Can I Be Your Girl

25

"I don't understand," I earnestly told my dad.

I fully broke away from my hold on the car's door and confusedly surveyed the quiet dock that almost was swallowed by the night if not for the lampposts that littered around the place.

I turned a questioning look towards my parents, and my father happily returned the gesture with a wriggling of his eyebrows. My gaze fell towards his hand that affectionately squeezed my mom's waist and had her practically melting and leaning more towards him. They exchanged secretive smiles fully knowing that I witnessed every sacchariferous deeds they did to each other.

Gross, but I was confused.

The mooning took a little longer than I'd give permission to so I turned to my six-foot-five body guard whose name was Mario. He stared ahead but gave me a less-than-a second hard glare before looking away again. I narrowed my eyes at him. Huh! I'm glad to know that the feud between us was as real as I left it.

I squinted further. You must think I'm so clueless about your relationship with Yvanna you faggot.

I imperiously stared him down, taking notice of his familiar uniform since becoming my bodyguard: a plain black suit and tie and a white button-down.

"Son, stop harassing Mario."

I shrugged at my mother sparing a last haughty eye at Mario before looking back to her.

"We're not friends, and he does the same."

Mario surprisingly quipped back. Smiling at my mother, he said, "I've had comparable situations with children before ma'am. I've grown accustomed to childish tantrums."

I gaped at the verbal offense.

"Did you just call me—?"

"Okay, okay. Cut this childish banter."

"Dad!!" I exclaimed and stomped my foot on the cemented ground.

Mario snorted, but before I could get back at him my father interrupted.

"That is your birthday gift over there."

I followed his pointer finger towards the wooden dock where a familiar yacht swayed at its edge alongside the other yachts on the water. Unlike the rest, it was the only one that was lit and lowly buzzing.

I recognized it as his Monty 2005 Azimut 86S. I remember how I envied him for such a thing when I was younger and had incessantly asked him to buy me one of my own. I thought I'd name it Brendy just because I found the name cute and friendly. Again and again—because my seven year old self couldn't understand—he explained that I was too young and immature to purchase big, expensive things like a yacht. I'd then cry in frustration and refuse to eat whenever he was home so he often went out so I could eat and not...you know...die.

Well now I'm more than happy that I don't have to feel guilt for owning and neglecting a yacht that I barely use.

I faltered. Turning to my dad and spitting profitless noises before finally figuring out what to ask.

"Y-you're giving your Monty to me?!"

The breezy noise that came with the mocking horizontal stretch of his lips found my question farcical. Dad shook his head sideways.

"I'm going to lend you that for one night so you can celebrate with your friends in it."

"Really?!"

Mom nodded her head. "I thought you'd appreciate celebrating it with your close friends."

"But the party—" I gestured to her 1940's inspired red silk evening gown "—aren't we going to—"