The Freshman (College Years 1)

Sitting up, I push my hair out of my face and glance around the room, my phone still clutched in my right hand. I think of what happened last night with Tony, and I inwardly groan.

What was I thinking, throwing myself at him like I did? Undoing the top of my dress like I did? My confidence bordered on stupidity.

He probably thinks I’m obnoxious. Ridiculous. Worse?

A cock tease.

I check my phone to take my mind off what I did. There are Snaps from Gracie, my roommate. She sent me multiple images from last night, where she was at some party, solo cup clutched in hand, giant smile on her face, pretty boy standing by her side, his heavy-lidded eyes trained solely on her.

I envy her ability to chase after men, to immediately fall in love with them, and pick up the pieces so quickly when they abandon her. I’m not built like her. I used to be grateful for that. She felt too much, I always told her, and she readily agreed.

I don’t feel enough at all.

I’m all bravado and bullshit. Just like my father. He should’ve never told me to stay away from Tony Sorrento.

Now all I want to do is see him again. Talk to him again. Maybe let him actually touch me.

A shiver steals over me at the thought.

There’s a rapid knock on my door and then Palmer is slipping in, fully dressed and looking ready to go somewhere.

“You’re still in bed,” she says accusingly.

I flop back on the pillows, my head sinking in downy softness. “So? It’s Sunday.”

“Dad wants to go have brunch at the Whitmore.” A fancy hotel in downtown San Francisco that was once a mansion that belonged to one of the richest families on the West Coast. “He already left with Lauri. I said you’d drive us there.”

“I’m not ready.” I cover my face with my hands, thinking of eating quiche and French Brioche toast while sipping a mimosa, seeing people I know at the other tables. Dad preening, going on about his girls, his gaze locked on Lauri.

No thank you.

“Well get ready.” Palmer swats my comforter-covered feet. “Hurry.”

I leave it to my baby sister to pick out an outfit while I get ready. I took a shower last night after I got home, so that chore is thankfully eliminated. I throw on some makeup. Palmer curls my hair.

We’re out of the house in less than twenty minutes. A miracle.

Traffic somehow works in our favor and by the time we breeze into the hotel restaurant, I can tell Dad and Lauri have only just begun eating. When he spots us, his eyes light up and he rises to his feet, dropping his white cloth napkin on top of the table.

“There are my girls,” he says in greeting and we go to him. Palmer hugs him and kisses his cheek like an enthusiastic puppy. My greeting is cooler. More refined. I’m still a little miffed at his treatment yesterday, and I want him to know it.

Lauri watches all of this with thinly veiled disgust on her face. She doesn’t understand the dog and pony show of Sunday brunch, though she’s definitely caught on to the rich flaunt of Saturday night dinner at the club. If she sticks around long enough and has children with my father, she’ll eventually get it.

Maybe. Sometimes I wonder about Lauri. Especially now that I know Joseph, the plastic surgeon’s son is trying to get into her panties.

Gross.

Daddy sends us to the buffet and we grab our plates, walking among the many tables laden with food. This isn’t your typical all-you-can-eat buffet you find in middle America. The only thing I can compare this to is the Sunday brunch at The Ritz in Paris. There are no congealed eggs in a giant vat being warmed under a heat lamp. Here, there are elegantly cut glass platters stacked with fresh, fluffy pancakes and perfectly golden, crisp French toast. A chef waits behind a partition, ready to make you a crepe with the ingredients of your choosing. A variety of fresh baked breads and cheeses. Meats of all kinds, most of them you’d never think of eating for breakfast. Sweet pastries that are like little works of art.

And champagne. Plenty of champagne. As a teen, I felt so grown up when my father would let me partake. One Sunday brunch, in particular, I remember. I was seventeen, a newly-minted senior in high school, and it was cold outside. A typical San Francisco summer day. I drank so much champagne my face turned red and I couldn’t stop talking.

Basically, I was myself, amped up to a million.

Once we’re settled at the table with our plates, fresh mimosas awaiting us, Daddy launches in.

“Where were you last night?”

My mouth is full of the omelet I just had the chef prepare for me. I chew and chew, hating the way he watches me, prepped to catch me in a lie. I may be only twenty, and still fresh in my adulthood, but I’ve been around long enough to know what he’s about. His questioning ways, his suspicions.