Chapter Eight- Buddha #2
“What? I’m not about to sleep in no damn hotel as if I’m fucking homeless. Don’t get me involved,” I told him. He had a lot of nerve wanting company to stay away from his wife.
“Put your foot down, son! That is what us Ricci men do. Dior defied you, running to Victoria and doing exactly what you told her not to. You need to let her know there are consequences for not listening to her husband.” I rolled my eyes because my father could be really dramatic at times.
I had no plans of doing what he suggested.
I had my own ways of dealing with my hard-of-hearing wife.
“Tomasso, I’d rather fall asleep next to my wife than a bunch of pillows in the Hampton Inn,” I explained.
“Ok, figlio (son), but you’ll regret not listening to me.” Immediately, my conversation with Catalina replayed in my head. Maybe leaving my father alone in a hotel wasn’t such a good idea.
“You know what, Tomasso, you’re right, book me a room and try to get me one on the same floor as yours,” I told him, slowing my car down because now I needed to turn and drive in the other direction.
“Perfetto (perfect)! I’ll make the call now. We’ll show those women,” Tomasso said right before he hung up the phone.
“I hear you, Tomasso,” I said to myself, shaking my head, knowing he would only last one night.
I adjusted the pillows under my head for the hundredth time, but nothing worked. I was having trouble sleeping, which I already knew would happen. I knew being away from Dior would be difficult when it was time to sleep. It didn’t take me long to figure out I slept better when she was next to me.
So trying to get some sleep on this hard-ass bed in this hotel room was difficult as fuck. Tomasso and I were down at the hotel bar. We both drank until we could barely walk in a straight line back to our rooms.
We sat and talked about everything, but the conversation always came back to Victoria and Dior. He complained about my mother, and I complained about Dior. It was kind of comical how much my life had changed in such a short time.
I would have never thought in a million years that I would be sitting getting drunk with my father, as we both had marriage problems. This shit was fucking hilarious.
Dior had no clue I was here because I didn’t bother to call to let her know I was spending the night at a hotel with Tomasso.
Giving women the silent treatment was always effective.
After years of extensive research, and by research I meant listening to other men talk about their relationship problems. Because I was never one to be involved in relationships, I learned women hated it very much when you gave them the silent treatment.
Yelling and arguing would only give them an excuse to go on and on.
The silent treatment drove women insane because they couldn’t do the one thing that they loved doing.
Which was talking their fucking mouths off.
If they had nobody to argue with, then they had no choice but to shut the fuck up.
To make matters even worse, my phone had died.
I only realized it when I got back to the room after drinking at the bar.
I was so faded that getting my charger in my car was something that I absolutely wasn’t about to do.
Dior had probably tried calling by now when she saw that I didn’t come home.
I already know she would ask my mother, who would then tell her what hotel I was staying at.
I knew my father all too well; he would have called my mother to give her a heads-up that he wasn’t coming home.
No matter how angry he was and how much he tried to act tough.
My father would never stay away from my mother without her knowing his exact location.
My father didn’t even know how to put his foot down correctly.
He was a softy when it came to my mother.
I understood, though, love would do that to you.
“Love?” I said out loud, shocked that the word even entered my head. What the fuck am I thinking about love for? I’m not in love with Dior; I was more intoxicated than I thought. Let me try to take my ass to sleep.
The next morning, I woke up before the sun came up.
My head hurt, as did my back, and my mouth felt dry as hell from the alcohol.
I was ready to check out of this fucking hotel and take my ass home.
I got out of bed, walked to the mini fridge, and took out a bottle of water.
I drank the entire bottle in one gulp before heading to the bathroom to shower.
By the time I was done, the first signs of sunrise were peeking through the blinds.
I bought a pack of boxers before I got to the hotel, so I wore a fresh pair as I made a pot of coffee. As soon as I poured myself a cup and was about to go sit on the balcony, a knock sounded at the door. Placing the coffee cup down, knowing it would be my father, I walked over to open the door.
Standing on the other side of the door was Dior.
Her arms folded, her eyes glaring at me as though she was about to commit murder.
If I said I was shocked to see her, I would be lying.
I knew this was my mother’s doing. Casually, I leaned against the door and looked at her.
Her hair was a mess; she wore oversized sweatpants, a white tank top with no bra, judging by the way her nipples were poking out, and a pair of mismatched Crocs on her feet.
One side was black and the other white, two completely different styles.
“You got on two different sides of shoes,” I told her, pointing at her feet, trying my best to hide my amusement. I wanted to burst out laughing so bad.
“I only just noticed that in the elevator on my way up here,” Dior said, flicking a strand of unruly hair out of her eyes. Lifting her chin in a proud manner, knowing damn well she was embarrassed.
“Can I help you?” I asked, knowing that would only piss her off further. The way her head snapped back, as if I’d just slapped her, made the situation even funnier.
“Buddha, are you trying to piss me off?” Dior asked, her eyes wild and crazy as she tried to see inside the hotel room behind me. I purposely adjusted my stance, obscuring her view.
Narrowing her eyes at me, Dior seemed to take in my attire for the first time. Seeing me standing in the doorway in just a pair of black boxers apparently set off a blaring horn in her head.
“Where the hell are your clothes? Why aren’t you inviting me into your room?” Dior asked, going on her tiptoes, trying once again to see inside my room.
“I’m kind of busy. I’ll see you when I get home,” I said, standing straight as I got ready to close the door on her. Dior slammed the palm of her right hand on the door, forcing me to leave it open.
“Do you have somebody in there? Is Catalina in there?” She said, trying to force her way inside the room. I held her back easily, refusing to let her in.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked, folding my arms, looking down at her. She was big mad, her chest heaving up and down, upset that she wasn’t strong enough to get by me.
“Who do you have in that room with you, Buddha. I promise that I’ll get violent and beat you and that woman,” Dior said, putting both her hands against my chest and giving a huge push.
Even though she wasn’t a match for my strength, I decided to humor her and move backward, granting her access to the room.
Closing the door, I watched the comedy show before me as Dior marched around, searching for the imaginary woman she believed was in here. Picking up the coffee cup, I sipped my brew unbothered as Dior scanned the room like a fucking FBI agent.
Eventually, she stopped and looked over at me, folding her arms and glaring at how calm and collected I was.
“Are you done being an idiot?” I asked her, sipping away from the cup.
“Why didn’t you come home last night?” She demanded, placing a hand on her hip.
“Why did you tell my mother about Catalina when I told you not to?” I answered her question with a question, which I could tell infuriated her.
“Because you kept choosing Catalina over me. You sent me away in Italy, and then you refused to tell me anything. Yo–you made me feel like you wanted her and not me. I did not like that.” I listened and fully understood that I had hurt Dior’s feelings with my actions.
“I told you that I needed time to sort that Catalina shit out. You couldn’t let me deal with my affairs and trust that I would let you know as soon as I figured it out. Instead, you do the one thing I told you not to and run to my mother.
“Then what does my mother do? She invites Catalina and fucks you over by not giving you so much as a warning about what she was planning. Didn’t I tell you about my mother?
You have no idea how fucking vindictive she can be.
So you wanted to do your own thing, so I did mine and came here,” I could see her face relax, and she looked away before looking at me again.
“I’m sorry for not listening to you and telling your mother about Catalina.” Dior’s face looked as though it hurt like a mothafucka to apologize to me. She barely opened her mouth when she spoke.
“I’m not sure if I believe you,” I said, looking at her over the rim of my coffee cup. Dior snorted in the back of her throat as she rolled her eyes at me.
“Now you’re just being a stranza,” I laughed softly at her terrible Italian pronunciation.
“The word is stronzo (asshole).”
“Whatever the fuck the word is, you’re being it,” she pointed at me, obviously irritated. Shaking my head, I finished my coffee and set the cup down.
“Go sit down on the bed, Dior,” I said, walking over to her and pointing at it.
“Why?” She asked, giving me an attitude because simply doing as asked would obviously cause her to self-combust. Exhaling loudly because I wasn’t in the mood, I walked over, grabbed both her shoulders, and led her over to the bed, forcing her to sit.