12. Wrinley
Wrinley
I love Arabella. She’s my best friend in the whole world.
But I’ve spent the better portion of the last thirty minutes evading her twenty text questions about my anonymous tryst at the club.
It’s not that I don’t want to tell her what’s happening.
It just feels like nothing. Yeah, I got finger banged in a pet play room at her new Daddy’s kink club… by a stranger.
I take it back. That is actually pretty exciting.
Except I haven’t heard from him since, so there’s really nothing to tell.
Fucking radio silence. Rude.
I’m not sure what I expected from he who has no name , but it wasn’t being indefinitely ghosted afterward.
ARI: Wait, can I invoke that emergency protocol activation thingy you made up? Would that make you tell me what happened?
ME: Hold up, sassy pants. I created that because you were M–I–fucking–A!! Not because I was trying to get info out of you.
ARI: Don’t even try to lie, Wrin. You totally wanted the dirt.
ME: You don’t know me.
ARI: Wrin…
ME: Okay, fine. You know me and you’re right. I wanted info. But this doesn’t work both ways. Besides, there’s nothing to tell.
ARI: Bitch. I don’t believe you.
ME: I promise I’ll call you as soon as there is something to tell. But I’ve gotta go. We should get together for a girls night soon. Love you!
ARI: Ugh. Fiiiiiine. Love you, more.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I smooth my face cream into my skin. It smells… off. Can face cream expire? I grab the container and search for a date but come up empty. It doesn’t smell bad, really. Just different.
When I set the jar down, my thoughts drift to my stranger and his very skilled fingers.
I can’t seem to get him out of my fucked up brain.
Was he watching me? Is he still watching me?
Do I care? That’s a dumb question. Of course I care.
The real question is, Do I want him to watch me?
My damp pussy suggests that I do, in fact want that .
At this point, if he wanted to fuck me until I couldn’t walk for a month, I’d let him.
No shade against women that intentionally save themselves for marriage, but being hymenally challenged is literally the worst .
The good news is, I think I finally have an idea to finally be free from the confines of my virginity. I just need to figure out the logistics.
My phone rings, interrupting my train of thought.
“Hi, Dad,” I answer cheerfully.
“Hey, kiddo. Don’t forget, our weekly dinner is coming up.
” We’ve had weekly dinners since I moved out just after my nineteenth birthday.
I had every intention of getting my own place as soon as I graduated high school, but when he asked me to stay with him a little longer, I couldn’t say no to him.
After that, he pleaded with me to come home once a week for dinner.
I’ve missed a few, but for the most part I make sure I’m there.
Except I’ve been so preoccupied lately, I did actually forget this time.
“I’d never forget our dinner. Of course, I’ll be there,” I promise.
“Oh, great. I’ll make your favorite. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” I let out a chuckle, because that’s not my favorite. It’s mom’s. It’s always mom’s.
“Sounds great. I can’t wait,” I lie. I love my father and I want to see him. But I know exactly how it will go and that … I’m not looking forward to.
***
“Dinner was great,” I praise while carrying the dishes to the sink.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He stands from the table, walks to the refrigerator and pulls something out that resembles a log, except it’s square. “Hope you saved room for dessert, kiddo.”
“What is that ?” I ask, pointing to the rectangular shaped dessert.
“This… is a battenberg cake.” Dad stands a little taller as he says it, clearly proud of himself. For what, I’m not sure.
I twist my face because my father does not bake. I’m so confused. “A batten what? Where did you learn to bake it?”
Chuckling, he sets it on the table and begins to slice it, revealing a checkered cake on the inside. “I was watching The Great British Bake Off and figured I’d give it a try. It looked tasty, but I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
“ You watch The Great British Bake Off?” I question.
“Yes. And I have to say that Paul Hollywood is a real handsome fella.” He’s not lying. If I was into older guys, I’d give him a test drive.
“Dad, do you have a man-crush on Paul Hollywood?”
“A dad can look and appreciate, can’t he?”
“Ew, I take it back. Can we stop right there, please?” I make a point to fake gag so I can really drive the point home that I don’t want to be having this conversation.
He runs his hand through the greying hair atop his head followed by a long sigh. “I’m just kidding, sweetheart. You know your mother was it for me. No one will ever take her place in my life or my heart.”
A lump catches in my throat at the mention of my mother causing me to avert my eyes.
He reaches over to place his hand over mine.
There’s a slight tremble that I pray he can’t feel.
Gently, he strokes the top of my hand with his thumb.
It’s both soothing and stressful at the same time.
He’s so good at comforting me but when he does, all I want to do is crumple up on the floor and cry because I miss her and he’s the only other person that really knows what that feels like.
I lost my mother and he lost his wife. Two halves of the same whole.
Except, I have to hold my shit together. If I start to lose it, he will too.
“I know she was, Dad.” My tone is somber as I remember how distraught he was the day of the funeral. We all were, but he took her absence the hardest.
“Are you going to come with me to see your mom on the anniversary later this year?” Every year, he makes a picnic basket and has lunch with my mom at her gravesite.
He sits on a blanket in the sun and tells her all about the past year.
I know it’s his way of honoring her–staying connected to her–and every year he asks me to go with him and I decline, although this year he brought it up pretty early.
It doesn’t feel like much time has passed since the last anniversary.
He made me go the first time, but after having a full blown meltdown in the middle of the cemetery at fifteen, he promised he’d never force me again.
“Sorry, Dad. It slipped my mind and I already made plans.” A flat out lie.
Somewhere along the way, I started feeling guilty for saying no.
Making up a lousy excuse isn’t great, but the look I’m getting right now is slightly less sad than the alternative of telling him I simply don’t want to.
It’s not even that I don’t want to. There’s a part of me that does. I just… can’t.
His expression is sympathetic as he considers me. “Of course, dear,” he mutters softly. “If you change your mind, you know you’re always welcome.”
“How’s work?” I ask, needing to change the subject while this visit is still salvageable.
“Oh, you know kiddo. It’s work. It would be better if you’d finally join me at the firm. Then I could see your smiling face every day.”
He’s been trying to get me to work with him at his accounting firm for years. “No, thank you. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do.”
“I imagine you’ll have to choose soon. You can’t live off your inheritance forever,” he sighs.
Mom set aside a sizable amount of money that was held in a trust until I turned eighteen.
I didn’t really need to access it until I moved out on my own a year later, but I’ve been living off it ever since.
He’s not wrong. The money is running low and I have no clue what I’m going to do when it does.
I thought I’d have it figured out by now, but I sure as fuck don’t.
I even tried my hand at college and nothing stuck.
After my third major change, I just gave up, figuring I was destined to have no purpose in life.
The best thing I can do right now is to placate him. “I’ve got some things in the works, Dad. Don’t worry.”
“Kind of hard to not worry, dear. It’s pretty much all I do. It would really make me feel better to have you so close every day.”
“This badminton cake is tasty. Moist,” I mumble after stuffing a huge forkful into my face causing a low chuckle to escape dad across the table.
When all else fails, divert attention. Before he can redirect the conversation back to my lack of direction in life, I push from the table and stand. “I love you. I gotta go do… things.”
And I’m out the door before he can object.
Age 6
“Wrinley, sweetie,” Mom sits next to me on the floor and pulls me into her lap. “Are you sure you want to take dance lessons? You can do whatever you want, you know.”
I wrap my small arms tightly around her neck. “I know, Momma. You said that already.”
“You’re turning into such a big girl. I’m so proud of you.”
“Why are you proud of me, Momma? I didn’t learn any dances yet. But maybe I can win a contest one day and then you can be super proud of me.”
“Oh, honey.” She pauses to run her fingers through my long brown hair. She wanted to put it up into a bun, but I begged her to let me leave it down. My head always hurts when she puts it up. “You don’t have to win anything for me to be proud of you. All I ask is that you try your best, okay?”
“Okay, Momma. Can we go now?”
Mom starts to tickle me causing me to laugh so hard, my tummy hurts. “Yes, we can go now. Go give your daddy a kiss goodbye.”
“Oh my goodness, that was so frickin’ fun.” I shout as we head back to the car, hand in hand. “Why didn’t you ever tell me dancing was so much fun, Momma?”
“First off, don’t say ‘frickin’. It’s not very ladylike,” she scolds and I grimace, because I’m always saying things I shouldn’t. “Second, I’m pretty sure I’ve told you more than once how much fun it is, you just didn’t want to do it until now.”
“Sorry. I won’t say frickin’ anymore, Momma.”
A belly laugh escapes her as she opens the car door.
“I’m pretty sure it will happen again, my little wild child.
But that’s okay. I’ll remind you. Just know that even though I don’t want you to say that word, I still want you to be you.
Always and forever. There isn’t and never will be anyone quite like my girl.
You’re one of a kind and so so special. Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. ”
Momma kisses me on the forehead, before closing the door and driving us home. “When can we go dancing again, Momma?”
Her eyes light up in the rearview mirror. “Soon, honey. Very soon.”
Present Day
My hands tremble in my lap as I try to focus on my breathing from the backseat of my Lyft. Fuck, I hate this.
The memory of my mom taking me to my first dance class gets more and more vivid with each passing year.
I begged her to let me take dance classes for months before she finally gave in. Since she used to dance, I think she was afraid I felt like I had to dance. I didn’t feel obligated, but I did want to be like her.
Everyone said I was a spitting image of her, from my silky, long, brunette hair to my big, round hazel eyes.
Even though I couldn’t see what they saw, I was grateful they did.
I found an old video of her dancing as a teenager once.
She was the epitome of beauty and grace.
I kept meaning to ask her to do a number with me, but never got the chance.
“Here we are,” the driver utters from the front seat. “Have a great rest of your day, Miss.”
Nodding, I step out of the car and head into my apartment in hopes of finding a boy toy I can call to come over and distract me from my woes, by finally popping my cherry.
As usual, nothing comes from it.
Nothing ever does.