I'm Not Leaving // lrh

1 || playing catch up

march 2018
new york city
7:00pm

A

I hurry down the steps of my building, huffing in annoyance when the strap of my heel around my ankle undid itself. It's what I get for putting them on in such a rush, not making sure the buckle was properly fastened. To be fair, I was only inside my place for a whirlwind five minutes, tops. I dropped off some things and changed my outfit. If I hadn't spilled coffee on my blouse this morning, I wouldn't have changed and made myself late for dinner with my dad.

Again.

I haven't seen him in over a month, and I've rescheduled this dinner twice now. I already felt bad enough and he had to remind me Boston's only a couple hours away, and I never keep my promises to visit more often. So I had to keep this date.

I duck into the cab and tell the driver the name of the restaurant. I'm already late and don't want to risk taking the subway.

The driver gives me a look through the rear view mirror, the restaurants probably familiar to him, and fancy, on the Upper East Side.

And I live in what he must consider a dump in Brooklyn. And Brooklyn's not even a dumpy Burrough! But he probably can't connect my apartment to the four star restaurant that was in Bon Appétit last month.

Thankfully, he restricts his judgement to silence and iffy once overs in the mirror.

I strap my heel back into place, and quickly touch up my makeup that's been on since eight o'clock this morning. I normally wouldn't care but my dad's made it a habit to ask if I'm doing okay when I'm looking a little... rough.

I got more confused looks from the staff in the front of the restaurant. The doorman, the waiters serving on the patio too.

I cut the line of customer's waiting for a table and said, "Reservation for Santini. My dad's waiting for me."

I have to specify I'm a young girl having dinner with a rich, older man because he's my DAD. Props to all the sugar babies out there, but it's my DAD so it's a little creepy when we go out together and that's the assumption we're always hit with.

"Oh!" The waitress said, surprise striking her face, "Right this way."

She grabbed a menu, motioning for me to follow her.

The lights are low and warm. Business men and women are scattered about the restaurant, drinking their after work cocktails with loosened ties and discarded blazers. The bar is covered in drinks and suitcases and laptops alike.

I spot my dad sitting alone in a booth eyeing a menu, squinting.

"Maybe you should wear the glasses the doctor recommended." I joke as I walk up.

She asks what I'd like to drink and I pretend to think about it for a while before blurting out: a vodka soda.

Not as strong as tequila. Not as dark. And won't make my breath stink. Solid choice.

My dad laughs, standing up to hug me. I almost smell home on his clothes, but he's probably been in the city all day.

"Eh, I'm a rebel. I missed you!"

"I missed you too dad." I chuckle feeling only slightly uncomfortable from his hug.

I always forget hugs didn't always bother me.

"So! How are you Maree?" He asks, sitting across from me and I cringe at the nickname that I for some reason wasn't expecting.

"Uh," I start, my phone screen lit up and grabbed my attention before I could get out a proper sentence.