Dad's Best Friend

I turn the key in the lock and push the door open.

“Hey, I'm home!”

I drop the heavy bag on the floor in the hallway. A lot of laundry has accumulated in two weeks. Do I feel guilty about dumping it at home and burdening my mother with the chore? No, not really. It's a kind of barter: she does the washing and ironing. In return, I visit my parents every two weeks and tell them how my studies are going.

Well, most of it. There are some things parents don't need to know.

Puzzled, I stop and listen. No welcome. No mom running up to me and hugging me. Dad's shoes and briefcase are under the coat rack; he should be home too.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

Have they gone out? That wouldn't be like them. They know I'm coming today. They're looking forward to seeing me. Waiting for me.

At least that's what they always say.

A small, nagging doubt gnaws at me.

Noises, around the corner, coming from the bedroom. I prick up my ears and tiptoe closer. What's going on?

Quiet panting. Wet slurping. Suppressed moaning.

I stop. I already know where it's coming from. What it means. I'm young, but I'm not stupid. I'm in college, living in a dorm. The walls there are thin. And the girls who live in the rooms next door aren't exactly discreet when we meet in the kitchen the morning after.

Ugh. I put my hand over my mouth. I have a vague feeling that I'm going to be sick.

There are things you don't want to know about your parents. Things you don't want to catch them doing. My ears are burning.

I turn on my heel, even quieter than before. I just don't want to be noticed now. The best thing to do is to disappear quickly and secretly, hang around for an hour or so, and then pretend I wasn't here before.

What else could I do? Sit down in the kitchen, drink a glass of milk, and when we meet, ask, “So, how was your sex?”

Not funny.

There. A deep, throaty moan. Dad?

Louder and closer than I expected. Wait, they're not doing it in the hallway, are they?

Confused, I stop in my tracks. Unwanted images flash before my mental eye like a bad movie.

“Sina, is that you?” Dad's voice.

Panic. I rush to the door.

My hand already on the doorknob, I come to my senses. I can't run away. Not anymore. I've made my presence known loud and clear with my “hello.” I can't deny that I came in.

But I can stay cool and pretend I didn't hear anything. Yes, that's the safest thing to do. Avoid the embarrassment. Just forget everything and act like nothing happened.

I put on a cheerful smile.

“Yes, it's me. Hello, Dad.”

I swallow the “How are you?” along with the bitter taste rising in my throat.

Dad's heading my way. His face flushed. His forehead damp. He fiddles with his pants, wiping his palms on his thighs. I see the dark sweat stains in his armpits as he spreads his arms to welcome me.

I have to **** myself not to back away.

He grins. His good mood seems so genuine that it makes me even more suspicious.

“I'm glad you're here, Sina. Come with me, I need to introduce you to a friend.”

This is a spin-off of the story “His Best Friend” and picks up right where chapter 18 left off.