A/N A really quick update, yes? You see what lots of reviews does to me? It turns me into pyscho-writer. All I had in my head was have-to-write-chapter-for-readers, like a mantra. So do you know what you have to do for another chapter? You got it. Click that pretty little periwinkle box. Thanks for the response. It was thrilling. :D
Daddy's Little Girl
Chapter Ten
I pulled into an empty bus-stop and turned off the engine, resting my head on the steering wheel. After ten minutes of mindless driving, I wasn't any closer to home. I couldn't even remember which direction I had taken after the right I took to leave the parking lot. I was breathing, hard, and the windshield was fogging up. I pulled a tissue from the packet of Kleenex I kept in the ashtray, and wiped the window clean.
"This car smells like a museum," Jesse announced.
"Exactly," I replied. "I want to keep it new."
"Why?" he asked, and he ran a finger along the dashboard. "No dust. I knew it! And you've cleaned this window from the inside, haven't you?"
"Not recently," I lied. The offending dirty Kleenex were lying at the top of my trashcan in my bedroom right now. "Stop touching my car with those greasy fingers!" Jesse clutched his McDonald's Big Mac protectively.
"In the interest of science," he said, reaching inside his bag o' grease and chuckling amusedly as I watched his every move like a hawk. "A little experiment." He plucked a single French fry out of the bag and laid it gently on the dashboard. "Look, see, the French fry isn't harming anyone; it's just sitting there minding its own business-"
"It's sitting there greasing up my car interior," I interrupted. "Can it disappear now?"
"Easy," Jesse declared, and he scooped the fry into his hand and dropped it into his mouth. "I knew you couldn't stand it being there."
"And you've proved your point. Well done," I said, sarcastically.
"Do you have obsessive-compulsive disorder?" he asked me, concernedly.
"No," I replied. "Now get out of my car with that disgusting fast food package or I will kick you out."
"There's no need to coddle me," Jesse said, grinning. "Be brutal, really. Don't hold back."
I dropped a hand to where that slimy French fry had sat almost two weeks ago. I'd gotten out of the car once I'd pulled onto the driveway, and appeared again almost seconds later, cleaning products in tow. There wasn't even the ghost of the French fry remaining now.
I used my other hand to rub my eye. I wasn't crying, I wasn't, but I had something in my eye. I raised my fingers to see I had collected debris from my mascara. I wiped my hand with another Kleenex, and started the engine again. This was ridiculous. Jesse was just a guy – just like any other I had broken up with. Some guys cried hysterically and begged you to take them back; some guys get all macho and aggressive, and throw you out of their house; and others just act all disappointed in you, like Jesse had. It was fine.
I drove around, looking for a familiar road sign so I could guide myself back to Meghan's house. I eventually found one, which tugged at my heartstrings: Randall Way. I swerved manically to avoid passing the yellow house, and took the next road instead. Anything to avoid bringing up those memories I was keen to forget.
I found Meghan's house quickly after that, and pulled up on her driveway, turning off my engine shakily. My skin was cool, a contrast to my angry complexion less than an hour ago. It was like I had severed part of myself away and left it back in the parking lot. Even my pulse was slower than its usual steady drone.
I was greeted at the front door by Meghan's face – ruddy-faced and stinking slightly of whisky. He met me merrily, and opened the door wide. I nodded at him meekly, and went up the stairs to find Meghan where I'd left her only hours ago. This time, she was awake, watching "The Wedding Singer" on the floor, animatedly and munching on Fritos from a large bag on her lap.
"Hey, Suze," she said, without averting her gaze from Adam Sandler. "How was everything at Lace? Did Jesse like his present?"
"Yes," I replied, choosing to answer the second question, and ignore the first.
Meghan slowed her chewing, and offered me the bag of Fritos. I declined silently. "You look like somebody spilt ink in your car," she told me, her mouth open so that I could see the remains of the Frito she had placed in her mouth. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I retorted, but Meg narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"Suze." She threw the bag of chips onto the bed behind her, and took a cold hand in her warm ones. "I have spent the last week or so moping over Kenny. I think I'd recognise somebody who was upset. What's the matter?" She gasped. "Oh my God. Somebody did spill ink in your car, didn't they?"
"No, God," I said, and Meghan looked relieved. She and she alone knew there was hell to pay if someone messed with my car. "Jesse and I broke up, that's all."
This caused her to take another sharp intake of breath, before letting it out with a low whistle. "Oh, Suze," she responded softly, and she patted my shoulder sympathetically. "You can cry, I won't tell anyone."
"It's fine," I told her. "It's fine. We just had this huge argument, and I told him it was over. It's O.K."
"Speak for yourself." Meghan looked devastated. "You guys broke up. On his birthday."
"So?" I didn't see the big deal. "He was being a jerk, pulling some kind of smarmy businessman crap around Ebony-"
"Are you aware that the only other worst time to dump someone – other than their birthday – is Valentine's Day?" she interrupted. "If the sexes were reversed – and you were the guy, his girlfriends would totally be setting fire to your TV set right now."
"What's so bad about dumping someone on their birthday?" I asked Meghan. "I mean, would they rather have a great birthday, and then have their world crash down the next day?"
"Of course!" Meghan cried, and I jumped at her enthusiasm. "God, Suze. And I thought you were clued up on relationships."
"I am clued up on relationships," I grumbled, and I reached behind me for the Fritos I'd turned down and began munching. Screw my healthy diet, and screw the ulcer that rumbled low in my stomach. I had some post-break-up wallowing to do, whether I missed Jesse or not.
But I didn't miss Jesse, when everything was dark and quiet later that night. I didn't need a man to complete me, I never did. I didn't miss him at all.
I didn't.
When I woke up the next day, I was tired of all the loose ends I'd created throughout the past week. It was Monday, a day for a fresh beginning. And I knew exactly where I'd start.
I picked up a clean blue T-shirt from the pile in my duffel bag, and a pencil skirt not unlike the one raven-girl had donned last night. I brushed my hair, and applied some of the foundation I spotted on Meghan's vanity table. That would have to do.
Meghan's mom offered me orange juice as I passed her with my duffel bag in tow, and I accepted, realising my throat was dry. I slurped it hungrily, and shivered as the cool liquid seeped down my oesophagus. Gasping and setting the glass down, I thanked her, and continued making my way outside.
The morning air was cool now, and my fingers tingled in the cold. I'd left my jackets at home, and felt strange without one. I hurried to my car and threw my duffel bag into the back, just as I did yesterday. Stepping on the gas, I ran two red lights on my way to 99, Pine Crest Road. I don't think it was excitement that caused it. It was more likely apprehension of what was in my near future.
I could my mother shrieking from outside. Her bedroom window was open, and her high voice carried to the driveway. I scrunched up my face as I locked my car, and pushed open the ajar front door. I called out, a little tentatively.
"It's just not acceptable!" My mother's wails continued, obviously oblivious to my presence downstairs.
"Hey, Suze," said Andy, coming in from the kitchen to greet me. "It's nice to have you back. Can I take that from you?" I handed him my duffel bag and gestured with my head upstairs. "What's that all about?"
"The car service," Jake explained, entering the hallway from the lounge. He took my duffel bag from Andy and threw it over his shoulder. "I think you'd better come and sort it out."
"O.K…" I trailed off, curiously. It wasn't rare that my mother flew into fits with people on the phone. She often bickered unceremoniously with her editors, and bartered avidly with several catalogue companies. It was always up to me to sort things out. I followed Jake upstairs, and made a right into my mom's bedroom.
Throughout the ten years we had lived in "The Big House" as we had named it, after suffering several years of cheap apartment complexes, my mom's room had never really changed. She painted the four walls a dreamy lilac, and hung a beaded curtain above her bed. When it was draped over the headboard, this meant Mom was writing, if the click-click-click of her typewriter wasn't enough of a giveaway. The combined warning signs meant I had to stay away, until I was given the all-clear. Mom turned grouchy if anyone – anyone – interrupted her.
But today, there was no click-click-click, and the curtain had been parted, and tied to the posts of the headboard. As I entered, my mother's eyes grew bigger, and she stopped talking. I could hear the car service at the end of the line still trying to bargain with her.
"Hey, Mom," I said, and I held my hand out for the phone, which my mother placed in my palm wordlessly. I smiled, and put the phone to my ear. "Is this Albert?"
"No." The voice sounded wary. "This is Thomas."
"Can I speak to Albert, please?" I asked, clipping my vowels. I heard Thomas surrender the phone, and the voice that greeted me next was low and familiar. I smiled, satisfied.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Albert. This is Susannah Simon speaking." Albert sighed.
"Suze, honey, the car thing is messed up, O.K?" he sounded stressed, and I could hear rustling papers in the background.
"My mother is approaching meltdown, Albert." I knew that if I persisted, I could sort this out. I had never failed to achieve success. Take last month, for instance, when my mother had insisted on a new car. She had dragged me to the nearest car dealership, advanced towards the first vehicle, stuck her head inside the interior, took one good whiff of the new-car smell and announced "I'll take it!" I nearly had a heart-attack, along with the salesman who had offered to advise us.
"Mom," I had hissed, embarrassed. But I'd managed to whittle down the outrageous retail price to less than half of it, and a guarantee and free car wash coupon thrown it. I was a genius, it must be said.
"I know, Suze, I know," said Albert, sounding panicked. "You think I haven't been listening to Thomas's conversation? I think I'm going to have to give him the afternoon off just to recover…"
"But what are you going to do about the cars for my mother's wedding?" I questioned, sharply. Albert sighed again.
"You want it booked for the tenth of August, right?" I mouthed Albert's words to my mother and she nodded.
"That's right, Albert."
"A limo?" I agreed, and Albert groaned. "Suze, all our limos are booked up that day. We can send a town car, but that's it."
"I'm afraid we'll have to take our money elsewhere, Albert," I said, and I began to pull the phone away from ear, before Albert cried out.
"We'll give you the town car at a reduced price! Suze, don't hang up!"
I grinned. Perfect.
After Albert and I had finished the negotiations, I repeated the plans for my mother. "A town car is all they could provide us with, but I got it twenty-five per cent of the original price. A limo is available for the rehearsal dinner, on the eighth. Is that O.K?"
My mother's eyes welled up, and she pulled me forwards into a hug. "I don't know how I could have handled that without you," she wailed, and sobbed into my shoulder. I patted her awkwardly, almost used to this behaviour after several days with Meghan. "I'm so sorry, Suze. Please forgive me, please come home."
"Like I was gonna let you ruin your stupid wedding," I said, and my mom made a noise halfway between a laugh and another howl. I exhaled, slowly. The reconciliation was complete. Check, one off my list.
Seeing as I was already my mom's (unpaid, might I add) personal shopper, maid, and therapist, all rolled into one, it didn't come as much of a surprise to me when she announced that I just had to plan her wedding for her. I had such an eye for things, my mother insisted, and I had to agree. But as I found out quickly, wedding planning took a lot of patience – a virtue I tended to lack. I had to wait for the reception hall's manager to check it was free, I had to wait for my mother to decide just how many finger sandwiches she wanted at the celebration, I had to wait for the florist to calculate how much the bouquets of roses would be… it drove me insane.
"Reception hall, check," I mused, ticking my list with a red pen one morning at the kitchen table. "Caterers, check. Florists, check."
"Honey, I need you to book a group fitting for the boy's tuxedos," my mother called, and she swept through the kitchen, almost knocking over my cup of coffee. "They'll need to look smart now they all have dates – even David's bringing a girl! And of course, Jesse will need a tuxedo… unless he already has one?"
I ground my teeth. I hadn't quite found the time to tell my mother Jesse and I had broken up, and it was like that statement had twisted the knife. I cleared my throat. "Um, Mom? Jesse and I broke up." She looked devastated.
"Oh, honey, he was perfect! So handsome…" She clucked me under the chin. "Never mind. I doubt you won't be able to find a date for wedding in time, a gorgeous girl like you." It was always amusing how every mother thought their daughter was beautiful. She rose gracefully, swishing her long, elegant skirt around, and wandered out of the kitchen. "And don't forget the photographers, Susie!"
I checked I had noted the photographers (five down from reception hall) and circled it, irritably. My mother had no faith in me, whatsoever.
"We need a band for the party," I murmured to myself, and Andy appeared at the doorway.
"Hey kiddo," he said, patting me on the head. "Busy being J.Lo?" I was actually nothing like "The Wedding Planner", though I was starting to wish I'd requested a headset when I had accepted the job.
"You bet," I replied, to amuse him.
"Well don't worry about the band," he offered, kindly, as he sat beside me and poured himself a bowl of cereal. "I can sort that out."
I looked at him worriedly. "Are you sure?" He nodded.
"Definitely sure. And that's one on your mega-list that you don't bother with now, right?" I smiled.
"Thanks, Andy." I put a big red line through 'BAND' and noted beside it: Andy is taking care of it. Check on progress soon! It wasn't that I doubted him… it was just that, well, he was a man. And men could never do a job properly.
"All the invites sent out now?" Andy asked me, through a mouthful of Count Chocula. I nodded, fingering the one left I had in my pocket. I traced the gold lettering on the envelope with my finger. Mr Peter Simon.
"Um, Andy?" I asked, uncertainly. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything, kiddo," he replied. "Go ahead."
I took a deep breath. "Can my dad come to the wedding?" I pulled his invite out of my pocket, preparing to throw it into the trashcan after Andy's response. He looked thoughtful, and licked chocolate milk off his metal spoon.
"You tell me," he said, eventually. "You're the wedding planner."
I smiled, and reached forwards, kissing Andy on his forehead. He looked kinda taken aback, and I was surprised, too. I was never the type to willingly show displays of affection. I sat back down, and slid the white paper into my pocket once again.
I had chickened out of handing him his invite in person, and so slid it under the door of his motel room instead. I hurried down the creaky metal stairs, and saw two bearded men eye me suspiciously. I continued my journey out of the motel courtyard, my neck prickling.
After this, I decided I was going to treat myself to a smoothie overlooking the bay. I hadn't done this since just after I began dating Jesse, with Meghan. I figured I needed a break, after working my ass off preparing my mom's wedding. I loved my mom with all my heart, but I hadn't slept properly in weeks.
I handed over my $1.59 – the smoothie stall was a bargain – and slurped pensively. There was something about Monterey Bay that was relaxing. Maybe it was the mossy cliffs, or the blue sea lapping against the sand lazily, but the views and the salt air calmed me, and I felt myself slipping into a dreamlike state.
"Suze?"
A strong hand leant on my shoulder, and I jumped, almost throwing my entire smoothie over the man who had greeted me. I looked up to see Paul towering over me, his blonde highlights bright in the golden sunshine, and his tennis tan contrasting handsomely with his olive Oxford T-shirt. He smiled, every white tooth gleaming.
"Hey. I haven't seen you in a while. How have you been?"
Getting over my momentary lapse of speech, I shook my head and replied. "I've been good, thanks. Sorry for jumping and nearly soaking you with strawberry."
"No worries." Paul grinned. "Sorry about cheating on you with Kelly Prescott?"
I smiled sadly. "You're forgiven. Just." There went another one I could cross of my mental list of reconciliations. He stuck out a brown hand. I took it, surprised at the heat radiating from it.
"Seeing anyone yet?" he asked me, and this time, I told the truth and shook my head.
"No. You?" Paul pulled a face.
"Nah. Kelly and I broke up the other day. For some guy called Phillip." I raised an eyebrow. "They go way back."
"Sorry things didn't work out with Kelly," I offered, and Paul shrugged.
"I'm not," he replied. "She was too much of a diva for me. You're still top of the girlfriend list, don't worry." I blushed.
"Well, I gotta go," I said, and I held up the clipboard I kept in my bag. "I'm planning Mom's wedding. No time to spare." Paul looked impressed.
"Man, I love weddings," he said, cheerfully. "Maybe I'll pop in, check you out in your maid of honour dress." I grinned.
"August the tenth," I told him. He nodded.
"See you," Paul said, and he waved goodbye.
"Bye, Paul." We went our separate ways, Paul heading along the coastline, me towards the parking lot so that I could stop by the photographers and book somebody for the ceremony. And then a thought struck me. I halted, and called after Paul. He turned around, surprised to see me standing there. I took a deep breath.
"That offer for a date still open?"