MY FATHER'S FRIEND WANTS ME

Sophia Sundays were the most important days of the week. It was when I had time to join dinner, the room always filled with the scent of steaming lamb prepared specifically by my father. It was his favorite meal, one he prepared once every month. But we were never alone. We were never alone for these kinds of dinners because Vicente Hale sat across the table, my father's best friend, who looked exceptionally attractive for his age. Mom had divorced Dad three years ago and had stopped coming to dinner. It was never the same without her, but I learned to adjust. Eli, my brother, was in nursing school and only came home once a year, surviving on whatever the school vending machine offered. So it was only me and Dad. And Vicente. His buddy. Sitting across from him at the table always made me blush. His dark eyes studied me, even when my father was looking. He was fifty-one, my father's mate. But nothing about his features showed it. "Sophia," my father called out at the table as the delicious scent of lamb enveloped the room. "Tell Vicente about the press debate you've been working on." "Dad..." "She's been working on it for weeks," he said to Vicente, sounding so proud that it felt wrong to let him down. I exhaled, my eyes drifting slightly toward Vicente. He had this smile on his lips, the kind that made you want to spill your dirty secrets. "It's about the functioning problems that plague society. Specifically in Afghanistan. The debate centers on bad leadership, which is the reason for the poverty in their society," I said, looking down at my lamb. My father smiled, turning to Vicente like I had just performed a magic trick. "See?" he bubbled. "She's so brilliant." "I mean... it's alright," Vicente said in a tone that carried something close to disagreement. I turned to him. "It's alright?" He nodded. "Alright is even too much praise." I scoffed. "Are you disagreeing with my theory?" "It's not balanced, Sophia. And I don't disagree. Object is the word." I dropped my fork, facing him properly. "The fact that millions are dying in Afghanistan because of bad leadership does not change." "Source?" he asked. I stuttered. "What?" "What's your source of information that proves it's bad leadership?" I searched for words to counter him, but my mind went blank. "Exactly," he said, leaning forward. "Your point?" I asked. "Bad leadership isn't the core problem. The citizens are." I scoffed again. I had done my research, and that made no sense. "You are so wrong." "At least my source of information is backed by proof." "I've been doing this research for months. I know my stats." "And yet you can't validate the source of your political theory." He smiled. "That's bad, Sophie." My father scoffed, breaking through the tension already building between us. I had almost forgotten he was at the table. "The lamb... it's getting cold." His reminder that we were at the dinner table, not a political press conference. I looked down at my plate, gulping the lamb faster than my mouth could chew as my mind tried to process what had just happened. After scoring the highest grades in a five-star school, I had proved I was the best political student in Leigh High. My teachers practically begged me not to embarrass them when it came to political matters. Even my classmates would not last a minute in a political debate with me. And in seconds, Vicente had decimated me. I looked up, trying to glance at him from the corner of my eye, and he caught me staring. Then he winked. I almost got whiplash turning away. The lamb became tasteless as I chewed. Heat crawled from my neck to my cheeks. I was blushing. I never blushed. I hated it. A Rome documentary played in the background. My dad was snoring on the couch after dinner had ended ten minutes ago, and I was left with a pile of plates to wash, at least to distract myself until Vicente left. But then I felt that prickling sensation on my neck. That feeling when you know someone is staring at you. I turned and saw Vicente. Leaning against the wooden doorway with his sleeves rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt loose, he looked at me like he wanted to bore into my soul. His dark eyes held me for a second, but I forced myself to look away. "Finally put my dad to sleep?" I asked as I scrubbed a dish. He walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter in front of me. "I'm not your father's babysitter," he said. "Well, since he's asleep now, you're free to leave, Uncle Vicente." He smiled. "I'm not your uncle." "You're the same age as my dad." "Someone's angry," he said. That mocking tone made me turn to him as I passed him a plate to place on the rack. "You embarrassed me in front of my father," I said. "You claim to be a political expert. You wanted me to go easy on you?" I took the towel from him. "I wanted a weaker opponent." His eyes met mine. "When do you resume?" he asked. "School?" "Yes." "Three weeks. Maybe four." He nodded. "I'll talk to your dad. I'm holding one of the biggest press debates in the city. Top officials will be there. It would be good for your project." It sounded like something I would love to attend, but knowing my father, he would be too busy to take me. He was definitely going to let Vicente take me, and the last thing I wanted was to be alone with him. I was twenty-three. He was fifty-one. But my body betrayed me whenever he came around. I did not trust myself around him. "No, thank you. My dad won't let me go," I replied. "I'll talk to him. He's my friend," he said. "Well, I don't want to go." "I wasn't asking." He said it calmly, but beneath the words was something much deeper. I could not argue with him. His eyes were alluring and frightening at the same time. He placed the cup beside me. "Goodnight, Sophia," he said. I stuttered. "G... goodnight." I waited until I heard the front door close before I realized I had not been breathing properly. The room felt empty, like the energy had been sucked out of it the moment he left. He's your father's friend, I reminded myself. He watched you grow up. He's your father's friend. Snap out of it, Sophia. I repeated the words over and over again until they finally started sounding believable.