9. Olivia
Olivia
Callie's keys aren't on the hook when I open the door to my apartment, so I know she's at Steve's.
I've never been more grateful for her to be away than I am right now. If she saw me, she would know something happened, especially since I’m coming home in the same clothes I left the house in yesterday.
She wouldn't let me live that down without first telling her every detail.
I love her to death, but she’s a little nosy sometimes. If I have any chance of keeping this a secret, she can't know about this. At least not yet.
The first thing I do is strip out of my clothes, throw them in the washing machine, and hop in the shower. The water feels like icicles pelting me as I shower with the washer on. Callie could be home any time, and I know I smell like Drake.
I sniff my skin when I'm finished scrubbing to make sure none of Drake’s cologne lingers. I'm stressed out, my palms are sweaty, and my heart is racing. When everything around me feels like it's about to cave in, I turn to my number one outlet: baking.
There's nothing quite like making light, fluffy, pillowy dough and pummeling it with your fists to relieve stress.
So, that's how I spend the remainder of my morning.
When I finish baking a fresh loaf of vanilla and chocolate chip brioche, I pull the ingredients out of my fridge for hazelnut croissants.
Just as I'm preparing to make the puff pastry dough, my doorbell rings, and I set the flour bag on the counter. I look through the peephole to see who it is, and my heart comes to a stop.
Today of all days, why is my dad standing on my front porch?
My car is in the driveway, and I'm sure the sugary sweet smell of freshly baked bread is noticeable, so there's no way to get out of this. I have to open the door. I have to.
I will open the door and talk to my father. This is not a problem.
I remain motionless with my hand on the doorknob as he rings the doorbell again. I take a deep breath, trying my best to appear calm as I pull it open.
“Hey, Booger!” Dad yells as I open the door. One hand is behind his back, and as soon as he steps inside, he reveals a bouquet of flowers with a small balloon sticking out of the center that says, “Congratulations.”
“I thought I told you not to call me that anymore,” I say, accepting the flowers and smelling them before wrapping an arm around his shoulders to give him a hug.
“Last I checked, I'm the parent. That means you don't get to tell me what to do,” he says, closing the door behind him and turning his attention to the kitchen. “What's the occasion?”
I turn away from him and busy myself at the sink filling a vase with fresh water. “Do I need an occasion? This is what I do.”
Oh, God. He's going to see it on my face as soon as I turn around. He's going to know something's going on. Maybe he won't assume I slept with one of his best friends, but it's only a matter of time before he finds out.
Maybe I should just tell him and get it over with. Rip the Band-Aid off?
“This smells mighty fine,” Dad says, interrupting my thoughts. Water is overflowing in the vase, and I dump some of it out before he notices and drop the flowers in. I turn around and stare at him as he eyes the brioche.
“Help yourself,” I laugh, grabbing a plate from the cabinet and handing it to him. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course.”
“I ran into Callie at the gym,” he says through a large bite. He finishes chewing before he continues. “I had to find out from her that you got the job at Drake's office. I don't want to be that guy, but a phone call would have been nice.”
There goes my heart again. “Sorry, Dad. I would have called you, but it's been a hectic week. I've been trying to get into the swing of things, and I catered an event at his house yesterday. There was a lot of prep involved, and I've been so busy.”
He finishes the rest of his brioche in one big bite, and I gesture for him to take another piece, but he shakes his head.
“Honestly, I'm glad you're not cooking like this at home anymore. My metabolism is shot these days, and I’m not trying to bulk up.” I roll my eyes, put a lid over the brioche, and set it in the fridge.
Looking at me and my father, you wouldn't be able to tell we’re related.
I am the spitting image of my mom. My father is tall with broad shoulders, brown hair, and brown eyes, with a strong jawline and naturally tan skin.
On top of that, he’s built like a truck.
He’s dedicated his life to fitness, and he owns a gym in the Palisades where he helps movie stars get shredded for whatever roles they’re taking next.
I haven't stepped foot in a gym since high school.
“Wanna put on some real-people clothes and grab some lunch to celebrate? My treat,” Dad says with a grin.
“You mean to tell me this isn’t acceptable for lunch at the Four Seasons?” I spread my arms to show off the oversized blanket hoodie I threw on after the shower. It hangs past my knees, and if it weren't for the adjustable cuffs, my body would be swallowed by it.
“I was thinking more along the lines of Cheesecake Factory, but no, it isn’t.” He smiles and sits at the kitchen table as he waits for me to get ready.
It doesn't take me long to throw my hair up in a bun, put on a pair of loose-fitting blue jeans, and grab a sweater from my dresser. I slip on a pair of Converse and join him in the living room before we head out for the afternoon.
The Cheesecake Factory is busier than I thought it would be for a Saturday afternoon. We're seated and I scour the menu, finally able to focus on one of the important things in life: cheesecake.
“I hope Drake has been treating you well,” Dad says after we place our orders. I'm taken aback by the comment, my brain is almost paralyzed when he brings him up so suddenly. Then I remember that Drake is my boss, and my dad doesn't know anything about us sleeping together. It's a harmless comment.
“I rarely see him. He's always so busy with something in the office, and I'm forever focused on cooking,” I busy myself folding the paper napkin from the straw over and over again to avoid looking him in the eye.
I hate this feeling. My dad is one of my best friends, and lying to him is tearing a hole in my chest.
“That's good,” he says, nodding and grabbing the folded wrapper from my hands and unfurling it. “If he does anything to upset you, tell me, and I'll rough him up if I have to.”
Oh, I have no doubt you will. That's the problem.
“You'll be the first to know,” I laugh, hoping it deflects from my nerves. I change the subject to his business to take the attention off myself. He talks about how it's doing, rambling on about some problem clients and how one of his new personal trainers has been sleeping with a reality star who is in a very public relationship with a musician. He won’t tell me who because he’s sworn to secrecy, and he knows I’ll tell Callie, who will tell the world.
Our food is served, and I eagerly turn my attention to a plate of chicken alfredo as Dad slices into his steak.
“You have no idea how proud of you I am,” he says after a few moments, smiling warmly.
He reaches a hand across the table to hold mine, pride visible in his eyes.
“When you told me you wanted to go to culinary school, I was worried that you might end up working in some crappy dive bar, but you proved me wrong.
You've got an incredible job, and I know this will lead you down a good path.”
I feel so bad hearing him praise me for my success at this job when there’s a chance I was only offered it because Drake wanted to sleep with me. I don't want to think that's the case because he didn't initially like me, but the thought has crossed my mind.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, squeezing his hand. The more he looks at me, the more the guilt drags me to the ground, and I feel the need to come clean.
By the time lunch is over, I'm sweating through the sweater I'm wearing and more than happy to leave the restaurant.
I manage to distract from the focus my dad puts on me by blasting some new music on the radio and forcing him to listen.
Whenever a song comes on that he doesn't like, he turns down the radio and starts telling me about real music.
Apparently, Sabrina Carpenter isn't real music. I love the guy, but he’s not with the times.
“Thanks for lunch, Dad,” I say, hugging him while he's still in the driver's seat, telling him that he does not need to walk me to the door.
“Stay in touch, Booger,” he says, rustling my hair as I pull away. “I don't want to have to hear about major life events through your friends anymore.”
“You got it,” I say, hopping out of the car.
I wave goodbye and rush across the small lawn to the front door and lean my back against it as soon as it's closed. I take a few deep breaths to try to calm my nerves. “I'm going to get through this.”
“Get through what?” Callie asks, perking up on the couch and staring at me with confusion. I jump, not expecting her to be here on a Saturday.
I have to tell someone. The guilt of what I did is too strong for me to go through this alone. Callie is a good person to ask for advice.
Today has already been long enough, though, and I know the only person I should talk to about this is Drake. I don't know how much longer I can keep the secret from my dad, and I might have to warn him.