“Dad?” I say, but he’s already hung up. Picking up the pace, I notice a lot of cars parked on the streets. The streets of Eden Valley are never full. Parking is not an issue here. Tonight is the exception. As soon as I walk into the town hall, I know why.
A sea of women fills the room.
Some are sitting, some are standing in the lobby, others are lining the walls. I wonder what the occupancy limit of this building is. We are probably breaking a dozen fire codes. A wave of whispers starts, and I realize I’m the reason why. The smiles, hair flips, and batting of eyelashes are all for my benefit—not to mention the cleavage, short skirts, and bare midriffs. It’s as though these women have entered a beauty pageant, and I’m the only judge. How did they even know I’d be here?
“Garrett?” I hear my name being called and see my dad waving at me. Great, Dad, create more of a scene.
Giving him a nod, I try to cut my way through the crowd. “Excuse me, excuse me.”
“Hi, I’m . . .”
Each woman I pass gives me her name. One kisses me on the cheek, and I swear at least three grabbed my ass. “Garrett Hollis!” A finger finds its way to my face. The very pointy finger of the principal’s wife. “This is all your fault,” she scolds me. “I can’t find a seat to save my life.”
“I’m sorry. You can have my seat,” I say, pointing to where my dad is saving my spot.
“No, no,” she says. “This is Mia’s big night. I’ll find a place.”
We shuffle past each other, and I continue my trek towards my seat, thankful when my ass lands in the chair and that it’s located safely between my dad and Mia’s best friend, Penny. I blow out a deep breath, and my dad lets out a hearty chuckle.
Looking down at the bouquet of flowers I bought for Mia, now crushed, I huff, “This is not funny.”
“Oh, it is,” he says, laughing even harder.
Scanning the room, a few women give me little waves. “How the hell am I going to get out of here later?”
“Don’t know,” my dad says. “But I’m going to stick around to watch.”
There’s not one part of me that’s enjoying this attention. Actually, I’m downright pissed off by it tonight. It’s making me crazy. It’s my daughter’s night. It’s not the night for this. I want to focus on her, but that’s damn hard with more tits in the room than tutus.
That reminds me. I pull out my phone to send Devlyn a text. Fathers aren’t allowed in the dressing rooms, and Mia needed help with her hair, so Devlyn volunteered.
How’s my girl doing? Is she nervous?
I should’ve expected Devlyn’s sassy response.
Thanks for asking. I’m not nervous at all. I’ve done a bun a thousand times.
A couple seconds later, Devlyn’s next text arrives.
Don’t be nervous, Garrett. Mia is ready. We are having fun. She looks beautiful.
I write a quick thanks in reply, put my phone away, then sit facing straight ahead, my eyes focused on the stage. There’s nothing happening. There’s nothing to look at. Nothing to do but sit here and ruminate over my predicament. How the hell did I get here? I had a nice little life in a small town with my daughter, and suddenly I’m the center of attention. That hasn’t happened since news of Sheena’s pregnancy hit town. I didn’t want the attention then any more than I want it now.
“Mr. Hollis,” Penny says from beside me. “Um . . . You remember my aunt, right? You went to high school together.”
“Of course,” I say, having some vague memory of her. “She got married and moved to . . .”
“She’s divorced now,” Penny says, flashing me a smile. “She saw the video and wanted me to . . .”
“Not you, too, Penny!” I laugh. “Not you, too.”
“Sorry, Mr. Hollis,” she says. “I told her I’d try.”
Shaking my head, the lights flicker on and off, the sign that it’s almost time to start. With each passing year, Mia’s in more and more numbers. I think she’s up to about eight now, not counting her solo.
Every year, there’s one little girl who cries through every routine of her first recital. Fifteen years ago, it was my daughter on the stage bawling. Fifteen years ago, it was me who rushed the stage to rescue her. Tonight, I’ll keep my seat, no matter the chaos surrounding us. The spotlight is all hers.
I hear a lot of dads and grandpas complaining about recital night. That it’s boring. That it’s too long. I’m not one of those dads. Maybe because I never had a son. I never had the excitement of a home run or a touchdown to compare this to. Instead, I hold my breath when Mia does a spin or leap in the air, hoping she lands just right. I can’t scream out loud, I can’t wear crazy face paint or make a sign to hold up. Instead, I hold those precious seconds in my heart.
She is my whole life. Most parents face their kids going off to school together. Most parents probably look forward to the day that their life becomes their own again. As the spotlight finds Mia on the stage, I glance around the room. There is no doubt that my life is about to change.
The reason for the past eighteen years of my life is about to be gone.
As usual, Mia is smarter than me and figured that out before I did. The music starts, and some boy in the crowd yells out my daughter’s name. I see her smile, just slightly. A subtle reminder that I’m not her whole world anymore, either.
She’s refused to show me the whole routine. All I know is that it’s choreographed to some rap crap that her and her friends all seem to love. That hardly seems appropriate for a ballet routine, but Mia insisted it would be “epic.”
The music seems to be taking forever to start. I know my daughter. She’s freaking out on the inside. I see her fingers tap the side of her thigh. Just like that, Sheena pops into my mind.
The beat of her fingers tapping the side of the bed like a metronome when she was in labor with Mia. I watched those fingers land—one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four—over and over again. She refused an epidural, even though I begged her to get one. Sheena was petite and still a teenager when she had Mia. The doctor had expressed concern about Sheena being able to deliver Mia naturally, but Sheena did what she wanted—like always. Twenty-two hours of labor, two hours of pushing and a constant drumbeat of her fingers.
I’d read all the books, so I was expecting Sheena would want to walk, move around, soak in a tub. That’s what all the natural birthing books said. Hell, I was even prepared to dance with her. More than one book suggested that.
That twenty-four hours was the scariest of my life. The mother of my child was in pain, and I was helpless. Helplessness is the worst fucking emotion. Watching someone you love hurting, and being unable to do something, is there anything worse?
I look up at Mia on stage, knowing she’s scared, standing there still except for the tapping of her fingers, just like her mother. I couldn’t do anything for Sheena and I can’t do anything for Mia. Wish I could fire the audio guy right now.
The music starts, but in my head I hear the sound of my daughter’s first cry. I was a dad. Her dad.
From screaming infant to rap crap ballerina, that’s my girl.
CHAPTER SIX
GARRETT
Date two, take two.
At least I made it to the restaurant with this one, which is a miracle considering this woman stopped and took selfies every ten steps or so. The ride over to the restaurant wasn’t terrible, if you don’t consider small talk torture.
Walking into the restaurant, I didn’t hold her hand or place mine at the small of her back. Instead, she walked one step in front of me. She’s a pretty woman—tall, slender, dark hair and eyes, but she’s trying way too hard—too much makeup, too much hairspray, her dress giving everything away. I prefer a more homegrown girl—someone comfortable in her skin, whose eyelashes aren’t going to fall off or whose hair I can actually run my fingers through.
The restaurant sits on the edge of a lake, and we got a table by the window. It should be a great spot to watch the sunset. My d
ate didn’t even sit down before heading to the ladies’ room. I really hope she’s not applying more makeup. She already added lipstick twice in the car, every fifth selfie or so.
Quickly, I check my phone before putting it away for the night. I don’t plan on taking any pictures and even though I’m not a big dater, I know it’s rude to be on your phone. Flipping open the menu, I glance at the options. I’m not at all nervous, which I figure is a bad sign. Shouldn’t I have those little butterflies everyone talks about in movies all the time? There’s nothing going on in my stomach besides being hungry as hell.
“I’m back.” I hear my date’s voice.
I look up, finding her standing by the table, on my side. Before I know it, she’s taken the seat beside me. Dear God, she’s turned me into one of those couples that sits beside each other instead of across from each other. This seating arrangement makes perfect sense if you are out with another couple, or have kids with you, but for two grown ass people on a date to sit beside each other with no one across from them . . . well, it’s just fucking weird.
She holds her phone up. “This way we can take some pictures together,” she says. “With the pretty view behind us.”
This just went from bad to worse—threat level red. She wants me to take selfies with her. Okay, so I admit that Mia has roped me into doing this a time or two, but she’s a teenager and my kid. Before I can object, she’s holding the phone out and snapping a picture.
“Oh, that one’s not good,” she says, deleting it. “You had this weird look on your face.”
Yeah, like I want to get the hell out of here. She holds the phone out again and snaps another. She gets the most disappointed look on her face and suddenly, I feel like I’m being judged on my ability to take a good selfie—like her perfect partner should be able to snap a perfect pic and if I can’t then I’m out. Honestly, that’s fine with me.
She reaches over, playing with my hair a little, and not in a sexy, flirty way. She’s literally positioning the strands of my hair in a perfect selfie pose. “The natural light from the window makes for a good picture,” she says, holding up the camera again. “Watch me.”
Am I getting a selfie lesson?
“It’s best to hold the camera up and to the side a little, but not too far out. That way you can look up towards the camera.”
Yep, that’s what she’s doing, and she seems totally serious about it.
I don’t think most guys have a checklist on what we want in a woman. We know it when we see it. Trust me, this isn’t it.
She pinches my cheeks and says, “A little pout is always cute.”
“I think that only works for women,” I say, inching away.
She giggles then scoots closer, pressing her cheek to mine with the camera ready again. “Try smiling,” she says. “Like you’ve got a naughty little secret.”
I’d like to toss your phone in the damn lake. Click, the flash goes off. She pulls up the picture, squealing a little bit.
“See, it’s perfect,” she says. “We look perfect together.”
Perfectly insane! The waitress comes over to take our orders, and this time it’s not Devlyn here to rescue me. I’m trapped. When the shrimp from my appetizer becomes her next selfie partner, I draw the line and mentally check out.
*
Barely nine o’clock at night, and I’m driving back home. Eden Valley is dead at night. There’s no real nightlife, unless you count old movie nights in the town square or school functions, like the annual spring play and sporting events. So I’m surprised when I see Biscuit Girl’s lights are still on. Devlyn usually closes by seven.
I pull into a parking spot right out front and hop out of my truck. Suddenly, I see the front door of the diner open. Devlyn comes rushing out, a string of cuss words following her as she pulls a trash can behind her. She’s not dressed in her tutu, just torn jeans and her usual t-shirt. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she says, her voice strained from pulling the garbage.
I take over for her, pulling it to the curb, then look over at her, her eyes wet with tears. I take a step towards her, but she holds up her hands. “Shit day.”
“You okay?” I ask.
“The dang freezer decided to go out, and everything is melting, and the repair guy said he can’t get here until tomorrow. I’m going to have to throw everything out and . . .”
She stops and takes a deep breath. This isn’t like Devlyn. She doesn’t stress about small stuff or get worked up like this. “Let me take a look.”
“What do you know about freezers?” she asks.
“Not much,” I say. “But I know a lot about Devlyn Drake, and she’s upset about something more than an appliance.”
She gives me the best smile. The smile that comes through tears. I open the door for her and head towards the back of the diner, through a swinging door. I’ve been here enough times to know my way around the place. Devlyn doesn’t follow me.
The damn freezer is massive. I say a little prayer to the appliance gods that I can help her out. I know I’m going to have to pull this sucker out from the wall to get a look at the condenser in the back. I open the door to try to get a good grip when I notice something. She’s going to be so pissed.
I stick my head back through the door, seeing her sitting on a stool at the counter, a far-off look on her face. “Fixed.”
“What?” she cries, leaping off the stool towards me. I hold open the door for her then open the freezer door, pointing to the culprit.
“Your thermostat was way up. Someone must have bumped it accidentally.”
Her lips land on my cheek. “I’m so stupid.”
Has she ever done that before? I can’t remember. I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it. We’re friends. My eyes catch hers as she pulls away. “Could happen to anyone.”
“It’s just been one of those days,” she says.
“Me, too.”
“Date two was that good?”
I just huff. That’s the best I can do.
She bends down and reaches into a cabinet, pulling out some whiskey. “How about a drink?”
“You’ve been holding out on me!” I say, snatching the bottle from her.
Smiling, she grabs two glasses. A couple drinks in, and she knows all about the selfie queen. Drinking with Devlyn in her diner is a lot more fun than either of the dates I’ve been on. Devlyn and I already know each other, there’s no awkwardness, no having to make a good impression. I’ve seen her crying, she’s seen me covered in baby puke. We can just be us.
Her finger slowly traces the rim of her glass, the alcohol becoming a truth serum. “This isn’t how I thought my life was going to go,” she whispers.
I know what she means. When you’re a kid and you envision your life, you don’t envision being a single, teenage father.
“How’d you want it to go?” I ask.
She shrugs, giving me a little smile, the kind that’s polite and full of complete shit. The kind that are for other people’s benefit, to make them feel better. “When’s the next date?” she asks.
“Few days. Devlyn, what’s wrong?” I ask, placing my hand on top of hers.
She lowers her head to my hand. “Did you know the boy I dated my senior year of high school turned out to be gay?”
I’m doing my best not to laugh at her, but she’s an adorable drunk. “Everyone in school knew he was gay.”
She rolls her eyes. “And the guy I dated after him broke up with me on my birthday.”
“Didn’t know about that,” I say.
“Oh, and there was the guy who I met on vacation who stole my wallet. He was a real gem.”
“You don’t have to tell me how shitty dating is.”
“Or how about the one who broke up with me because he said he liked women who were thinner,” she says.
“What fucker said that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “You know, every single one of those guys is married now. Even the gay one.”<
br />
“Is this about Scott?” I ask. They have a long-distance relationship. They met when he came into town for a wedding almost two years ago. Ever since, they’ve had a long-distance thing.
“He talked about me permanently moving to Florida to be with him.”
All the hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. “What?” Her forehead wrinkles up. I’m a selfish bastard. She’s moving? She can’t move. Who will I . . . Where will I get my coffee? No one makes coffee like Devlyn. Yeah, that’s the reason I want to slam my fist through the wall. “Mia would miss you so much.”
She rests her head on my shoulder. “He video-chatted me today. He was in Harry Winston, the jewelry store.” She breaks down in tears. “He was down on one knee. He had all these rings. He wanted me to pick.”
She buries her head in my neck. Tightly, I wrap my arms around her. My heart is thundering in my chest. What the hell? Devlyn’s my friend, I should be happy, but happiness is not the cause of the twisting in my gut. Gently, I lift her chin with my fingers, but she doesn’t look me in the eye. “Devlyn,” I say, unable to think of anything else.
“I said no,” she whispers.
Thank God! Fuck, I shouldn’t be thinking that. I’m a terrible friend. She’s hurting. It’s selfish, but I don’t want her to leave. “Why?”
Her mouth opens, she shakes her head, like she’s searching for the answer. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she doesn’t want to tell me.
“We were just so . . . Business, you know? I think we only worked because we didn’t see each other much. I think I probably always knew that. I mean, if I really loved him, I would’ve moved. I would’ve just wanted to be with him. That’s the way it should be. But now, I’ve really hurt him.”
I get the feeling there’s more to it, but don’t want to pry when she’s so upset. I want to think of something to say, something to help her, make her feel better, but I’m drawing a blank. I get up from my stool, so I can better pull her into my arms. It’s the only thing I know to do, and something about holding her close feels so natural, so right.
She’s just tall enough that my head rests on top of hers. My arms coil perfectly around her waist, and her head lays right over my heart. Something stirs in me. It’s like waking up after a long sleep—a little confusing. Where am I? How long have I been out?
All My Life Page 5