"No, no, no. Don't do this to me. Come on." I jabbed at my phone like that would somehow charge its battery, but no dice. I caught one last glimpse of my pastel fruit-print wallpaper before everything turned black. "Dammit."
That was what I got for doomscrolling social media during the cab ride to my dad's house and for not charging my phone before I left home.
I was almost at my dad's place, and I normally wouldn't freak out this much if I weren't waiting for a call from my mom. She said she had something important to tell me, and getting her on the phone was usually harder than trying to break into MI5 headquarters. If I missed today's call, I probably wouldn't hear from her again for another two months.
"We're here." My unsmiling driver dropped me off in front of a familiar Georgian-style house. Not a very friendly guy, but he didn't talk and he got me here in one piece, so five stars.
I thanked him and exited the car, my worry over missing my mom's call replaced by a stomach full of nerves. They were little fluttery things that zipped inside me like a hive of bees ready to explode, and the closer I got to the door, the stronger they buzzed.
Was it weird to feel this anxious about dinner with a parent? Maybe, but the truth was, after a year and a half of living in the same city, my dad still felt like a stranger. I knew he loved me in his own way, but we'd yet to have a single conversation that didn't revolve around football or small talk.
I guess that was inevitable when we both worked for Blackcastle—me as a sports nutrition intern, him as the head coach and manager (yes, my dad was the Frank Armstrong).
I get why he defaulted to the topic of work when we were together, but I hoped we could finally have some real father-daughter bonding time tonight.
I rang the doorbell. My dad answered it in record time.
"Wow. You're dressed up." I took in his suit and tie. He hated suits and ties. I was flattered that he was making such an effort, but now I felt underdressed in my sweater and jeans. "You look really nice, but the restaurant's dress code isn't that strict."
His brow furrowed. A flash of confusion crossed his face before the groove between his eyes deepened. "Shit."
My stomach plummeted. "You forgot."
I should've reminded him yesterday, but I'd called out "sick" and missed the Holchester match (though I did watch it online after). He didn't like texting or talking on the phone, so I relied on our shared work hours to talk to him.
"No. It's on my calendar. I didn't forget about dinner, but I forgot to call and tell you we have to postpone." He looked like he'd rather walk into a den of lions than have this conversation. "Vuk is in town, and he wants to meet tonight to discuss some team business. I tried to get out of it. I couldn't."
Vuk Markovic was Blackcastle's owner. He lived in New York and was pretty hands-off with club operations, but when he was in town, everyone jumped to accommodate him.
"Oh!" I forced a bright smile. "I totally understand. We can take a rain check. No big deal."
"I'm sorry." A hint of apology softened my father's gruff voice. "I meant to tell you sooner, but I got caught up in pre-meeting prep. It was all last minute."
"It's okay." My voice pitched higher on the last syllable, and I blinked back an alarming burn behind my eyes. What was wrong with me? I couldn't be tearing up over a postponed dinner when I'd gone through much worse shit without so much as a flinch. "I get it. Really. We'll have plenty of opportunities for dinner later. Work is more important." I cleared my throat and waved my phone in the air. "Do you mind if I come in and charge this for a bit though? It's dead, and I'm waiting for a call from—from someone."
I almost said Mom, but bringing her up was a sure way to nuke the conversation.
"Go ahead. I have to run, but make yourself at home." He handed me a wad of cash. "Feel free to order in."
"Thanks."
We awkwardly hugged goodbye. Then he was gone, and I was alone in the silence.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. No crying. I didn't care that no one was around to see it. If I cried over something as stupid as dinner, I'd never forgive myself.
I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and marched upstairs, where I found a charger in my dad's office. By the time I plugged my phone in, I'd shoved my wayward emotions into a box where they belonged.
The cash he gave me burned a hole in my pocket, but I wasn't hungry anymore.
I checked my cell. It'd charged enough to turn on again, but there were no missed calls. San Diego was eight hours behind London so it was still early there, but I couldn't sit around all night waiting for my mom.
I dialed her first instead. As expected, it went straight to voicemail. "Hey, Mom, it's me. Just wanted to check in since you said you wanted to talk today. Um, you're probably busy with Harry and Charlie, but give me a call back when you get this." Harry and Charlie were my stepfather and half-brother, respectively. "Oh, say hi to them for me. Kay, bye." I hung up and dropped my head back with a groan. "I'm such a loser."
I was young, hot, and single in London, and my Sunday plans revolved around my parents who weren't even here.
"Fuck this." I sat up straight, my self-pity sharpening into a sudden burst of motivation.
I had friends. I had a life. Why was I wallowing like a grounded teenager?
I checked my phone again. Twenty-five percent charged. Good enough.
I unplugged it and left.
Thirty-five minutes later, I arrived at one of the poshest mansions in London. The white, four-story behemoth occupied a prime lot in the city's most expensive neighborhood, and no matter how many times I visited, I never quite got over how grandiose it was.
Only the best for world-famous footballer Asher Donovan and his girlfriend, Scarlett DuBois, who also happened to be one of my best friends.
Scarlett and I met right after I moved to London, when she saved me from a potential mugger outside a nightclub. She'd pushed the guy away, I'd clobbered him with my bag, and we'd been thick as thieves ever since.
"Brooklyn!" Her face lit up when she opened the door and saw me. "This is a surprise."
"I'm so sorry for dropping by unannounced. I hope this isn't a bad time. Dad bailed on dinner, and you mentioned yesterday you were craving the fruit tarts from that bakery you like, so…" I held up the bakery's signature pink-striped bag. "I didn't come empty-handed."
"It's not a bad time. You didn't have to bring a gift—though I'm not going to turn it down—and I'm sorry about dinner." Scarlett's voice softened. "I know you were looking forward to it."noveldrama
"It is what it is." I was already intruding on her Sunday; no need for me to trauma dump as well.
I'd flirted with the idea of hitting the pub solo after I left my dad's house, but I wasn't in the mood to deal with men. I'd much rather be with friends.
Thankfully, Scarlett didn't seem put out by my sudden appearance. She chatted away as she led me through the house, which was as opulent on the inside as it was on the outside.
Scarlett was the type of girl who preferred fish and chips to foie gras and leggings to couture, but she lived with Asher, the king of flash. This was actually his second home in the area. His other mansion was on the outskirts of London, but it was too far from work for Scarlett so he'd bought something closer to the city center.
My eyebrows shot up when we passed by an indoor construction site instead. Planks of wood littered the floor, and there was a bunch of heavy-looking equipment that looked like they could do some serious damage if you got on their bad side.
"Are you still renovating? I thought you were done."
"So did I," Scarlett said wryly. "But the studio didn't turn out quite the way we imagined, so we have to make some tweaks. Asher wants to add an indoor arcade as well, so we'll be renovating for at least another two months."
Scarlett was a former prima ballerina turned teacher at the prestigious Royal Academy of Ballet, also known as RAB, but Asher was the one who'd insisted on installing a private ballet studio in their new house. That man was so head over heels for her, it would be alarming if it wasn't so endearing.
"Indoor arcade? Faaaancy," I teased. "You should ask him to build a spa—one that's fully staffed and open to friends and family. He'll do it. You know he would."
"I'm not asking my boyfriend to operate a spa out of our house. It wouldn't be very practical, would it?"
"That's the problem with you Brits. Too much focus on what's practical and too little focus on what's fun. What's the point of dating a famous footballer if you can't indulge in a little extravagance?"
Scarlett bumped my hip with hers. "Then you date a footballer and ask him for the spa."
We entered the living room, where we promptly flopped onto our favorite couch and split one of the fruit tarts. I ate healthy most of the time, but I wasn't opposed to the occasional treat.
"Tempting, but I'm afraid you snagged the only good one in the bunch." I'd been around athletes my whole life. I'd even dated a few of them. Unless you liked commitment issues, cheating, and gaslighting, it was best to steer clear.
"What's the only good one in the bunch?" Asher appeared in the doorway. His hair was damp, his skin was sweaty, and he was so incredibly, devastatingly handsome that it hurt a little to look at him.
I meant that in a purely objective way. Even if he wasn't dating one of my best friends, I wouldn't go for him. He wasn't my type—like I said, I didn't do athletes—but I could appreciate a fine specimen when I saw one.
He walked over to us.
"You are." Scarlett tilted her head back so he could kiss her on the lips. "We're talking about dating footballers."
"Yeah?" Asher glanced at me with amusement. "Didn't know you were browsing around that market, Brooklyn."
"I'm not, which is why I said Scarlett got the only good one. No offense, but I'd rather die than date any of your teammates."
Asher laughed. "As someone who has to share a changing room with them, I don't blame you." He came around and sat on Scarlett's other side. They exchanged a smile, one so intimate and knowing it could only exist between two people who'd already envisioned forever with each other.
Another lump formed in my throat.
I was happy for Scarlett. She was one of the kindest people I knew, and she'd gone through a lot, including a freak car accident that ended her dream career early. She deserved true love.
But seeing her and Asher together underscored how unmoored I'd been feeling. It wasn't even about the lack of romance in my life; it was about being someone's priority. Having an anchor. Knowing there was a person out there who would be my first call if shit went down and vice versa.
I loved my friends. They had my back and I had theirs, but they had other priorities too. As for my family…well, that was a whole other story I'd prefer to leave on the shelf.
I was a balloon drifting aimlessly through the crowd while everyone around me found their tethers.
It sucked.
The sound of the doorbell interrupted my slow descent into wallowing again.
"That's our takeaway." Asher moved to stand. "I'll get it."
"No, you guys stay here. I can get it." I jumped up, eager for the chance to do something besides feel sorry for myself. "I need to stretch my legs anyway." I left before they could argue.
Maybe I should head out after I got their food. I didn't want to be that friend who dropped by unannounced, ate their food, then left.
Besides, what was sadder—spending Sunday night alone in your dad's house or playing third wheel to your friend and her boyfriend?
Scratch that. I didn't want to know.
After two wrong turns—I swear, this house was a maze—I made it to the foyer. I opened the door, expecting to see a random delivery person.
Instead, I was greeted by a distressingly familiar face: light brown skin, dark brown eyes, and full lips that slowly curved into a smile that would make most women swoon.
Key word: most.
My own smile vanished. "Oh. It's you."