Piston by Andi Rhodes
Chapter Five
He just doesn’t get it.
Holland
“Holland, is that you?”
I roll my eyes as I shut the back door behind me. I set the offensively expensive bottle of wine on the kitchen island and make my way toward my father’s study. He may be knocking on death’s door, but he still insists on working every day.
I stop just before I reach the french doors of the office and run my hands over my shirt and pants as if that will make the wrinkles disappear. I thrust my fingers through my blonde hair and take a deep breath before entering.
“Hi, Daddy,” I say cheerfully as I try not to focus on how sick he looks.
He doesn’t look up from his desk. “You’re late.”
His health hasn’t diminished his ability to be stern.
“I got hung up at work,” I lie.
No need to tell him about the phone call. All he’d do is launch into all the reasons I shouldn’t be talking to strange men, work and story be damned.
His only response is a grunt.
“Are you getting hungry? Do you want me to start dinner?”
“Did you get the wine I requested?”
Requested? More like demanded.
“I did.”
“Bring me a glass of that and then you can focus on dinner.”
I watch him for a few more seconds, saddened by the way speaking, even just a few words, seems to rob him of his breath. My eyes start to burn and before tears can spill over my lashes, I turn and head back to the kitchen.
I’ve been living with my father for a year now and no matter how familiar I am with his health decline, it always seems to startle me, jolt me back to the days when I watched my mother slowly die.
I slide two wine glasses from the rack on the wall and pour us both a glass. Before I take his to him, I down mine in a few long gulps. I pour myself another glass and set it on the counter.
My father is still engrossed in whatever business dealings he’s working on, so I set his glass to the right of him, right where he likes it, and back out of the study without a word.
The recipe for dinner is on the counter, no doubt left by Marilee, my father’s personal chef. She cooks his supper four nights a week and the other three days, it’s up to me. I begin prepping everything for the Stuffed Chicken Valentino. It doesn’t take long before everything is ready to be baked. I set the timer on the oven and then make my way to my bedroom to change.
As I’m buttoning my jeans, my cell phone rings. I know it’s Janessa because I’ve got a special ringtone just for her.
“Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for your date?” I ask by way of greeting.
“Legs and vajayjay shaved, outfit picked out, and rubbers in my purse.” She chuckles. “I think I’m set.”
“Sounds like it.”
“But I didn’t call to talk about me.” She takes a deep breath and rushes to add, “I’m texting you a pic really quick.”
“Okay… why?” I ask skeptically.
My phone dings and I put Janessa on speaker so I can see what she sent. When I open the photo, my heart skips a beat. A guy stands in front of a large wall with a very familiar logo painted on it. The same logo that was on the back of Piston’s leather vest the night of the tournament.
“How’d you get this?” I ask as excitement grips me.
“Well, I matched with him on Tinder a few days ago and we’ve been texting ever since.”
“Wait, I’m confused. Is this who you’re meeting tonight?”
“No. But he did invite me to a party on Friday.”
“Seriously? Are you going to go?”
“We’re going.” She laughs and I know there’s an idea floating around in her brain and I’m getting frustrated.
“Janessa, just spit it out,” I snap.
“Holli, don’t you get it?” When I remain silent, she heaves a sigh. “If we go to the party, you can get information for your articles.”
“Why would I go if this is supposed to be a date?” My protests are being made in vain. In reality, I’m excited. Thrilled that my best friend is a bit of a wild girl because clearly that’s what it’s taking to get me a story.
“He told me I could bring friends to the party because there would be plenty of other guys there.”
Alarm bells go off in my brain and I try to silence them. I almost succeed but then common sense wins out.
“Do you even know the guy’s name?” I ask. “And what about your date tonight? What if you hit it off with him?”
“His name is Tyler, thank you very much,” Janessa huffs out. “And what about my date tonight? It’s not like I’m planning on being exclusive with the guy. It’s just sex and I can go out with whoever I want to go out with. Besides, going to this party on Friday is more about your story than my sex life.”
I roll my eyes. This is an opportunity I can’t say no to and I know it. So does Janessa. “Of course I’ll go. I have to go.”
“I knew you would!” Janessa exclaims. “I gotta go but we’ll talk about the details at work tomorrow.”
Janessa hangs up and I’m left wondering what the hell I’m getting myself into.
You’re getting exactly what you need, what you want: direct access.
“Holland!”
I glance toward my bedroom door at the sound of my father’s voice. After rolling my neck to ease the tension, I push up from the mattress and force myself to face the rest of the evening. Janessa has already talked me into something I don’t want to do, why not let my father do the same thing?
“Coming,” I holler back.
When I reach the hallway that my father’s office is in, I stop in my tracks when I see him leaning against the door jam, seemingly out of breath.
“Daddy,” I rush forward and step under his arm to help balance him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Dinner will be ready soon,” I assure him as I guide him toward the dining room.
“We can talk while we wait,” he says matter of factly.
I stifle the sigh that is threatening to escape past my lips. I’ve learned over the years that all that will get me is a lecture about how unladylike the noise is.
When we reach the dining room, I pull out my father’s chair for him and stay close until he’s seated. Once I’m sitting in my own chair, silence ensues for several moments before my father clears his throat.
“Spit it out, Daddy,” I say with resignation.
“Don’t take that tone with me,” he snaps.
I drop my eyes to stare at my clasped hands on the table. Despite his frail state, he still has the power to make me feel like a ten year old little girl who needs the approval of her dad. I hate it. But I love him so I put up with it.
“I’d like to throw a dinner party.”
I lift my head and lock eyes with him.
“Why?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“Do I need a reason?”
I swallow. “Well, no.”
“Of course not,” he says as if I didn’t say a word. He stares at me for a long moment before continuing. “Holland, I don’t have much time left.” He lifts his hand to stop me from commenting. “You and I both know it so let’s not pretend otherwise. I’d like to enjoy what time I have left.”
Unable to argue with that, I nod. “Okay. I’ll work with Marilee on a menu. We should be able to plan something in the next few weeks.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I’ve already sent out invitations for this Friday.”
I shoot up from my chair. “What?!”
“Sit down, Holland,” he commands. When I don’t do as instructed, he glares at me. “I’ve already spoken to Marilee and she’s agreed to prepare a meal. The only thing you need to do is go shopping and pick out a nice new dress.”
I fall back into my chair. “Daddy, if you already had everything figured out, why did you start this conversation as if you were asking for my help?”
“I figured it would go over more easily if you thought I was asking.” He sighs. “I guess I was wrong.”
I shake my head as if that will loosen all the annoyance and frustration building up. “I… I already have plans on Friday.”
“Cancel them.”
The picture that Janessa texted me pops into my head. There’s no way I can cancel. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. I’m actually going to be in the lion’s den, so to speak, and who knows if I’ll ever get another opportunity like this.
“I can’t.”
Daddy narrows his eyes. “You can and you will.”
I let my head fall back and stare at the ceiling. I breathe in and out, in and out, trying to calm myself down before I respond. When I’m sure my temper is under control, I return my stare to him.
“Daddy, I need you to listen to me,” I begin. “I’m not cancelling my plans. I’ve already cancelled my life to be here for you, given up on my dreams.” He opens his mouth to protest but I continue. “Don’t get me wrong, I love you… so much. And I would do anything for you. I think I’ve more than proven that. But I still need to live a little.”
“You haven’t given up on your dreams,” he counters when I stop speaking. “Hell, you’ve got a great job at the paper. Your dream was to be a journalist and that’s exactly what you are.”
I blow out a breath. He just doesn’t get it.
“That’s true… sort of.” The oven timer dings, and I rise from my chair. “I’ll be here to help get things started on Friday,” I concede. “But I’m not cancelling my other plans.”
I exit the dining room, ignoring his protests. I remind myself, over and over again, that I love my father. If I didn’t, I would never have come home last year. And putting my foot down doesn’t change that. I’m allowed to have a life that doesn’t revolve around his every whim.
