Falling For Dad’s College Rival by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Five

Brooke

The only thing worse than my dad’s timing is his attitude.

I can see in an instant that there’s no real friendship between my dad and his old friend Trent anymore.

I wonder what happened to make them hate each other so much.

I’ve only just had Trent Latham himself take my hand to kiss it and although I screw up my own introduction, the charge I’m getting from his touch is like nothing I could have imagined.

I’m still reeling from it. My whole body still tingling by the time my dad finally lets go of me, telling me he wants to go home.

“What’s gotten into you, dad?” I ask him, wondering if he really is unwell.

“I could ask you the same,” he replies hotly, calming himself as best he can once he sees the effect of his words.

“I just don’t want you anywhere near that man, okay,” he says, forcing a smile that looks more like a crazed grimace as his eyes dart around the room, looking for the same person I am.

“Brooke. I’m sorry,” he finally says, leaning in so I can hear him better. “This is just stressing me out, and the last person I expected to see you so close to was that guy. Trent Latham and me—” he starts, but we’re interrupted by something else.

I can pretty much smell the words before I hear them, and there are murmurs from people around us.

“Somebody’s had enough already…”

“Ugh. Some people don’t change a bit…”

A rough, sweaty hand tries to take mine, with another gripping my ass, which sees my own hand lash out to slap the face behind it all out of sheer reflex.

It’s a man I’ve never seen before, and I’m equally shocked that all my dad can do is stand there, his mouth gaping wide.

“How are ya, Mike? I never knew you were… married… A fine woman too,” the thick, booze-filled voice slurs.

The slap to the face only registers a few seconds later, with the guy muttering something about women with spirit before a huge hand appears over my shoulder, lifting the man clean off the floor by his collar.

The masculine, clean scent of Trent’s cologne cuts through the drunk’s hazy vapor, and without a word, he’s lifted him away from me and is carrying him to the door like a sack of garbage.

More than one woman in the room makes a sound, but it’s nothing compared to the one I make. Nothing compared to how it makes me feel when Trent Latham steps in to save the day.

“Are you alright, honey?” My dad stammers, finally getting himself together enough to actually do something. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles. “Butch Wilson… He used to beat me up. Looks like he never got over his drinking problem either,” he adds.

“We can go if you want,” he says, looking drained, washed out.

We’ve been here less than ten minutes and the whole room’s seen more drama than most of them probably have in twenty years by the looks.

An official looking, older man is trotting after Trent, gushing apologies to people as he makes way, as Trent takes out the trash for the night.

“Honey?” My dad asks me, tugging at my arm. Probably hearing my loud sigh as I watch Trent in motion.

“We can go,” he says louder. Firmer, taking me by the wrist and tugging to leave by the other door.

“I’m sure that’s all the excitement there’ll be, dad,” I tell him, collecting myself and letting him know I’m fine.

“I went to college too dad, remember? And I’ve had more than one drunk guy grab my ass,” I lie.

Hearing the word college from my own mouth always leaves a bad taste.

I almost wish it was guys wanting to grab my ass all the time that was the problem.

Almost.

Most days it was only passing comments about the size of it though. And that was on a good day.

“We just got here,” I remind my dad, trying to keep us here. Already searching the doorway for Trent’s return.

My dad shifts nervously, fidgeting on his feet. The barman distracts us both, asking what we want to drink and I order two club sodas for us.

Dad groans quietly as I hand him his drink, telling him it might help to settle his stomach a little.

“Do we have to stay? I mean really,” he mumbles to himself. But with no sign of Trent, after a few minutes, he seems to have relaxed enough to agree to stay.

I wonder why Trent would call me over, rescue me from some random drunk, and then vanish. It doesn’t make sense but begs the question, maybe he was signaling someone else?

I mean, get real Brooke. Would Trent Latham really be calling you over to him after finding out you’re the only daughter of his ex-best friend?

No. I didn’t think so.

Just as my dad’s spirits seem to have lifted, I feel my own sinking to new pits of despair.

I feel stupid.

Overdressed and overweight in what’s essentially a cocktail dress that I can already feel starting to pinch in places I don’t even wanna think about.

Plus, if this is a sit down dinner thing?

I never even tried sitting down in this dress.

I’ve spent half the time here so far sucking my gut in so I don’t tear it at the seams.

Glancing around I can see a room full of people old enough to be my parents or grandparents. All talking about the past as if it’s something great or the worst thing that ever happened to them.

I want Trent back. I want him holding my hand, telling me I look nice or something.

Telling me anything.

But he’s gone and the more seconds that tick by, the easier it is to convince myself I probably misread the whole situation.

He was probably just being nice to the only young adult in the room.

He was probably—

Oh. My. God.

I suddenly do see Trent coming back in through the main doorway, and he does seem to be looking around, but it’s who he has on his arm that proves my whole point.

It looks like the most attractive man in the building stepped out to go down to the local slut store to get himself a life-sized version of the Malibu-Barbie-ruins-everything-for-Brooke doll.

I knew it was too good to be true.

The woman clinging to him must be a size zero and looks like she needs help to hold herself up on those six inch heels too.

Not sure which looks heavier on her either, her obviously fake chest or the huge shock of peroxide blond on her head.

Almost every man in her vicinity turns to look at her as she passes.

She’s older than me, how much I’m not sure with all that makeup.

She’s what every guy wants. Nobody wants a short thick girl with a chest as big as her ass.

I turn to tell my dad maybe we should leave after all, but he’s got someone leaning in close to talk to him as well.

From what I can overhear, she’s telling him she used to have a crush on him, which I guess is reunion speak for ‘do you wanna ask me out?’

My dad’s had about the same romantic action as I have in the past twenty years, as far as I know so I’m not gonna be the one to get between him and whatever chance he might have there.

He looks pretty interested and casting a glance back at Trent I can see he looks like he has his hands full too, so it’s time for this ugly duckling to exit stage left.

My dad has the car keys, but I tell myself I’ll text him to let him know I’ve left rather than interrupt his big chance.

Making my way out, I fight the urge to look out for Trent again, but I can’t help it.

I scan the room one more time, but I don’t see him or Reunion Dinner Barbie.

Maybe they deserve each other.

I decide I can get an Uber home, or maybe I’ll just walk for a while.

Suddenly I don’t feel like doing much of anything except going home and trying to forget any of tonight even happened.

Try to forget about Trent Latham too, that’s for sure.

I mean… Maybe dad was right. Maybe he is just an asshole.

But that feeling. He was summoning you over to him with that huge finger of his.

I’ve had lots of ‘feelings’ in this life and most of them are pretty awful, I don’t see how this should pan out any different.

The stuffy doorman sniffs down his nose at me, barely caring as I leave and don’t plan on coming back.

As if on cue, the moment I step outside, there’s a crash of thunder and it starts to rain.

Great.

I get about halfway to where we left the car, resigning myself to walk straight past it, when I hear a car horn honk, startling me.

It’s a cab, and the driver asks if I need a ride.

“I just dropped a couple off at the reunion. You need a ride someplace?” he asks, looking up at the sky and then letting his eyes travel down my already soaked outfit.

“I can put a towel down,” he adds, making perfect sense.

“Sure,” I murmur. “Why not.”

I almost hope the rain on my face is disguising the mascara and tears I can feel starting to run, but after a few minutes, I couldn’t care less.