“I’m meeting with some clients this evening for dinner,” he says, his voice smooth. “You know how it is.”
How it always is. For some reason though, it feels like he’s lying. “On a Friday night?”
“I work seven days a week. You know this.” He sounds irritated, and I immediately feel terrible for even doubting him.
“I know, you’re right. I’m just—disappointed.” I close my eyes, letting the emotion wash over me. The entire week hasn’t gone well and I was so looking forward to seeing this exhibit tomorrow.
For once, I just wanted something to work in my favor.
“I’m disappointed too, Pumpkin. Maybe we can go another time. I’d love to see her exhibit.”
“It’s over at the end of the year,” I remind him. “And this weekend was the best time for me. I have finals to prepare for, and then it’s Christmas. My birthday.”
“Maybe we could go the week between Christmas and New Year’s?” he suggests.
“But that’s my birthday week. I might have plans.”
With who, I’m not even sure anymore.
He chuckles. “Right. My little girl loves to string out her birthday for as long as possible.”
Only my father would make me feel bad for something he started in the first place. When I turned ten, he made such a big deal about my birthday, trying to make it special considering I share the day with the one of the most major holidays of the year. He kept my tenth birthday celebration going for days, much to my mother’s not-so-secret annoyance. It’s been a tradition ever since.
“What sort of plans do you have?” he asks when I still haven’t said anything.
“I wanted to go out of town,” I admit, realizing there really isn’t anyone I want to go with me anymore. I was thinking about asking Maggie, but she’s still not talking to me after the Fig incident, so what would be the point? She probably hates me, and she was my last real friend.
“Where were you thinking of going? Somewhere warm?”
“Actually, I was looking at somewhere in the mountains with lots of snow. It sounds cozy, staying in a log cabin and drinking hot chocolate by the fire.” Saying the words out loud, I’m sure I sound like a foolish little girl.
“You don’t want to go somewhere tropical? Most people want to go to the beach during the winter. What about Aruba?”
A tropical vacation means bikinis and lots of skin. Guys leering at me and my chest. I hate having them on display. They’re just so…big.
“I don’t want to go to Aruba, Daddy,” I say, my voice small.
“Okay. That’s fine. How about I have Veronica look up some locations for you? She can do a little research, find a couple of options for you to look over,” he suggests.
“Who’s Veronica?”
“My assistant. She started a few months ago. I know I told you about her.”
“Oh. Okay. Yes, sure. That would be nice.”
“Just trying to help you, Pumpkin. I know you’re busy with school with finals and all of your end-of-the-semester projects. Veronica is really great at making travel arrangements. She handles mine all the time.”
“Thank you. That would be great.” I really wanted to plan this trip on my own, but it’s like no one can let me do anything by myself. And I allow it to happen. “I’m thinking I might go to the exhibit tomorrow.”
“With your mother?”
“No. She probably wouldn’t want to go with me.” I tried talking to her about this particular artist a few weeks ago, when I first heard about the showing, but she wasn’t interested.
She’s rarely interested in anything I do lately.
His voice turns stern. “I don’t want you going alone.”
“Why not? I’ve gone to showings around there before. I’m familiar with the area.” It’s in Tribeca, and not in a terrible neighborhood or anything, but for my father, every neighborhood is bad when it comes to me.
“Never by yourself. I’ll arrange for a car for you. You just call the office tomorrow whenever you’re ready to be picked up and they’ll come get you.”
“Daddy. I can just take an Uber—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Absolutely not. You’ll use my car service.” By the tone of his voice, I know he won’t allow me to do anything else.
“All right.” My voice is soft, and I close my eyes for a moment, wishing I was brave enough to tell him I’ll do whatever I want.
But I don’t. I never do.
“Is your mother home?” he asks.
“No. She’s having dinner with friends.”
He makes a harumphing noise. “Friends. I’m sure. Well, I’ll see you sometime tomorrow afternoon. I get in around two.”
“Wait a minute, you’re not even here?”
“I’m in Florida. I’ll be back tomorrow.” A lilting, feminine voice says something in the background, and I can hear my father muffle the phone, so he can speak to her. “I’ve got to go, Wren. See you tomorrow. Love you.”
He ends the call before I can respond.
I toss the phone onto the couch and tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling. At the elaborate and very expensive light fixture that shines above my head. Everything in this house is expensive. Some items are even priceless.
It’s like I can’t touch any of it. Too scared I might break something that’s irreplaceable. Art. Objects. Things are more important to my mother, my father.
Me? Their daughter? Sometimes I wonder if I matter. If I’ve become nothing but another object they like to show off.
A piece of art that still needs plenty of molding.
I push myself off the couch and wander through the house. Down the hall, past the giant paintings that hang on the walls. The ones with the lights shining upon them, illuminating them perfectly so everyone on the street can see them as they walk past. Those who appreciate fine art would die to enter this house. To catch even a brief glimpse of the paintings and sculptures and pieces that fill our apartment.
I don’t even see them anymore. They’re meaningless.
Like me.
I lock myself away in my room and try to examine it with a critical eye. There’s no color. My mother did that on purpose, so it wouldn’t clash with any of the art she might choose to show in here. Because yes, even my bedroom is a potential showcase for her art. The piece my father bought me last year for my birthday hangs on the wall. It’s a canvas with lipstick prints, though not nearly as many as the coveted piece I truly want, along with vibrantly colored already chewed gum stuck on it in random spots. It’s kind of gross.
I had to pretend I loved it when he gave it to me.
Turning away from the piece, I stare at the white duvet cover on my bed. The black and steel gray pillows stacked against the silver metal headboard. The white furniture. The black and white photos on the walls, all of them from a different time. When I was younger and had real friends. Before we all changed and grew up and grew apart.
Now we talk on Instagram via comments and the occasional DM. They’ve all moved while I feel stuck.
I catch my gaze in the reflection of the full-length mirror hanging on the wall and I go to it, staring at myself. I changed into jeans and a black sweatshirt before I left campus, and if my mother saw me right now, she’d say I looked sloppy.
Maybe I do. But at least I’m comfortable.
I tear off the sweatshirt first, my gaze dropping to my breasts and I can’t help but frown. I hate the way they strain against my plain white cotton T-shirt. My mother is constantly on me to go on a diet, but I don’t think it’s going to help. In the end, I’ll still have my breasts, which are nothing like hers. She’s flat. Her body is almost boyish, and she works hard to keep it that way.
While I’m over here fighting my curves and trying to restrain my breasts with the most restrictive bras I can find to please her.
It’s exhausting, pretending to be something I’m not.
I whip the T-shirt off and drop it on the floor, kicking it out of the way. I step out of my shoes. Peel off my socks. Then I take off my jeans, flinging them so they hit the wall with a loud thwap.