Never Let You Go: A Small Town Single Dad Romance, page 30
Shit. That can only mean one thing. The person behind bars is Isaac’s dad. I’m not surprised. The guy was an asshole. He probably got into it with the wrong person. “How long?”
He takes a long pull on his coke, and says, almost too softly for me to hear, “Depends if the other guy makes it or not.”
“Shit,” I say under my breath.
“Yup. Thought you’d like a heads up.”
That means two things, one good and one bad. The good news is, Isaac’s father is no longer an issue as far as using his son as a punching ball. At least for now, and maybe for a very long time. The bad news is, the family lost its primary breadwinner. I’m not sure what his mom does for a living, but I know the dad is—was—a manager at a meatpacking facility, and those jobs pay good money. “Appreciate it,” I say.
“No problem,” Declan says, and with that, he leaves.
“Tough,” Justin says, sliding me a refill. “How old is Isaac?”
“Going on eighteen. He’s graduating high school this year.”
“He’s going to grow up fast.”
“Yup. I’m gonna make him an offer.”
“How about your other apprentice?”
“What about her.”
“Are you making her an offer?”
“She doesn’t want to be a baker.”
“I wasn’t talking about a job offer.”
I shoot him an angry glare.
“Told you to stay away from her,” he says.
Did not. Told me the exact opposite.
“Should have told you,” he says, reading my mind. “But then, I didn’t know you were such a pussy.”
I don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, and I don’t care. I take a long draw on the cold IPA.
“I want you to want me.”
I do want her. Way more than she can imagine. I spend my nights with her, sleeping or making love to her. I spend my days with her, working or just… doing life shit. And yet I can’t get enough of her. I want more of her.
But how much does she want me to want her?
And what did she even mean by that? What she said stuck with me, but maybe I’m reading too much into it. She said it after I’d been to dinner at Emma’s, and maybe it was just jealousy. It was also right in the middle of fucking awesome make up sex we were having, so maybe that’s how she meant it.
“Talk to me, bro.”
I huff. Talking is not something Justin and I do.
“C’mon. Spit it out.”
“You talk about your shit, Tinman?”
“What shit?
“Right,” I say. Been years since Justin’s had a girlfriend. Oh, he sees plenty of action, except he goes away for that. Never talks about whatever girl he’s had that time. Mentions the pussy, occasionally. “Right,” I say again, drawing out the word.
“Come on, I wanna hear it.”
“How come you haven’t had a girl since high school?”
“I’m talking about you.” He wipes the counter, like he’s prepping to lay something on it.
“I’m not.”
He grunts. “Course not.” He grabs a mop and sweeps the entrance to the pub. With the snow almost entirely melted, the ground sloshing and sticking to boots, there are shoe tracks everywhere. It’s a full-time job to keep any place clean during mud season.
I follow him, beer in hand, and look at Skye on The Green, talking to Moose. “The baking show is coming up. Couple of months now,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Might need a driver.”
He pauses.
“Someone to drive me back.” The show lasts three days, and there’s little to no sleeping involved.
“Might as well drive you both ways. When is it?”
“Few weeks.” I look up the date on my phone as we make our way back to the bar.
“You’re a pussy,” he repeats after he’s entered it into his calendar.
He might as well have punched me with his fists.
I could have punched back.
Maybe I am a pussy. I wasn’t always like that. I fought for Skye. God did I fight to have her. And to keep her. She was my flesh and blood. It was instinct.
But I never fought for a woman.
I didn’t fight for Skye’s birth mother. The minute she turned her back on me, I was done.
Didn’t care.
Never missed her.
All I wanted was Skye, and I got her.
But now?
All I want is Alexandra, and I don’t know how to fight for her.
“Women want us to fight for them,” Justin says. The fucker reads my mind all the goddamn time. “Alex is no different. What’s the deal with her, anyway? Looks like she likes it here. Not like that snob,” he adds, referring to Skye’s mother. “I heard she was looking pretty hot for you the other night when you went all knight in shining armor at The Growler. You bang her after that?”
My jaw clenches and I scowl.
He chuckles. “D’you propose? Did she say no?”
I take my time slugging my beer.
“I don’t know, man,” he pushes. “Seems to me, you did the manly thing, saved her from the bad guy, got her home, nailed her. At that point she must have been putty in your hands. I’d thought I’d be seeing you two walk in here the next day holding hands and making out in a booth. So. What gives?”
I signal him for a refill on my beer, but instead, he pushes a tall glass of water in front of me. When I don’t say anything, he continues, “I heard the most stupid rumor. This one’s gonna make you laugh.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Supposedly, you were having dinner at Emma’s that night. Doing dishes together, necking in front of the fire with after-dinner drinks. Took her queen-size bed for a trial run. All while the girls were sound asleep upstairs.”
My blood boils. The problem with rumors, everyone knows it’s gossip. But the truth is, I wasn’t paying enough attention to what me having dinner at Emma’s would do to Alexandra. Barbara told me, yet I didn’t really understand how much Alexandra was closed off about expressing her feelings. Until I had her in my arms that night. Until I saw the devastation on her face, for that one little thing.
I know my apology could never be enough.
“Now were you at The Growler rescuing Alex or were you nailing Emma?” Justin continues, pushing.
“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss. Alexandra is so protective of her own self that I ended up hurting her.
He rounds the bar and sits on a stool next to me. “Look, man. I know what went down with Skye’s birth mother. I was there.”
I raise a hand. He doesn’t know the hurt. The humiliation. The loneliness. “Don’t.” Plus, her and Alexandra? Entirely different.
Different women.
Different stories.
Worlds apart.
No comparison.
He ignores me. “I don’t know what went on in your head, back then, and I wasn’t there to help you through the shit that went down with Skye.” He pauses and strokes his bicep. “But I saw you then. And I see you now. Totally different.”
Yup.
“She gets you. She’s there for you. She’s good for you.”
Fuck. Don’t you think I know that?
“Don’t let her go.”
I stare at him.
“You’re fucking scared, aren’t you?” he says.
Scared? “Of what?”
“Of putting yourself out there. Telling her that you need her. That you want her. It’s easier to just blame it on her and let her go.”
Easier than what? Than being alone, without her, for the rest of my life?
“Look who’s talking,” I say.
“I’m very happy being single, man. You, clearly, are not.”
forty-one
Alexandra
We turn the angle of May, and mud season turns into spring: colorful bulbs blooming everywhere, trees still bare, and enough of a chill to sometimes warrant a winter coat.
Spring in New York used to bring me happiness. Here, now, it signals the end of my stay here. Six weeks, give or take, and I’ll be gone.
I need my girlfriend from New York.
“Hey, girl, how’s it going?” Sarah asks, answering my call. “Are you outside? I hear wind.”
“I’m at the river.” I stretch my legs out in front of me. I’m plopped on a bench and let the spring sun warm my skin. Skye is riding her bicycle on a small trail up and down the hill, and she waves at me every time she goes up, her tongue sticking out to show me how much effort it is. We’re downhill from a white colonial house with broken black shutters. Daffodils spring haphazardly in front of a picket fence that is missing more than a few slats. On her way back up, Skye calls my name at the top of her lungs. I blow her a kiss.
“Are you babysitting?” Nothing escapes Sarah.
I cringe at what she’s going to say when I confess, “Just looking after Christopher’s daughter. Skye.”
“Oh, my. And where is the hot dad?”
I can picture her face, eyebrows lifted, waiting for more.
I hold a sigh. “Playing hockey.”
“Oh-kay?”
“What.”
“How come you’re stuck watching the kid while he’s doing one of the sexiest things I can think of without showing any skin?”
“Hockey is sexy?”
“Honey. Wake up. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen him play.”
Oh, I’ve been to a couple of games with the girls.
I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“For real, why are you looking after his kid when you could be looking at him?”
“She didn’t feel like going. It’s beautiful out, and she needed the fresh air.”
“Oh. Wow. You sound like a mom.”
“Oh please.” I do feel protective of Skye, though. When she huffed that she didn’t want to spend the afternoon inside the arena, I offered to take her bicycling instead. I didn’t think twice about it, and I know Christopher was thankful for it.
“Are you guys a real couple, now? I mean, it’s been, what, three months?”
Four. “No! Why?”
“’Cause that’s what couples do. Look after the kids. Do what’s right by them.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not. We’re just having fun.” That’s become my motto, and it’s getting old.
I’m stocking up on memories of sex against the wall of my bathroom, sex on my antique bed, and even sex on the prep tables in the lab.
Memories of his gentle words when we’re alone, his hands shaping my body, cupping my face, his lips worshiping mine.
I’m in his constant presence but still starved for him, and it makes our private moments all the more intense. He comes into my bedroom at night, once Skye is sound asleep. I’m often asleep too, but I half wake to his snuggling behind me, warming my back, pulling my waist against him, and before you know it, I’m having a toe-curling—but silent—orgasm, the kind I thought were the stuff girls just made up to brag about but that never really happened in real life.
Some nights, he takes the time to wake me up with a flutter of kisses down my neck and a gentle sucking of my nipples. Other times, he starts by going down on me and licks my folds to oblivion.
I prefer it when he just takes possession of me while I’m still asleep. I wake up to his cock filling me, his whispered curses, the antique headboard knocking against the wall with each of his thrusts. That is the hottest thing to me.
That he wants me that bad.
That he needs me.
“Shut up,” Sarah says, when I give her a watered-down but accurate recap of my nights. She’s still single, and she won’t let me forget that I agreed to give her some sort of sex life by proxy. “There’s no way you’re not waking up before he’s… inside you.”
“Try spending twelve hours on your feet, in the heat, six days a week. You’ll see.”
“How does he do it? He works more than you do.”
He’s a beast.
“When are you coming up?” I ask to change the subject. It was fun at first, telling Sarah most of what was going on, but as time progresses, I feel more and more protective of my relationship with Christopher.
Even if it’s not a relationship—relationship.
After what happened at The Growler, the girls were cool, and no gossip transpired—at least as far as we know. We’re back to keeping this secret. And I have to reason with myself to not feel a pinch of longing when we’re in public—for an arm draped around my shoulder, for a hand trailing down my back or cupping my waist. I miss that. I miss his touch. I miss him claiming me as his.
“Lexie. Are you going to be okay? You know… when you have to leave.”
My eyes sting. “Sure! Why wouldn’t I?”
She mumbles something that sounds like, “I don’t know,” and then goes silent.
“When are you coming?” I ask again.
“About that,” she says, her voice chirpier. “How about you and I spend a couple of days in Burlington together, before going to Emerald Creek? Would that work? I should get there a week or so before your exam. A girls’ getaway.”
“That’d be awesome!” Sarah always knows how to lift me up.
“And, after you’re done, I’ll be backpacking a bit. Care to join, or will you be too busy being important?”
My heart sinks. I already have a slew of emails from Red Barn’s lawyers I need to answer, meetings that are being planned by Barbara, situations to address. It’s like I can see the clouds gathering. “That’d be great,” I say, my voice faltering, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to.”
After we hang up, I wave to Skye that it’s time to go. While I wait for her, I snap a few photos of the house. It looks like it’s just sitting there, waiting to be discovered by the right family. I notice a For Sale sign and find my caption: Waiting for a #happyfamily.
I call Skye again. She’s due at Grace’s now for some quality time with her aunt, followed by a sleepover, so I offered to drive her. Christopher drove in a friend’s car, so I can just use his truck. And, while she’s at Grace’s tonight, Christopher is taking me out to dinner. I have butterflies in my stomach thinking about it—an actual date. As if I had an actual boyfriend.
Little things, right?
I notice some blue paint in Skye’s hair and on her fingers. “Where did you get that paint?” I ask. “At school?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes,” she says. “It’s for the Mother’s Day gift.” She makes as though it’s nothing, but my heart falls at the words.
“Oh.” I’m caught off guard. “That sucks. I remember those days.”
“It’s okay,” she shrugs.
And she does look okay. She seems unbelievably strong, but I know she must be hiding a lot under the surface.
“Christopher trusts you with his truck?” Grace smiles as she hugs me hello. “I thought he didn’t let anyone drive it.”
“He didn’t really have a choice,” I answer, plopping Skye’s bag at the bottom of the stairs. “Take your stuff upstairs, sweetie,” I tell her so she doesn’t start leaving a mess in Grace’s tidy house.
“I kinda like seeing my cousin having his decisions made for him,” she says, picking up her cat. “It’s about time.”
I have the feeling she’s not talking about the truck, so I swerve the conversation elsewhere. “What’s going on here?” I ask, pointing at the ingredients laid out on the kitchen counter.
She sets her cat down and washes her hands. “Skye and I are going to make Gram’s sandwich bread. Ready, sweetie?” Skye is already rolling her sleeves up.
I’m in awe of this family that can take three or four basic ingredients and make a variety of different foods, each one more delicious than the next. “Who’s Gram?” I ask, pulling my phone out to capture Skye’s concentrated look as she measures flour.
“Me and Chris’s grandmother,” Grace answers. “Our mothers’ momma. She’d always make that when we were kids. It was a summer staple.”
Skye nods. “Back in Maine.”
“My mom still makes it.” Grace doesn’t mention Chris’s mom, though.
Things start to fall together. I picture a grandmother lovingly making bread for her family and understand Christopher’s passion.
He mentioned a strained relationship with his mother, and I want to know more. For a long time, I nurtured this fantasy of what my life would have been if my mother hadn’t died when I was ten. It was always near impossible for me to understand my teenage friends’ epic fights with their mothers, and right now, I’m dying to know what an adult could possibly hold against theirs. But with Skye present, I don’t ask any questions. And I do realize that Rita was someone’s mother—my own mom’s mother—so I get that not all mothers are this idealized model I constructed for myself.
“It’s great you’re doing this,” I tell Grace, and I feel my eyes water. I grab my phone and snap more pictures of Grace and Skye baking together, as much to hide my emotion as to capture this beautiful moment.
My own grandmother admittedly built the largest baking empire in the United States, yet she never bothered to teach me anything herself. Here, traditions are passed along from generation to generation.
“Is that how Christopher learned to bake?” I finally ask.
Grace seems to hesitate. “I suppose it inspired him? Or not.”
I drop the topic, sensing some underlying family tension that is not my place to dig into.
When they’re done with the bread and Skye is in the living room coloring a mandala book, Grace asks, “Wine or tea?”
I hesitate.
“Wine it is.” She chuckles. “No need to be reasonable.”
“Just a drop, then,” I say. Then, lowering my voice, “We’re going out tonight.”
We clink glasses, and she says, “Look. I get that you guys want to keep it a secret. But I just wanted to say, thank you. Christopher has never been happier. It’s like his life took on another dimension, and it’s all because of you. He’s making plans. He’s not half as grumpy as he used to be. He’s running for New England’s Best Baker. He believes in himself, again. He believes in life, again.”
