First World Problems

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

 

In my eighteen years on this planet, I’d learned I could distract a lot of people with pretty words, expensive gifts, and a sweet smile.

I’d also learned that those things rarely worked on my father, which meant that at this exact moment, I was in a shit ton of trouble.

I refused to show a single crack in my facade as I sat waiting for him to see me. The ridiculousness of having an appointment with my own dad, and then having to wait for him, wasn’t lost on me. It was only trumped by the fact that he had an actual waiting room. I swore he tried to make it seem like a normal living room—smallish, with only upholstered wood-frame chairs, magazines on the coffee table, and hardwood floors covered in homey flowered rugs. I nudged against the corner of the one beneath my feet with the toe of my Italian leather flats. I wrinkled my nose when I practically heard it crinkle. Polyester. So gross.

Even if I could have imagined I was lounging in a living room like a normal kid waiting for her dad, my pretend life would have been disturbed by the chirp of the phone at his receptionist’s desk in the corner. I talked to Karen almost every day, but it was normally a six-word exchange. I called the office, said, “It’s Sofia,” and she said, “I’ll put you through.”

Actually having to look at Karen was another issue altogether. If she made more than minimum wage, she’d be nipped and tucked and polished and dressed within an inch of her life like the rest of this town. Instead, she was round and doughy, as though she’d change shape to fit into whatever container you poured her into. Her eyes drooped at the corners with a decade of wrinkles, her streaky blush and eyeliner practically screaming that they’d been picked up at the drugstore. I fought back a shudder. She raised a too-far-plucked, penciled-in eyebrow at me when she hung up the phone.

“You can go on in, honey.”

I stared at her, mesmerized by the combination of her horrific Hawaiian print shirt and the condescension in her voice. Honey? Nobody ever called me honey. “Young lady” or sometimes “princess” was as close as my father got to an endearment in the last couple years, and him affectionately calling me by my first name was a distant middle school memory. My mom had called me “sweet girl” with a love in her voice that I only got to experience on old family videos someone had uploaded to YouTube a lifetime ago.

Maybe I was a sweet girl back then.

“Sofia?” Karen asked.

My stomach clenched and resolve washed through me as I stood, tugging my white button-down over my dark jeans. My hair hung straight, dark and shining over my chest, and I pulled it back with one hand, letting it drop down and swing against my back. Should have tied it back, stupid. Do you want to look like a sorority girl?

I willed the hard sense of resolve at my center to stay. I’d need it. I turned a steely gaze on Karen. “You can call me Miss Cole.”

Her eyes widened for a split second before she sat up straighter and cocked her head. Any trace of a smile disappeared as one eyebrow tented slightly upward. “Go on in, Miss Cole. He hasn’t got all morning.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” I muttered as I forced myself to take calm, measured steps into his office.

Poise and control, poise and control. It was a mantra from one of the instructors at the finishing school camp Dad had sent me to last summer, and as much as I hated the feeling of being trained like a dog, I had to admit it was useful. Being in control of myself meant being able to keep everything from affecting me. I allowed myself three seconds of focus and breathing while I kept a hand on the doorknob, making sure it clicked quietly shut behind me. Then I slowly turned, still standing up straight, and let a pleasant smile flood my face.