That night, it’s me and my vibrator. Again.Chapter SeventeenDaniel“What kind of cake are you going to taste first?” Rusty says, taking the stairs to Charlie’s apartment two at a time. “I want to taste red velvet first, and then chocolate, and then strawberry and then vanilla but then chocolate again because that’s always the best. Sometimes weddings have carrot cake, but I don’t like those weddings…”
I’m barely listening as my daughter goes on about cake. She’s been pumped for this day all week, and now that we’re here, picking up Charlie before heading out for a day of sugar consumption, she can barely hold still.
I feel pretty much the same way, only it’s not cake-related. I haven’t seen Charlie in almost a week, and I’m not counting the day that I was feverish and talked to her for a minute through a door.
“…but the best cake is birthday cake. I like when it’s got the colors in it…”
I knock on Charlie’s door, feeling like a car with the clutch down and the engine revving. Vroom. Vroom.
The door opens and there she is, all freckles, curls, and hazel eyes, looking a little bit haphazard like she always does, like somehow despite confirming what time I’d pick her up seventeen times, she wasn’t expecting us.
“Hey, come in,” she says.
She’s wearing a purple bathrobe, the waist cinched shut but she’s got one hand over her chest anyway, like she’s just making sure it doesn’t fly open.
“Charlie you’re not even dressed!” Rusty exclaims, waving both arms over her head. “We have to eat cake in forty minutes.”
As she says this, she checks the bright green watch that her uncle Seth gave her last year, like she’s a CEO late for an important meeting or something.
“Well, the first bakery is twenty-five minutes away, so we’ve got time,” Charlie says as a ball of pure energy — that is, Rusty — sweeps into her living room.
“Are you wearing that?” I ask, my voice low enough that Rusty, already flipping through a carpentry book on Charlie’s coffee table, doesn’t hear me.
Charlie’s hand holds her robe closed a little tighter.
“Give me five minutes, I still gotta get dressed,” she says. “Sorry, I was a little late getting out of bed and then I hadn’t washed the coffee maker last night so I had to do that and make coffee before I could function, and—”
I lean in and kiss her. It’s nothing but a quick greeting of a kiss, a hello-how-are-you kiss, but I’ve been waiting a week for it and I swear I can feel it ripple through my whole body.
I want more. I want so much more, but Rusty’s not even ten feet away, so I give Charlie one polite kiss and back up.
“Be right back,” Charlie says, and disappears into her bedroom.
This time I hear the door click shut, thank God, so I sit on her couch and Rusty clambers up next to me, flipping through the pages of Premodern Jointing: An Enthusiast’s Guide. Apparently, she doesn’t find anything that interests her, because ten seconds later she hops off the couch and grabs another book.
A few minutes later, Charlie comes out of her bedroom.
She’s wearing another dress. This one’s a deep purple with bright flowers, sleeveless, the waist tight and the hips loose, the skirt ending at her knees.
“Ooooooh, pretty dress,” says Rusty as she looks up. “How come you wear dresses all of a sudden?”
Charlie just shrugs, grabbing her purse.
“I just felt like it,” she says, darting a quick glance at me.
“They look nice on you,” I offer.
There’s that word nice again. Nice. The least good, technically-complimentary thing I could possibly say right now, but what the hell am I supposed to say in front of my daughter? Ravishing? Fuckable?
“Thanks,” she says simply. “Elizabeth evaluated my closet and found it lacking, so we went shopping. Shall we?”
Rusty doesn’t even say yes, she just leaps to her feet and makes a beeline for the door. Seconds later I can hear her clomping down the wooden steps like she’s an elephant.
“You need to wait,” I call out, following her.
The clomping stops. Charlie and I leave. Rusty’s halfway down the stairs, looking impatient, and Charlie turns to lock her door behind her.
The dress doesn’t have a back. At least, it doesn’t have half a back, just two purple straps criss-crossing over Charlie’s shoulder blades, attaching to the fabric halfway down her spine.
Instantly, I wonder if she’s wearing a bra. I can’t help it. That’s not what I want to be wondering right now, with my kid stomping impatiently ten feet away, but I am.
Charlie turns back to me, stops short.
“What?” she says, alarmed. “Is this dress okay?”
“It’s fine,” I manage to say. “It’s nice. Great. Ladies first.”
I gesture toward the steps, and Charlie descends them.
Nice? Come on.The moment we walk into Susie Q’s Cakes, Rusty gasps like she’s just been crowned Miss America, only more dramatic because she’s way more interested in cake than in beauty pageants.