Winnie,” I stammer through my name, my eyes glued to him, waiting for a reaction. Waiting for his face to tell me all the things Brielle’s told him in the last few days.

“You’re not a very good best friend considering you told your friend’s father about her love life then stopped communicating with her,” he says, the flex in his jaw giving way to just how angry he is at me. On her behalf—that’s the scariest part, because she doesn’t even know the biggest, worst offense. Not yet.

I reach for my best friend’s hand, but Lance prevents me from touching her. “Don’t upset her before her ceremony, please. If you want to talk, she lives here, which you clearly know.”

She lives here. I mean, I knew she’d been staying here but she moved in? I didn’t know that. We’ve only not spoken for three days. But then… I guess I’ve been quiet lately. She tried to ask me if I was okay, she tried to talk. I blew her off because I’ve been deceptive. The last time Brielle and I truly talked was… weeks ago. I press a hand to my stomach as the world around me spins, Lance’s eyes narrowed, his attention making me sweat.

Lance moves to close the door in my face, and I catch Brielle’s eyes skimming over me, taking in my messy state and watery eyes. “Wait!” she shouts, outstretching a hand onto the door before it’s fully closed. She pushes it open and steps on the cement, her heels sinking into the WELCOME doormat.

She looks at my chest and up at me. “Where did you get that t-shirt?”

I don’t even know what I’m wearing. My sweats, I grabbed those, and the old Sierra Nevada brewery shirt I wore to Big Daddy’s. But hurt lines Brielle’s eyes, and her confused, pained expression has me looking down at my t-shirt.

I didn’t grab the shirt I wore over.

I accidentally grabbed one of Big Daddy’s shirts.

WHARTON arches over my breasts and panic seizes me, stealing air from my lungs, replacing my blood with a stir of nerves in my veins. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. We were gonna tell her together. We were gonna wait. We were… fuck.

“Oh my god,” Brielle breathes, staring at the worn college letters. “Big Daddy,” she says, repeating the nickname I gave her father in jest years ago.

“I never meant for it to happen,” I hear myself saying, the edges of my vision darkening with my impending panic. My hands fly to my hair, then the edges of the t-shirt, yet my eyes are unmoving on my heartbroken friend.

“You wore that here on purpose, to rub salt in the wound? That you didn’t just tell him my secrets but that you fucked him, too?” Brielle hisses as Augustus appears in the doorframe, a litany of his own reactions filling the air. He collects Brielle in his arms as Lance becomes the barrier between me and my best friend.

“We’re having dinner after the program tonight. A late dinner. Nine o’clock at Bella Cucina. Meet us there, preferably in clothing that doesn’t belong to Quincey Parker.”

The door closes and I’m left with my decisions and tears, and what feels like only a moment later, a phone call from Big Daddy.

“Just listen, okay? We’re going to do this sooner than we planned but it’s better this way, okay?” he says, his voice smooth and soft as I walk back to my car and climb inside. “I talked to Augustus. He and Lance are going to give us an opportunity tonight to explain things. After the ceremony, at dinner.”

“Okay,” I sniffle. “But if she doesn’t want you and I to be together, I’m gonna leave, Quincey. I can’t come between you two. You’re her father. If she doesn’t come around, I’m leaving.”

“You will do no such fucking thing, Winnie! We will go to dinner and we will figure it out. Now, I have to go to this ceremony. I’ll pick you up at 8.”

I nibble my lip as tears well in my eyes, the streetlight becoming a salty blur. “Okay.”

“Winnie,” he says, tenderness lining his tone. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of this.”

“You can’t make her forgive us,” I sob before ending the call and letting myself ugly cry in my car for three full songs. Then I go to my shitty apartment and ice my cheeks and drink some water, trying to calm myself down. Because if I only get one shot to explain myself to my best friend later tonight, I’m gonna make it a good one.

I wish no one had to choose, but if someone does, I will. I’ll choose to leave, because I’m removable and they aren’t.