Stuck-Up Suit - Vi Keeland Page 0,56
me off. “She’s fine.”
Frank Venedetta strode to me, rattling my already shaky confidence. For a second, I thought he was going to hug me. But when I folded my arms across my chest, he seemed to take the hint. “This is a pleasant surprise. It’s been too long. Look at you, you’re all grown up. You look like your Aunt Annette. You’re beautiful.”
“I look like my mother.” His side of the gene pool wasn’t getting credit for anything good.
He nodded. “Yes, you’re right, you do.”
The eight years that passed had been kind to my father. He was over fifty now. A few silver flecks dotted his thick mane of black hair, but his olive skin hadn’t aged much. He was a fit man; running had been his escape when we were kids, and it looked like he had kept up with it.
“Come in. Let’s sit.” Hesitantly, I followed him into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” He poured us both steaming mugs and gave me a biscotti. My mother never let us have coffee when we were little. But the Venedetta side of the family was off the boat from Sicily; they thought if you were old enough to hold the mug, it should be filled with coffee. The same went for a wine glass. My best memories of my father were our mornings together in the kitchen after Mom left for work. Dad and I would sit at the table talking while we drank coffee and ate biscotti before I left for school. I even got up early in the summer to sit there with him. After he had moved out, I avoided the kitchen table in the mornings because it made me wonder if he was sharing coffee with Brianna—his new daughter.
“So. How are you?”
“Fine.”
He nodded. I’d shown up on his doorstep, yet I was shutting down any conversation he started.
A few minutes later, he tried again. “Are you still living in Brooklyn?”
“Yes.”
More nodding. Then a few minutes later. “What do you do for a living?”
“I work for an advice columnist.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“It’s not.”
A few more minutes passed. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Graham had called me his girlfriend the other night, yet I had never said it out loud. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Are things serious?”
I thought about it for a minute. They were serious. We may have only known each other for a month, but it was the most serious relationship I had ever been in. “They are.”
My father smiled.
“He just found out he has a daughter he knew nothing about with his ex-fiancé.”
My father’s smile wilted. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them nodding as if it all made sense finally.
He took a deep breath and let out a loud whoosh of air. “I made a lot of mistakes in my life, Soraya. Did things I’m not proud of.”
“Like cheating on my mother.”
He nodded. “Yes. Like cheating on your mother.”
“You left us. How do you leave your children?”
“I told you. I did things I’m not proud of.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I regret hurting you, yes.”
“That’s not what I asked. Do you regret the choice you made? Choosing a woman over your daughters? Taking a different family as your own and never looking back?”
“That’s not how it was, Soraya.”
My voice got louder. “Answer the question. Do you look back and wish you made a different choice?”
He looked down ashamed but answered honestly. “No.”
It felt like someone had sucker punched me in the stomach. “Did you ever love my mother?”
“I did. I loved her very much.”
“What if Theresa didn’t love you back?”
“What are you asking me?”
“Would you have stayed with my mother if Theresa didn’t love you back?”
“I can’t answer that, Soraya. That’s not how it was.”
“Were you and my mother happy?”
“Yes. We were at one time.”
“Until Theresa.”
“That’s not fair. It’s more complicated than that.”
I stood up. “I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake.”
My father stood. “The mistakes were all mine, Soraya.” He looked me straight in the eyes as he spoke his next words. “I love you.”
Everything from the last few days was bubbling to the surface. It felt like there was a tsunami coming, and I was about to get sucked under if I didn’t run for it. So I did. I took off like a bat out of hell running out of his house. It wasn’t the most mature moment of my life, but there was no way I was letting that man see me cry. I flew past the framed family portraits, flung open the front door and