Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 422(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
It worried him that I’d moved all the way to L.A., to a shitty neighborhood, a small apartment and never had money in the bank long enough for it to get used to being in there. He had not raised me to be like that. He’d raised me to save half my paycheck, contribute regularly to the retirement account he’d opened for me when I was eighteen, to make sure I always had car, renters and health insurance, to never get a credit card, and if I did, to pay off the entire balance every month.
My lifestyle and my frivolous spending habits definitely did not come from my father, and despite being almost thirty, all of that caused my father to worry. He hinted his worries, gently, of course but he still made it known he didn’t completely understand my lifestyle or my choices. Despite that, I knew my father was proud of me.
“Dad, I do not need money,” I retorted as I maxed out my credit card on a bias-cut Calvin dress with spaghetti straps and a silhouette that would cling to my every curve in the most flattering of ways. The blush-colored silk would be like butter against my skin.
I’d pair it with the simple diamond necklace I’d got myself when I’d first dressed a movie star for the Oscars, gold hoops and a sky-high pair of pink Manolos.
My father made a frustrated sound at the end of the phone. “At least let me buy you the plane ticket home for Thanksgiving.”
I bit my lip. I did not want my father to buy my plane ticket home. An almost thirty-year-old woman should not need her father to buy her plane ticket home. Especially when her job theoretically afforded her to be able to easily afford things like flights if she were a sensible woman who didn’t buy designer dresses worth a month’s rent on a whim.
Thanksgiving was still three months away. Sure, I would have to wait another three weeks for my next paycheck to come in before I’d have enough money for the flight, which will have invariably gone way, way up in price, costing me to lose out on a night out—or three—and a new pair of shoes—or two—would have to suffer so I could still pay rent.
But Thanksgiving with my father was a non-negotiable. My grandparents on my mother’s side had died when she was sixteen, and my grandparents on my father’s side didn’t speak to him because of some kind of falling out I never heard the details about.
There were no aunts. Uncles. Cousins.
My dad had girlfriends sometimes. Though I rarely met them, and he wasn’t ever serious enough with any of them to have her celebrate holidays with us. It was always just the two of us. All we had was each other. No way on God’s green earth would I let my father—my best friend—sit in our small house on a holiday on his own. I made it every year. Thanksgiving. Then Christmas. Most years he footed the bill for my tickets since my funds were next to nothing and my priorities were totally fucked up. Not a huge amount had changed. But I was much too old to continue this way.
“Dad, you’re not buying my plane ticket,” I protested. “I’m a grown woman. I earn good money now. If anything, I should be paying for a ticket for you to come and visit me.”
In all the years that I’d lived here, my father had come only once, when I’d had appendicitis and had to have surgery. He’d made the flight immediately and stayed for a week to make sure I was okay. He had also paid for the hotel room I stayed in after I was discharged because of the tiny, terrible apartment I’d shared with three other girls at the time.
He was not a fan of the city. My father had traveled before I was born, when he was on the boxing circuit, so he was well traveled, especially for a boy from a small town in Missouri. But he liked a slow paced life. Hated L.A., the people in it and practically everything the city stood for.
“Sweetheart, that’s not how this works,” Dad replied. “Plus, I’ve already booked your ticket online. Your old dad can figure out the internet. No arguing.”
I smiled, a pang in my stomach at how much I missed my father. Then another pang at the fact I was a terribly irresponsible adult whose father still bought her plane tickets. The ones she then upgraded to first class because she’d turned herself in to a total princess who couldn’t tolerate a sweaty stranger’s arm brushing up against her on a five-hour flight.
“I’m not arguing,” I sighed. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you.” My voice shook ever so slightly.