Chapter 5
five
FATHER IN YOU
LARISSA
Icould sleep if my phone stopped ringing.
Groaning, I rolled over, kicking the thin sheet off. The last few years had been one long night sweat. Which was why I’d started sleeping naked. Mostly, it worked. Except when it was still too hot to breathe.
It would’ve been so much easier if I didn’t have an aversion to sleeping without a cover of some sort.
Call me crazy, but I hated the thought of someone walking into the house and finding me knocked out with no clothes on.
Or even worse? A robber could break in. Not that a flimsy piece of fabric would protect me.
It was a mind thing.
My phone started ringing again. What the hell was I thinking by not putting it on silent?
“What?” I shouted into the receiver.
“Are we yelling at mothers now?”
Sitting up straight, I peered at the screen. Noon? Shit, I’m late. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I grumbled, sliding off the bed. “Are you here?”
My mother had sent her itinerary as soon as she booked her flight. Her flight was scheduled to land at eleven-forty a.m. It wasn’t like me to sleep through my alarm. Hell, it wasn’t like me to sleep past six o’clock.
“Are you still at home? Mom asked.
“I’m on my way.” I tripped over a slipper on my way to the bathroom and nearly slid across the floor. My phone did, though. Crawling toward it, I picked it up. “Sorry, dropped my phone.”
“I’ll grab breakfast in the lounge.” I heard the click of heels as she walked. “Maybe they have an opening for a massage.”
“Okay,” I mumbled around my toothbrush. “I’ll be there soon.”
The heat from my shower ruined my silk press. The hot girl summer I had envisioned had officially turned into a hot flash summer. The central air was on, but I couldn’t seem to cool down.
Every attempt to flat iron my hair failed. I couldn’t get a single strand to curl. I peered up at the ceiling.
Shit.
Irritated, I grabbed a hair band and pulled it back into a haphazard bun. I was thisclose to cutting it off and rocking a pixie cut like Tyn. But my head was too big.
I finally jumped on the expressway to LAX around twelve-forty-five. I felt like shit for not picking my mother up on time. Especially since she’d spent eleven hours on a plane.
Get yourself together, Rissa.
I stared at the road ahead, maneuvering through traffic. Safely, of course. Zara was right. I hated driving. If I hadn’t been preoccupied, I would’ve hired a car service to pick Mom up, but nooooo . . .
When did I become the girl who forgot the world around me for good dick?
I was never that girl.
But I was that woman. For years, I’d let myself believe. I thought I’d found the treasure, a man who ran circles around my father, the man who would love me, the man who would never abandon me.
I’d fully immersed myself into the fairytale, complete with a palatial estate in Malibu, political capital, and the handsome prince who knew how to make me come.
All of Rick’s red flags were obscured through my rose-colored pussy. Either that or I was too caught up in the flowery scent of his love. The whispered promises of forever, the loving glances, the extravagant dinners, the status.
When it all crashed and burned, I’d promised myself that I would avoid the minefield, that I would stop looking for forever in empty promises. Then, Asa made me an irresistible offer, a night to forget and a night to remember. And somehow, he’d changed my worldview.
I’m confused as fuck.
I’d been fucking up since I let him walk in that hotel room with me.
A few years ago, I would’ve run like hell away from a man who got his best friend pregnant, hid it, and acted like the kid was his nephew. That entire scene with Karma should’ve been the shit that doused my little flame.
That was all good in theory—and in action. At first.
After Karma scurried away in her orthopedic shoes and mom jeans, I’d managed to excuse myself, ordering a rideshare and leaving Tyn to talk to her brother alone.
I’d pulled myself together enough to give him my best and dip.
But . . .
Instead of going home, doing all the things I should’ve been doing during the day, I’d plopped myself on the couch and ate a steady diet of junk food for the rest of the day. Because what the hell?
I worked hard every damn day. People looked to me for guidance. Shit, I received three hundred emails a day from leadership, colleagues, subordinates, and my family.
And what was I doing?
Obsessing about a man who’d abandoned his son.
But that was the thing. I couldn’t even fathom him doing something like that. Not Asa. He wasn’t my father. He wouldn’t do that.
There was a strong possibility that he had, though. But I didn’t stick around to ask the question. I didn’t want to hear the answer. Just the thought of him doing that made me angry. Because I’d been the child longing for a relationship with my father.
Alexander Reid was a deadbeat. He’d made a lot of money playing pro ball, but was stingy with his time, with his love.
At one point in time, I would’ve given up every gadget, my car, and financial security to go fishing with him, to hear him tell me he was proud of me, to see him in the crowd during one of my dance recitals.
He never came.
I’d seen him, what? Two times in the last decade? One of those times was my wedding, and he’d had the nerve to be upset that I’d asked Jax to walk me down the aisle.
My neighbor was more of a father-figure than my own dad. Jax had been there for me and Zara. He’d attended events, presented me at my debutante ball, and offered me valuable advice when I needed it, while my father was living his best life with the skank of the month.
It was hard to believe Asa would do that to a kid. Not when he had amazing parents of his own. Papa Stew and Mama Vicki were #RelationshipGoals. They were active, present fixtures in their children’s lives. Reminded me of The Huxtables with a Philip and Vivian Banks aesthetic.
Why would Asa circle the drain into punk-muthafucka territory?
He wouldn’t.
A war of Good Asa versus Evil Asa was waging in my head, and I needed that shit to stop. Now.
My phone rang again.
Zara.
Not Asa. Ignoring the disappointment I felt, I answered the phone. “Hey.”
“Mom called and told me you forgot to pick her up,” she said.
“I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “Just overslept.”
“Sissy, it’s after noon. What were you doing last night?”
Nothing. Not watching TV. Not working. Not fucking. I stopped checking my phone for a text from Asa around nine, right before I turned on reruns of The Real Housewives of Atlanta.
“Hello?” my sister called out.
“What, Sissy?”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t.” I whipped the wheel, veering into the fast lane. “I’m fine.”
Zara droned on about the kids, travel plans for her and X, and the new employee she’d just onboarded to her team. And my thoughts drifted back to him.
Despite my silent show of “you ain’t shit nigga,” I still couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Until yesterday, he was my lil’ light thang. It was never supposed to be a formal relationship. It was always supposed to be light, easy. Unfortunately, the more my feelings changed, the more our connection deepened, the harder it became.
It was still hard because I knew there was more to the story. Yet, my heart couldn’t separate the hard facts from the story I made up in my mind. I could’ve been jumping to the wrong conclusion, but could there even be a suitable explanation?
“Sissy?” Zara called. “Did you hear me?”
I exited the freeway at LAX. “No. I’m just distracted.”
“Do I have to get on a flight today?”
“No,” I assured her. “I’ll see you tomorrow night when you get here.”
Tyn called me yesterday to tell me about the arrangements. While Gemma had made it clear that she didn’t want a funeral, Ana wanted to do something to celebrate her life. So they’d decided to throw a big barbecue. Duke agreed to cater. The rest of their family would arrive today and tomorrow.
“Skye should be there in a couple hours,” she announced.
“I thought she was coming in with you and X?”
“One of her clients had a crisis. She’s in PR mode.”
My friend was one of the best public relations experts in the entertainment field. She provided top notch service to several celebrities, business owners, social media influencers, and even politicians.
“Okay. I’m sure she’ll call when she lands.” I turned on the blinker and sped toward my destination. “Can you text Mom and tell her I’m almost there?”
Silence, then, “Done.”
“Let me get off this phone. I need to concentrate in airport traffic.”
By the time I made it to the arrivals area, my mother was standing on the curb. When she spotted me, she waved. After parking the car, I walked over and hugged her.
It felt good to be in her arms again, to smell her perfume, to feel her warmth. I’d missed her. She moved to Paris a couple years ago to realize her dream of becoming a pastry chef. She’d spent so many years following my father’s lead that she’d left herself behind.
“Oh, babe,” she whispered. “It’s going to be okay. We all will miss Gemma.”
It made sense that Mom thought I was crying for the loss of a great friend. If she only knew the turmoil I was currently immersed in . . .
“Did you grab food?” I asked, rolling her large suitcase to my car. “If you didn’t, I can stop at your favorite restaurant.”
“We can do that later,” she said, sliding into the seat.
A few minutes later, I was on the road again.
While I was driving, I was hit with an overwhelming urge to tell my mother everything.
We’d always been close. I talked to her every day, multiple times a day.
She’d always encouraged an open line of communication, especially after my father left.
And I’d taken advantage of it, almost sharing too much.
“Did I tell you Rick texted me on my birthday?” she asked.
The mention of my ex-husband’s name put a stop to my hasty plan to spill my guts. “Oh?”
“Yeah, he said he was thinking about me and wanted to make sure I was enjoying my day.”
I nodded. “That makes sense. He was part of our lives for a long time.”