Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  “Most of the families I visit can’t exactly afford a Victorian in Cambridge.”

  “No, but it’s not that far from Chelsea and Somerville. You have lots of visits in places like that.”

  I narrow my eyes on him. “In case you forgot, I grew up in Somerville. My dad still lives there.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just stating a fact.”

  He adjusts his tie, ignoring the heated glare coming off me. “Tell them to put a rush on it. It’s my lucky suit and I want to wear it to meet a new client this Friday. See ya, babe.”

  Without a thank you or any other sign of gratitude, he disappears out the door, leaving me to stew alone. This kind of thing never pissed me off before. Then again, he’s never asked me to do such menial tasks as dropping off his dry-cleaning. Does he assume I’ll do these things just because we’re engaged? Does he think my role as his wife is to support him, not vice versa? Does he expect me to put my plans on hold so I can stay at home, run his errands, and raise children I’m not even sure I want with him?

  I have half a mind to ask the girl at the cleaners to add too much starch or do something else to ruin his precious suit. In the end, I don’t, dropping it off like he requested, going out of my way from my townhouse in Medford. Because of this added errand, my typical fifteen-minute commute takes forty-five, putting me behind all day.

  Just as I gather my files for the home visits and assessments I have scheduled, having no time to review my notes, there’s a knock on my office door. I glance up to see Michelle, one of the social workers, bursting through, carrying a huge bouquet of roses.

  “These came for you,” she sings, placing the large vase on the little free space on my desk.

  “From who?”

  “I’m assuming Wes.”

  Spying a card with my name scrawled on it, I reach for it, sliding it out of the small envelope. A part of me hopes they’re from Drew. I haven’t heard from him since Sunday night. It’s not unusual for us to go this long without speaking to one another, but considering the way I left things, this silence is eating away at me.

  My dearest Brooklyn,

  A thousand apologies for my behavior this morning. I must have sounded like an inconsiderate jerk. That’s not the way I want to start our engagement. I’ll make it up to you. Dinner. Friday night. Anywhere you want to go.

  Yours,

  Weston

  “Engagement?” Michelle asks. I shoot my eyes to her, seeing her staring over my shoulder. “When did you get engaged?”

  “Last Friday,” I say nonchalantly. I return the card to the envelope, stashing it away in my desk, as if it’s a piece of incriminating evidence.

  Her eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. “Last Friday? It’s Wednesday! Did you not think to share this little piece of information with me?”

  “I know,” I say with a sigh, eyeing the time. I reorganize all the files spread over my desk, making some sort of order out of them before placing them into my bag. “I haven’t told many people yet, other than Molly, Drew, and Aunt Gigi. I haven’t even told my father.”

  “Why not?” She tilts her head to the side, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

  “He’s been working all weekend. I’m sure he already knows, but this isn’t the kind of thing I should tell him over the phone.”

  She stares at me, remaining silent as she seems to assess this news. No congratulations. No shrieks of excitement. No demands as to where the ring is. She behaves like everyone else I’ve told.

  “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

  “What? No!” she answers quickly. “I mean, I don’t know him that well. I’ve only met him once. It does seem a little sudden, but I guess when you know, you know, right?”

  I stop organizing my files, leaning back in my chair. “How long did you date Jonathan before he proposed?”

  She rolls her eyes, tossing her dark locks over her shoulder. “Too long. I pretty much had to tell him to put a ring on it or I was leaving.”

  I laugh, standing, thankful for the brief moment of levity.

  “What did he do this morning that required him to send you flowers? No offense, but I don’t even think he sent you flowers on Valentine’s Day. That would have put Jonathan in the doghouse for at least a month.”

  “Why? It’s only a stupid holiday made up by greeting card companies to pad their pockets after Christmas.”

  “So? I still deserve flowers. I gave birth to his three kids, one of them without an epidural because it was too late. The least he can do is go to the store and buy me flowers. And, if he wants to get lucky, some ice cream, too.”

  Smiling, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to have conversations like this about my own marriage. Michelle can act annoyed all she wants, but I know the truth. I’ve spent time with her and her husband. Every woman deserves to have a man look at her the way Jonathan does Michelle.

  “So…,” she prods.

  I focus my eyes on hers. “Wes stayed at my place last night. Before heading out this morning, he asked me to drop off his dry-cleaning. In Cambridge.”

  Michelle pinches her lips together, the look of annoyance on her face mirroring my own earlier. “You didn’t do it, did you?”

  “Yeah. I stopped on my way in.”

  “So you drove from Medford to Cambridge before driving back out here? That had to add on… What? Thirty minutes?”

  I nod.

  “Oh boy.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “That is not the way to start an engagement. That man has a lot to learn. If Jonathan ever tried to have me run his errands for him because he’s the main breadwinner in the family, his balls would be shoved so far up his ass, he’d have a permanent falsetto.”

  “This is new territory for both of us,” I explain, not wanting Michelle to think the entire situation has me second-guessing myself even more than I already have been. “But the important thing is he realized it was a mistake without me saying a word. That’s got to count for something, right?”

  “Of course.” She places her hands on my arms, trying to reassure me, but it doesn’t. I hate feeling this way. Are these just pre-wedding jitters? Or is it something else?

  God, I hope it’s not something else.

  Chapter Thirteen

  BROOKLYN

  Perspective is a funny thing. It often finds me when I need it most, when I’ve lost sight of what’s important. My job gives me that perspective on a daily basis. When I find myself complaining that my cable bill went up or the battery on my iPhone drained faster than usual, I reflect on some of the kids I see during the day.

  Yes, some of my cases are routine visits to conduct a home study in advance of an adoption. But there are many others where the children suffered various levels of physical or emotional abuse, necessitating the state taking them from their biological parents. It’s when I see these kids I’m reminded that my own troubles pale in comparison. They wish their biggest problem could be whether the man they agreed to marry is a good fit for them. They’d gladly drop off someone’s dry-cleaning every morning if it means not cowering in fear whenever they hear footsteps outside their door.

  The end of the day brings me by Massachusetts General Hospital, having to do an emergency intake of a six-year-old landed there by her mother’s boyfriend. By the time I finish and the foster parents she’s being placed with arrive, it’s almost eight o’clock. All I want is to go home, order sushi, and relax on the couch. But the fire station where my father’s currently working a twenty-four-hour shift is only a few blocks away. So instead of making my way back to my house, I pay him a visit.

  The instant I walk into the truck bay, I’m surrounded by a familiar smell. Rubber. Fuel. And something else I can’t quite explain. It reminds me of home, of family, of happiness. Of the days I’d come visit my dad and marvel as he slid down the pole. Of the days he propped me behind the wheel of the ladder truck and placed a helmet on my head. Of the days he’d have me help him wrap the hoses, although I k
new he and his crew would have to redo it once I left.

  “Brooklyn!”

  I lift my head to the wide window peering into the bay to see a familiar face pestering whoever’s manning the dispatch office tonight.

  With a smile, I head toward the office and am met in the hallway, vibrant green eyes waiting for me. “Hey, Mike.”

  “Good to see ya, sweetheart,” he says in that Boston accent most find annoying, but I love. His arms envelope me in a short hug before he releases his hold. Mike’s one of the newer guys in the department, about the same age as me. He did the college thing, but decided he no longer wanted to work a nine-to-five job. He enrolled in the fire academy and is now happier than he ever was working in investments. “Come to see your pops?”

  “Is he around?” I don’t know why I bother to ask. I just walked past the ladder truck he’s the lieutenant on. If the truck’s here, he has no choice but to be here, too.

  “Sure thing.” He turns from me and heads into the dispatch office. I smile at the man sitting behind the desk that contains various radios and other communication equipment. Mike leans over him and presses a button. His voice booms throughout the entire station. “Lieutenant Tanner to the front, please. You have a package.”

  I lift a brow. “A package?”

  Mike shrugs, walking toward me and leaning against the doorjamb of the office. “I could have said a singing telegram.”

  “Is that even still a thing?”

  He scrunches his nose. “I have no idea.” Folding his arms in front of his chest, he eyes me up and down. “Still dating that guy?”

  I tug on the hem of my jacket, a hint of nerves settling in my stomach from the reminder of why I’m here, what I need to tell my father. “I am.”

  “Damn. Too bad. I was going to ask if you wanted to get a few beers with me this weekend.” He winks, always the flirt.

  “Even if I weren’t still dating him, you know it would never work between us.” I smile, my tone light. “If you thought my father gave you hell for being the rookie, imagine if you were to date his only daughter. The apple of his eye. His pride and joy.”

  He seems to consider my response for a minute. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  “No,” a thunderous voice interrupts. “She’s definitely right.”

  In an instant, the tension in my shoulders melts away. On a slow exhale, I spin around to see my father descending the staircase, wearing the typical navy blue shirt and pants I’ve seen him wear to work my entire life, Lt. Tanner printed on the left side of his chest.

  “Dad.” I wrap my arms around him when he reaches the bottom, squeezing him tightly.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he responds, resting his hand on the middle of my back, returning my hug. His touch makes my entire body relax. It’s different from how I feel when anyone else hugs me, even Wes or Drew. It’s a feeling of completeness only possible when enveloped in a father’s love. I hold on for a little longer than normal, breathing in the man who will always be my first love.

  When I don’t let go, Dad pulls back, his brows narrowing in concern. “Is everything okay, sweetie?”

  “Of course,” I assure him, my eyes prickling with tears. “I miss you, that’s all.”

  A smile lights up his handsome face, the wrinkles around his eyes becoming more pronounced. He doesn’t look like a man in his sixties. While the years have turned his hair gray, he still has a healthy amount of it. Thanks to his disciplined workout regimen, he’s in great shape. He’s even trained for and run a few marathons. While most guys in the department seem to put in their twenty years and retire, my dad can’t remember a time in his life when he didn’t want to be a firefighter. As long as he’s still physically able to do the job, that’s what he’ll do, even though he’s been up for retirement for nearly fifteen years now.

  “I miss you, too. What brings you here after eight on a Wednesday night?”

  “I got called in to do an assessment at MGH.”

  My father’s face momentarily falls. As a first responder, he knows what that means. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s the job.” I hesitate, sensing Mike hovering off to the side. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  He squints, scanning my face, then gestures toward the truck bay. “Sure. Come on.”

  I wave to Mike as we head away from the dispatch office. When he winks at me, I stifle a laugh, inwardly rolling my eyes. Most women may find his flirtatious ways annoying, but they suit him. It’s all harmless fun. I’ve seen him in action. Mike talks a big game, but inside, he’s a complete softy.

  We continue past the engine truck, heading toward the ladder truck. Several pairs of boots sit by the passenger compartment, their bunker pants arranged over them so they can suit up in a flash. My dad likes to brag that his crew can be geared up and out of the bay faster than every other crew in the city. After witnessing them jump into action when a call comes in, I believe it.

  I follow my dad to the back of the truck and he sits on the ledge, patting beside him for me to do the same. It seems like it was just yesterday that I’d visit him as a little girl and sit on the back of this same truck, my feet unable to reach the ground. I’d marvel at all the buttons and nozzles, asking what each one did. I’m not sure whether he made stuff up, but I loved listening to him tell me about all the tools and gadgets I thought were magical.

  Not much around here has changed since those early days. A few more helmets hang on the wall in memorial to their fallen brothers. I’ve grown up around this life, so it never dawned on me that my father had a dangerous job until a classmate asked how I handled saying goodbye to him before he left for work, not knowing whether he’d come home. It’s a part of my life. I don’t know any other way. Either does my dad.

  “What’s going on, Brook?” he asks, cutting through the silence. I cast my eyes toward his. He’s never been one to beat around the bush. With him, there’s not much idle talk, no assessing the situation to determine how best to approach it. He confronts everything head-on. Sometimes I wish I could be more like that. Instead, I tend to weigh how everyone else will respond before I choose a course of action. I’m always more concerned with other people than my own needs.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I run my hands down the legs of my dress pants. “I’m sure you already know, considering Wes must have spoken to you, but I said yes.”

  His brows furrow as he frowns. “What are you talking about?”

  “Wes.” I swallow hard, my palms becoming clammy. “He asked me to marry him.”

  My father’s expression becomes even more confused. “He did?”

  “He didn’t talk to you first?” I chew on my bottom lip.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Oh.” I turn away, my voice laden with unmistakable disappointment. Granted, the idea of asking permission to marry one’s daughter is outdated, but there’s something about it I like. It’s a sign of respect. I’m not sure how to process the knowledge that Wes didn’t think it important to ask my father. Hell, when Noah planned to propose to Molly, he came to all of us—me, Drew, Aunt Gigi, Uncle Leo—and asked for our blessing, since her father had already passed away.

  “So, you’re getting married?”

  I sheepishly glance back at him. “I am.”

  He stares ahead, absorbing this news. I’m waiting for him to tell me it’s a bad idea, that we’re rushing things. When he finally speaks again, all he says is, “Okay.”

  “Okay?” My voice rises slightly in pitch. I cock my head to the side, my gaze unfocused as I stare at the calmness in his features. “That’s all?”

  “You’re an adult now, Brook. I trust your judgment. You must have strong feelings for him if you agreed to marry him.”

  I open my mouth, unsure what to say. After learning Wes hadn’t asked for his blessing, I thought he’d try to talk me out of marrying him, like everyone else has. If anyone should question this, it’s my father, the man who just so happened to have a display of gun e
nthusiast magazines on the coffee table when Spencer picked me up for my first date my junior year of high school. The man who repeatedly warned me about the disastrous consequences of teenage pregnancy. The man who never allowed me to leave the house with a skirt that was too short or a top that was cut too low.

  “You don’t think it’s too soon? That we’re moving too fast?”

  He chuckles, shaking his head as he looks at his feet. “I’m the last person to give anyone a hard time about that.” When he returns his eyes to me, there’s a hint of nostalgia in them. “Your mother and I were married less than eight months from the day we met. There’s no hard and fast rule about how long you should date someone before you get married. When you know, you know.”

  I nod, absorbing his words. I almost don’t ask my next question, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “When did you know with Mama?”

  With a shallow sigh, he wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. This is what I need. To feel my father’s love and assurance that everything will be okay, that whatever I’m going through will work itself out.

  “The minute she opened her mouth and declined my invitation to take her out for ice cream.” There’s a lightness about him as he recalls the woman I can barely remember now that nearly thirty years have gone by since she died.

  “She turned you down?”

  “I like to think she was playing hard to get.”

  “Well, it must have worked.” I try to mask the longing in my words, but it’s impossible. My dad’s a damn good man and the best father a girl could ask for. But it doesn’t make up for the empty place setting at the dining room table. Life isn’t fair, but I’ve had a much better life than some people. Regardless, I still get angry that someone could be so inconsiderate as to get behind the wheel after drinking, and because of that carelessness, I never had an opportunity to know my mother.

  “It did.” My father’s tone matches the despondency I feel in my heart.

  We sit in silence for a while longer, the peacefulness intermingling with the crackling of the radio and a few cheers coming from the second floor where the guys are watching either hockey or basketball. Probably hockey. It makes me think of Drew, of the heat in his eyes the other night when he almost kissed me. Again. And how a part of me wishes he did. Again.