Yes Daddy

Her eyes are nearly as dark as her hair, and her skin is a deep olive that makes her look like she’s just disembarked from a month-long tropical cruise. We match each other almost exactly in height and weight and enjoy finding clothes for each other on our thrift store outings nearly every weekend.

In getting to know each other, we figured out we have a fear of driving in common, as well. So we buy a lot of bus tokens and are able to figure out the route to wherever we are going without even looking at a line map.

She pokes two sets of chopsticks into two of the containers, then comes over to join me on my faded blue crushed-velvet sofa that looks like it came out of the Formans’ basement on That ’70s Show.

My apartment is within walking distance or a quick bus ride to the courthouse. I rented it for next to nothing, and it came partially furnished—thank goodness. I do love to make places look nice, but even I need something to work with. At school, a few other girls even asked me to help them decorate their dorm rooms after seeing mine. So with some luck, clearance finds and thrift stores, I’ve made this little place look pretty nice, if I do say so myself.

I take a deep breath over the takeout container, and as the scent of red pepper and peanut sauce makes my mouth water, I realize I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning.

“So, what gives with the goon?” Karen shovels a bite of noodles into her mouth and raises her eyebrows, staring at me.

I swallow my first bite, the butterflies in my belly swarming as I think of Vito.

“He’s not a goon,” I shoot back, more sharply than I should. “He was just trying to do the right thing.”

She slurps a noodle between her lips and rolls her eyes. She’s still in her work clothes, black overalls with a red t-shirt, the uniform for the building maintenance company she works for cleaning offices at night. The pant legs are rolled up almost to her knees, showing off a pair of purple socks with green Frankenstein characters running up the sides. Her little rebellion against the less-than-flattering uniform.

“The doctor said I shouldn’t be alone, so he was probably trying to keep me from suing him.” The reality hits me like a punch in the gut as I wonder if my statement holds some merit.

“Oh! Reminds me…” She sets the container down on the coffee table and jumps up, walks to the counter, and grabs a piece of paper before handing it to me. “Yeah, I don’t think he’s just trying to keep you from suing him, my dear.”

I set my food down and take the paper from her hands.

My heart starts pounding when I see the thick black writing. Shifting on the sofa, I push my hair behind my ear and start reading.

Sweet girl,

I am leaving you with your friend for now. I have some things to take care of today, but I will be back. I hope when you wake your head is feeling better. If not, I’ve set out two Tylenol for you in your bathroom. (If you haven’t seen them already by the time you read this.) You can take two more every six hours until your headache subsides.

Know that when I return, if you are still in pain, we will be making a return trip to the hospital as I will not risk that there could be some other complications that were not detected last night.

I look up to see Karen grinning. “Did you read it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at her, and she nods.

“Of course I did.” Her matter-of-fact answer doesn’t surprise me. “I get here, there’s some Italian Stallion-slash-linebacker dude who hit you with his car, there’s a note on the counter from him to you, and I’m not going to read it? Do you know me?”

“You’re impossible,” I reply, then lower my eyes to finish reading the note.

I did not get your phone number before you went to sleep, my oversight. I need you to text me when you wake to let me know how you are feeling. You will find my number at the bottom here.

As well, I will let you know when I will return, and depending on how you are doing, I will tell you what tonight’s plans will be.

Until then, my Bambina, rest, and know I will be back for you.

Vito

My head is spinning as I re-read the note and feel the tension rising in my belly at the thought of his return—and why I seem to be so entranced by a man I barely know.

“My Bambina?” Karen snorts, taking another bite of noodles off her chopsticks.

“Shut it.” I poke mine toward her. “He’s just being nice. Gentlemen are unusual these days, that’s all.”