Stuck-Up Suit
Page 55
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I had no sense of time as I stood there, but it must have been at least a half- hour that I stared at his home. My emotions were completely out of control, and I seriously had no idea what the hell I was going to say, yet I was sure I needed to do this. Fuck it. I walked to his doorstep, took a deep breath, and knocked. My heart was racing as I waited. When no one came to the door, at first a sense of relief came over me. I was just about to turn and leave when the door opened.
“Can I help you?” Theresa squinted, and then her eyes grew wide. “Oh, my. Soraya. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
I forced a smile. “Is my dad here?” I was suddenly panicked and wanted nothing more than to leave. Please say no. Please say no.
“Yes. He’s upstairs fighting with the closet door that came off the hinge. I think he’s losing.” She smiled warmly and stepped aside. “Come in. I’ll go up and get him. He’s going to be so excited you’re here.”
I stayed just inside the doorway, no different than how I would have felt entering a stranger’s house for the first time. It’s what he essentially was. A stranger. The walls were lined with family photos. My father’s new family. They were smiling and laughing in every framed shot. Not a single picture of my sister or me. I shouldn’t have come. A voice I hadn’t heard in years interrupted my internal debate to flee.
“Soraya.” My father was halfway down the stairs as he spoke. “Is everything okay?”
I nodded.
“Is your mother okay?”
That pissed me off. “She’s fine.”
Frank Venedetta strode to me, rattling my already shaky confidence. For a second, I thought he was going to hug me. But when I folded my arms across my chest, he seemed to take the hint. “This is a pleasant surprise. It’s been too long. Look at you, you’re all grown up. You look like your Aunt Annette. You’re beautiful.”
“I look like my mother.” His side of the gene pool wasn’t getting credit for anything good.
He nodded. “Yes, you’re right, you do.”
The eight years that passed had been kind to my father. He was over fifty now. A few silver flecks dotted his thick mane of black hair, but his olive skin hadn’t aged much. He was a fit man; running had been his escape when we were kids, and it looked like he had kept up with it.
“Come in. Let’s sit.” Hesitantly, I followed him into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” He poured us both steaming mugs and gave me a biscotti. My mother never let us have coffee when we were little. But the Venedetta side of the family was off the boat from Sicily; they thought if you were old enough to hold the mug, it should be filled with coffee. The same went for a wine glass. My best memories of my father were our mornings together in the kitchen after Mom left for work. Dad and I would sit at the table talking while we drank coffee and ate biscotti before I left for school. I even got up early in the summer to sit there with him. After he had moved out, I avoided the kitchen table in the mornings because it made me wonder if he was sharing coffee with Brianna—his new daughter.
“So. How are you?”
“Fine.”
He nodded. I’d shown up on his doorstep, yet I was shutting down any conversation he started.
A few minutes later, he tried again. “Are you still living in Brooklyn?”
“Yes.”
More nodding. Then a few minutes later. “What do you do for a living?”
“I work for an advice columnist.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“It’s not.”
A few more minutes passed. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Graham had called me his girlfriend the other night, yet I had never said it out loud. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Are things serious?”
I thought about it for a minute. They were serious. We may have only known each other for a month, but it was the most serious relationship I had ever been in. “They are.”
My father smiled.
“He just found out he has a daughter he knew nothing about with his ex-fiancé.”
My father’s smile wilted. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them nodding as if it all made sense finally.
He took a deep breath and let out a loud whoosh of air. “I made a lot of mistakes in my life, Soraya. Did things I’m not proud of.”
“Like cheating on my mother.”
He nodded. “Yes. Like cheating on your mother.”
“You left us. How do you leave your children?”
“Can I help you?” Theresa squinted, and then her eyes grew wide. “Oh, my. Soraya. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
I forced a smile. “Is my dad here?” I was suddenly panicked and wanted nothing more than to leave. Please say no. Please say no.
“Yes. He’s upstairs fighting with the closet door that came off the hinge. I think he’s losing.” She smiled warmly and stepped aside. “Come in. I’ll go up and get him. He’s going to be so excited you’re here.”
I stayed just inside the doorway, no different than how I would have felt entering a stranger’s house for the first time. It’s what he essentially was. A stranger. The walls were lined with family photos. My father’s new family. They were smiling and laughing in every framed shot. Not a single picture of my sister or me. I shouldn’t have come. A voice I hadn’t heard in years interrupted my internal debate to flee.
“Soraya.” My father was halfway down the stairs as he spoke. “Is everything okay?”
I nodded.
“Is your mother okay?”
That pissed me off. “She’s fine.”
Frank Venedetta strode to me, rattling my already shaky confidence. For a second, I thought he was going to hug me. But when I folded my arms across my chest, he seemed to take the hint. “This is a pleasant surprise. It’s been too long. Look at you, you’re all grown up. You look like your Aunt Annette. You’re beautiful.”
“I look like my mother.” His side of the gene pool wasn’t getting credit for anything good.
He nodded. “Yes, you’re right, you do.”
The eight years that passed had been kind to my father. He was over fifty now. A few silver flecks dotted his thick mane of black hair, but his olive skin hadn’t aged much. He was a fit man; running had been his escape when we were kids, and it looked like he had kept up with it.
“Come in. Let’s sit.” Hesitantly, I followed him into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” He poured us both steaming mugs and gave me a biscotti. My mother never let us have coffee when we were little. But the Venedetta side of the family was off the boat from Sicily; they thought if you were old enough to hold the mug, it should be filled with coffee. The same went for a wine glass. My best memories of my father were our mornings together in the kitchen after Mom left for work. Dad and I would sit at the table talking while we drank coffee and ate biscotti before I left for school. I even got up early in the summer to sit there with him. After he had moved out, I avoided the kitchen table in the mornings because it made me wonder if he was sharing coffee with Brianna—his new daughter.
“So. How are you?”
“Fine.”
He nodded. I’d shown up on his doorstep, yet I was shutting down any conversation he started.
A few minutes later, he tried again. “Are you still living in Brooklyn?”
“Yes.”
More nodding. Then a few minutes later. “What do you do for a living?”
“I work for an advice columnist.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“It’s not.”
A few more minutes passed. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Graham had called me his girlfriend the other night, yet I had never said it out loud. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Are things serious?”
I thought about it for a minute. They were serious. We may have only known each other for a month, but it was the most serious relationship I had ever been in. “They are.”
My father smiled.
“He just found out he has a daughter he knew nothing about with his ex-fiancé.”
My father’s smile wilted. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them nodding as if it all made sense finally.
He took a deep breath and let out a loud whoosh of air. “I made a lot of mistakes in my life, Soraya. Did things I’m not proud of.”
“Like cheating on my mother.”
He nodded. “Yes. Like cheating on your mother.”
“You left us. How do you leave your children?”
