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When my phone first starts ringing, I don’t immediately recognize what the sound is. For a dazed second, I wonder what Frank Sinatra crooning White Christmas has to do with nipple clamps and naughty school girls. But then some of my just-had-an-orgasm cloud clears, and I realize it’s my phone ringing. Not only that, but that it’s my Dad’s ringtone. Perfect timing, Dad.
And just like that, I’m back in the real world. I jump out of bed, and almost trip and fall because I’m all wrapped up in my sheets and the comforter, but a twist of my hips saves me.
Directly recovering from my near miss, I unwrap myself from the bedding and run into the hallway, following the sound of old blue eyes. It’s coming from my winter coat, which is still piled up in the hallway with my snow boots.
Quickly, I pluck my coat from the floor and grab the phone from one particularly deep pocket. I slide the “answer” bar over just in time. One more ring and the call would’ve been forwarded to voicemail.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, out of breath.
I suddenly feel a sense of shame, remembering what I had just been doing. Dad still thinks I’m his innocent, good little girl who doesn’t even know about sex. He doesn’t even think I wear dresses like this. What would he think if he were here?
I blush, knowing exactly what he would think. He would be shocked that his “little princess” would wear something so revealing. Sometimes I don’t quite know what gets into me.
“Hello, Princess,” he says. “Sorry for calling so late.”
He sounds relaxed. Tired. Maybe even a little sad? Or is he a little buzzed?
“It’s not late at all, Dad,” I say, glancing at the clock on my phone as I head to the kitchen. No more hot chocolate, but some milk and cookies would make a great snack right about now. I’m a curvy girl, and proud of it. Someone’s gotta feed and nurture these hips. “It’s never too late to talk to you, you know that.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I keep talking.
“What’s up?” Briefly, I let my attention wander to the ski trip we’re taking tomorrow. His little Christmas present for me, to make up for missing my birthday last month. “What time are you picking me up to go to Aspen tomorrow, Dad?”
As I’m talking, I open the fridge and grab the milk. I then open the cupboards for my favorite milk glass and favorite Christmas cookie plate. The one we always used to use for Santa. I figure that since I have to live life knowing there is no Santa, my consolation prize is getting to eat cookies off his plate.
Dad sighs, and that sigh is enough to have me pausing in my reach for my favorite bag of imported Danish cookies.
“Are you opening cupboards? I hope you’re making healthy choices when it comes to snacks, honey.”
“Dad,” I groan, not wanting to hear about one of his pet topics about how I should eat better. “Better” meaning, in his eyes, “a whole lot less.”
But as he clears his throat in that slightly awkward yet still confident way I’ve heard him do before, I realize he’s about to talk to me about his top favorite thing of all time: why he has to stand me up.
“About that trip, sweet pea,” he begins, “I’m sorry, but…” He doesn’t even need to finish his sentence. I know what he’s going to say before he says it. I flip open the tab lid on my cookies and grab a bigger handful than I initially planned and put them on my plate.
“You’re not going to be able to make it,” I finish quietly.
I spread the cookies out on my plate, deciding to look around for some frosting. Normally the fact that he’s busy with work — with a new secretary or intern, depending on which he’s hired recently — doesn’t bug me. He’s done it so much, for so many years, I stopped caring. Or at least I thought I did.
But tonight, it bugs me. Big time. Maybe it’s because of the disastrous date-not-date with Kyle, but I’m feeling more emotional. More vulnerable.
“You’re busy with work, right, Dad?”
Cupboard after cupboard opens, but there’s not a drop of frosting anywhere. I hate the quiver to my voice, and the sour tremble in my lips, but I guess I really needed him to keep his word this time. To be there for Christmas, but he isn’t. Not this Christmas, or any others.
I sniff, sucking back tears I don’t want to fall. I’m mad at myself for getting this upset when I should have known better than to expect him to actually go on the trip with me.
“Oh, don’t cry, Princess!” My dad sounds genuinely hurt. Distraught.
At least he’s not saying anything about how many more cabinets I’m opening.
I hear his office chair creak, and I briefly wonder whether he’s alone when he’s calling me, or if he is taking a break from being with his fling of the week to call and cancel on me.
“Listen. I am really, really sorry,” he says. “But I have to cancel on you.”
I laugh-cry. “I know.”
I swipe away a fat tear from beneath my eye, making sure it doesn’t fall, before reaching for a cookie. After opening every cupboard, I finally find a jar of something to dip it in. It’s not frosting. It’s hazelnut and chocolate spread, but it will do. I sweep the cookie through the sugary goodness and then take a bite.
“You’ve got a lot of important work to do.” I don’t mean to, but a bit of venom shoots out with my words. A sizeable amount of bitterness sits on my lips despite the sweet hazelnut and chocolate coating my tongue. “I guess I know why you let me keep your booking information here for you. Just in case you couldn’t make it, right?”
He sighs. Groans. “You have every right to be upset with me, Princess. You do. But this really is important work I’ve got to get done. If I want a whole new batch of clients going into the new year, I have to get this paperwork done before Christmas.”
I hear another sigh, and this one sounds nothing like my dad. A lot like a woman’s, though. I let the sound sit there.
“I don’t want to go by myself.”
If I wanted to spend Christmas alone, I’d just stay here. I swipe another bit of cookie through the dip and eat.
I’d go to a bar and pick up a guy. Maybe two and make them open me like a present and stuff me like a stocking.
I can’t even believe these thoughts are popping into my head. I guess I feel mad enough at my dad that I want to do something wild and crazy to get back at him—not that he’d even know, though. And even if he did find out it’s not like he’d care.
Dad’s words break up my thoughts like paper in a shredder. “So, invite a friend, sweetie.” A pause. “Maybe that Mariah girl.”
He clears his throat, flipping through something on his desk. “Your grades are barely keeping you from being expelled. Maybe if you treat that bookworm to a good time, she’ll help you study.”
I’m kind of surprised he remembers my BFF’s name, let alone anything about her. He’s right —Mariah is good at school, which I suck at. My eyes wander to the dining table I never use. It’s supposed to double as a study table, but I never use it for that either. The books I bought for the semester are still stacked where I left them. Still wrapped and covered with their purchase receipt.
“Okay.” I pause, plucking another cookie from the plate. “I’ll invite Mariah, but I’m buying her and myself some new clothes and ski gear, Dad.”
He says nothing, so I keep pushing my luck. “You owe me at least that much after skipping out on my birthday, and now my ski trip.” I grab my glass and fill it with milk. I drink it deeply, quietly.
“The make-up for the make-up,” I say, wiping off the milk mustache coating my upper lip.
“Whatever you want,” he says. “Whatever will let you know how sorry I am for having to break my promise.”
“Okay then,” I say because the only good thing about having a neglectful, workaholic father your whole life is that he has plenty of money to throw at you in apology, so I’ve learned to take what I can get. “Thank you, Dad.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” I can hear him pulling away from the phone. Disengaging from me. “Have fun with your little friend. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Aspen much more with her than you will with me anyway.”
I sigh. “Sure, Dad.”
“Got to go, Princess.” I hear a giggle coming from somewhere. “Have to get those clients before Christmas.”
“Bye, Dad.”
He hangs up almost before I’ve even finished speaking.
For a minute, I eat a few more cookies. Drink more milk. Do something to try to get my emotions centered before calling Mariah. It won’t take much for her to worry about me. But I know a call to her will cheer me up. One good thing to come out of having a shitty, rich dad is being able to take your best friend on a ski trip to a nice resort in Aspen.