Elite

Chapter One - The Arrival

My dad stood by the kitchen island of our Malibu home, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he diced a mountain of onions. His eyes were bloodshot and threatening with tears.

"Onions?" I asked as I came up behind him and put my hands on his shoulders.

"Yea, onions." It was all he said. I didn't push. I know how he hated me seeing him cry.

It had been a month since my graduation dinner, and it felt as if my dad and I drifted further away. I immediately began preparing for my move to New York, and he immediately became too busy with work. His excuses had become erratic even, saying one client needed their entire house in Napa Valley demolished and rebuilt by the end of summer. So as a result, we didn't see much of each other.

My flight, however, was in five hours and I knew I'd regret it if we didn't at least have breakfast.

"What ya' making?" I asked casually as I perched on the stool closest to him.

He sighed, putting down the knife after dicing what seemed like six onions. "Onion stew?" he said with a shrug. I chuckled lightly, his attempt at humour not lost on me but still not enough to lift the sombre mood throughout the house. "How about, we get your bags in the van, and just go out for something on the way?"

"Sounds good," I hopped off the stool and gave him the usual peck on the cheek before running up the kitchen stairs to my room.

I hustled the last of my bags out to the corridor where my dad picked them up and carried them down to my truck. What would now be my old truck as I was set to lease another in New York. I turned and took a lasting look at the only room I've known for the past twenty-one years.

When I was born, my mother turned the largest guest room into the largest baby's nursery ever. My dad told me she always said it would forever be my room. So why not start now?

I switched off the light then, my blinds shuttered so that they were needed even at 7 o'clock in the morning, and closed the door. I didn't want to think that I'd never come back to call that room mine, but a part of me wished that I never did.

"Ready?" My father was much better now, it seems. I couldn't really tell as his eyes were covered by the ever-present Tom Ford shades my mother gifted him thirteen Christmases ago.

"Yea, ready." I climbed into my blue Mercedes truck then, my father hopping into the passenger's seat beside me. "Where to, captain?"

I heard the question as soon as it left my mouth, and immediately regretted it. It was only another reminder that I was going on a plane, leaving the only home I ever knew.

"Vickies?" my dad responded casually, brushing off the reminder. And so I relaxed and headed out to my dad and I favourite beach spot at the Santa Monica Pier.

Charles LaPorte was the best man anyone can find for a million square miles, at any point. He supported every decision even when he didn't like them, and for that I am grateful. He didn't like it when I told him I was never going back to ballet class that day, but he never forced me to go, and I loved him for that. And he didn't like it now that I'm moving across the country, but all he's said is that he wishes I would take the truck, and I loved him even more.

I wasn't going to take the truck though. I've travelled to New York many times before if even for a day, to know that having a car was a practical waste of money. I'd only just found a small apartment that my dad approved of last week. I told myself I would get settled in for at least a year before thinking to get a car. After all, the purpose of the move was to explore the city my mother called home, and I could do that perfectly well in a taxi or a subway.