Falling for My Boyfriend's Dad

By: Cassandra Dee



I let myself into the apartment after a work-out, my second of the day. What no one tells you about selling a business is that once the deal is done, your formerly busy days are now empty. It was a change to be sure. I was used to working twelve hours a day, ruthlessly making money, money, and then more money. But now that the business was in someone else’s hands, my days had opened up and the empty space gaped wide like a hole that couldn’t be filled. What do people do if they don’t work? Sure, I watched movies, I worked out like a fanatic, I even took some on-line language classes, figuring to brush up on my high school Spanish. But it fucking sucked, and it got boring after a while. So usually I just head out to the gym again, pumping iron, doing cardio, the works, the result of which is I look fucking amazing for a forty-five year old, I’ve got the body of a twenty-five year old stud.

And the ladies let me know it. It’s pretty embarrassing how they come at me from every direction. I swear, I could take a walk around my building, go a block or two and there’d be a couple women trying to strike up a conversation, letting their little dogs run up to me as an ice-breaker.

“Oh hello!” they’d exclaim. “I’m Barbara / Emily / Amanda, and this is Cookie / Dazzles / Winston, my dog. And you are?”

And unfortunately, it’s always the same type of woman in Manhattan. It’s always a mid-thirties divorcee with overly processed blonde hair and an orange tan, so skinny that a strong gust of wind would blow her over. I hated this type, the kind with the thousand dollar designer bag and two thousand dollar designer shoes. Because I’d made that mistake before. Jonah’s mom was exactly that kind of materialistic bitch, and I’d been married to her for almost twenty years, which was about twenty years too long.

So yeah, once burned twice shy. My type is no longer a Manhattan socialite, no longer a social-climbing x-ray so bony that clothes look like drapes on them. Instead, I like curvy and generous. Oh yeah, I like big boobs, a huge ass, and wide hips that shake when a woman walks, like she’s always doing the rumba. And I like a sweet smile, an air of sincerity, and a softness of the heart that’s hard to find in this city. Maybe living in NYC has made me cynical but I just don’t think the type of woman I’m looking for lives here, that she’d be drawn to the high life.

Which brings me back to a girl who’s been on my mind for the last couple months. Goddamn. I don’t even know her name, it’s that ridiculous, a forty-five year old guy losing his head like this. Because I’d gone with Jonah to college to move him in that first day, expecting nothing but trouble from my son.

“Don’t come,” Jonah had grunted, surly and morose. “I’ve got movers to help me.”

That meant I definitely had to go because Jonah’s a cheapskate despite his generous allowance. Likely he’d work those guys to the bone all day and then refuse to tip, so I had to be there to keep an eye on him, make sure he didn’t skimp on folks who’d gone the extra mile for him.

And I’d shown up just in time because my son was downstairs trying to help a beautiful girl lift a refrigerator. Sure, it was just a mini, but Jonah’s never been to the gym to save his life. He’s still small and spindly, taking after his petite mother who barely ate. So I watched, amused more than anything as he and the girl lifted the box between them, wobbly and unsteady, looking like they were going to collapse any second.

And when it got ridiculous, when I saw the sweat popping out on my son’s forehead, I stepped in just in time and whisked it away from them. Honestly, it wasn’t that heavy, Jonah’s just not the type for any type of physical exertion, he’s soft, a baby still. My son turned away in a huff, face going red, but the girl smiled at me gratefully, relieved.

“Thank you so much, umm …?,” she said softly, those eyes like pools of brown caramel.

“Yeah, thanks Dad,” shot Jonah, making sure to emphasize the word “Dad.” “Watch out though, there are stairs, don’t want to strain your aging back or hurt your knees.”

And I shook my head, more embarrassed for Jonah than anyone else. It was my fault anyways. I’d spent so much time working and building my business that I’d barely seen my son, and now at eighteen, he was an insecure wreck. He’d been pampered by his mother, raised like a lap dog and had none of the confidence, the assertiveness that I’d expect in a man. Instead, he was a fluttery girl, his self-esteem low, with a mouth that spewed insults right and left. But I took a deep breath. There was no point in crying about spilled milk and, besides, I’d sold my business recently. I had time to focus on my son now, and was here on moving day like a caring parent, trying to ease the transition.

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