Dirtbag

I get yet another voicemail from my father the following morning. Casey is asleep on my bed, so I go out to the patio and call him back. I figure it’s been long enough.

“Stephen Trenton’s office, how may I help you?” It’s Heather’s voice that is ringing through my ears. I freeze. We haven’t exchanged anything other than awkward glances for the past few weeks. “Hello? How can I help you?”

“Hey, Heather,” I manage to spit out. “Is my dad around? He told me to give him a call.”

Those weren't his exact words—which were You need to give me a damn answer on whether or not you’re going to be in the wedding—but I figure she can see that. She is, after all, his favorite assistant.

“He’s in a conference call right now, but I’ll let him know you called.”

“Okay, I guess—”

“Jack?” It’s his voice, not the feminine and uptight one that is his secretary’s. I didn't actually expect to speak one-on-one with him, so this is yet another surprise. I clear my throat.

“Hey. You called me, so—”

“Ah, yes. Three times, in fact.”

It was two.

“I was wondering if you wanted to come over for lunch tomorrow.”

No.

“To your place or Victoria’s?” I hesitantly ask.

“My place, of course. Dinner obviously did not work out.”

“Um—” In the corner of my eye I can see Casey sitting up and stretching. This conversation needs to be over immediately. “Sure. I’ll be over there at twelve.”

“Oh, that won’t work. I’ll see you at exactly one-thirty.”

I drag out, “Okay” and this is because Casey is now out of my bed, half naked, and walking around like nothing. When the fuck did she undress herself?

The line goes dead. Apparently goodbye is now a cliché.