“Or,” he goes on, “that your mother was the last woman I ever dated, and I’ve been alone this entire time?” Without an answer, he shakes his head and sighs, something deep and shuddering.
“I know you want me to suffer. If I can’t undo what I did to you, and to her, then I should have to live through it myself. Right?” The glow of the fireplace reveals the film on his eyes when he looks at my mother again. “If I could take her place, if I could give her back to you...I would.”
He steps past me, brushing Mom’s hair back from her forehead to kiss it. “I spent years feeling guilty,” he says. “Then I realized, if I was ever going to face my demons, I’d have to let go of all the guilt and regret. There just wasn’t room for them in my life, if I was going to live it the right way.”
He looks back at me. “So I’m not doing this to get rid of my guilt. I already did that. And you can hate me for it, you can believe I should hold onto it forever and punish myself more than I already have...but I’m not going to.”
Hearing it phrased that way, my anger does seem unhealthy. Not because it isn’t justified—it is. And it always will be.
It’s because here I am, keeping the weight of this fury chained to my life, all because I want him to keep guilt chained to his. Punishing myself in the hopes he’ll suffer, when it can’t undo a damn thing.
“But then why do all this for her?” I ask, shaking my head, struggling to salvage that bedrock of scowls and distance I’ve known for years. “Why would you do any of it, if it wasn’t because of guilt, or to make it up to her?”
“Because I love her,” he says. Like it’s obvious. Like I should have known, all along, the king would return to save his queen.
“And,” he adds, “because I love you.”
I shake my head again. Strangely, it’s not that I don’t believe him. I do. He has no reason to lie, and no more barriers to keep him from loving us the way a father and husband—or ex-husband—should.
Except time. It’s the one thing in his way.
That’s what makes me shake my head. It’s what leads me through the house, a feather on a draft, gathering my purse and shrugging out of Danny’s hug in the entryway. I need more time.
“Let her go,” Dad tells him, which is the strangest part of all: the fact my father, in this moment, knows what I need better than anyone else.
30
I call her twice. Straight to voicemail.
The Outpost is packed. It’s just after five, the workday over and everyone ready to relax. A pack of men in suits parts for me as I shuffle through to the bar. No sign of her.
“Penelope!” I grab her arm as she passes, minding the full tray of beers in her hand. “Sorry, I know you’re busy—I was just wondering if Mara was here.”
“Missed her by about...” She tilts her head to see my watch, when I run my hands through my hair and sigh. “...whoa, an hour. This place has been slammed ever since she left. Just our luck.”
“Do you know where she went?”
While she doles out the beers to a table of people on their phones who don’t even thank her, she glances at me. “Kind of on a need-to-know basis. At least, I assume—she looked embarrassed or something. And she didn’t technically tell me. I just overheard.” She tucks the tray under her arm when she turns back. “Is it an emergency?”
I start to answer yes. What I’ll say when I see her is a mystery to me; what reaction I expect when I give her the chimes, I can’t even guess. All I know is that I have to find her.
“Kind of,” I shrug, and Penelope draws in a long, slow breath, debating.
“Okay,” she says, waving me to the corner. “Her dad was in here. He invited her to his house after her shift ended.”
“Her dad?”
Penelope nods. “I got the feeling they aren’t exactly close?” When I hesitate, she waves her hand. “Never mind, it’s none of my business. Anyway, that’s all I know—he didn’t mention the address, so can’t help you there.”
“That’s okay, you’ve helped a lot. At least I know where she is.”
“You just don’t know where ‘where’ is.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “Exactly.”
A table flags Penelope down, so I say goodbye and shoulder my way back through the crowd. Compared to the claustrophobic heat of the bar, the street feels downright cold; I pull my jacket shut and rush to the truck.
My phone sounds. I fumble it out of my pocket and answer without even looking. “Hello?”
“Thank God! Is this Fairfield Party Suppliers?”
I reel in my seat. It’s been months since I’ve gotten after-hours calls on my cell. “Uh...yes,” I say quickly, clearing my throat into my business-ready voice. My hand goes to straighten my tie, automatic, gripping nothing but my T-shirt collar. “How can I help you?”
“I’m having a huge work event,” the woman says, “and one of our vendors just cancelled. Do you run photo booths? We need one with a gold backdrop, or black, for about three hours, and...some kind of runner, if you have it? Uplights, punchbowls, champagne flutes, a few extra tables…oh, God, and chalkboards. I keep forgetting about the stupid chalkboards.”
“We have everything you need,” I assure her, chuckling as I pull a notepad from the glove box, fish a pen from the console, and scribble down the list. “When do you need it all by?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?” My hand freezes mid-word, bleeding ink deep into the page.
“I know it’s short notice,” she says slowly, “but I’m willing to pay you a thousand extra than what we booked River Events for.”
Thank God she can’t see my poker face completely shatter. River Events is—or was—one of my biggest competitors. They price themselves higher than almost any supplier in town, so an extra thousand on their rates is almost double what I’d normally charge for an event like this. And I haven’t had an event like this in months.
“Wow,” I cough, when she asks if I’m still there. “That’s, uh...that’s very generous.”
I’m about to give the most ardent “yes” I’ve ever uttered in my life. It’ll be a challenge, if not downright impossible, to load up the van at the warehouse myself, unload it at the venue, and operate the photo booth alone, but Andres and Cohen are both busy tonight. Family events.
But, before I can agree and take the best job I’ve gotten in ages, two things happen.
First, I realize a few grand would save my warehouse, office, house, and the vans...but only for another month. Sure, it’s better than nothing—but there’s something deeply depressing about busting your ass for things you don’t need anymore. Things you aren’t even sure you want.
Second: I see Mara.
She’s at the corner, eyes trained on the sidewalk as her boots stride from section to section. Her breath clouds the air in front of her, gone as quickly as it forms.
Even from here, I can tell she’s been crying.
I look at the box on the passenger seat, then back to her as I tell the woman, “I’m...I’m really sorry, but I just can’t take something that close.” I don’t take my eyes off Mara once. My free hands scrambles for the seatbelt to free myself. She’s only a few cars’ lengths away now.
“...suppose I understand,” the woman is saying, but I’m already poised to drop my phone in my cupholder the second she hangs up. Of course she keeps babbling.
“...and if you know anyone else that might be available....”
I shut my eyes and wince as I tell her, “Night To Remember Events is really good. They do a lot of rush jobs, too. Good luck.” She thanks me and, finally, hangs up. I nearly retch at having to give another competitor’s name, especially since the guy who owns Night to Remember is a huge jerk. But: desperate times.
“Mara!” I shout, tripping my way from the truck cab. Wisely, I left the wind chimes on the seat for now.
I call her name twice more before she stops, looks up, and sees me.
“Levi.” She wipes her eyes when
I run closer. “What are you doing down here? And what are you wearing?”
I wave the second question away. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Yeah?” She sniffs into her sleeve and tries to tame the crying. “Why?”
This is the very same question I’ve been trying to answer since I left my house. In business, you’re supposed to play it cool at all times: if something breaks, you fix it or replace it before anyone knows. If you forget equipment, you either haul ass to the warehouse or the nearest store and tell no one. You never admit there’s a problem, at least not one you can’t handle. Even if you’re panicking inside, you keep that poker face.
It’s the way I used to live twenty-four seven. Face of steel, heart of stone, eyes trained ahead at all times. And in business, that’s what got me everything I wanted.
In the rest of my life, it’s what cost me everything I actually needed.
Dropping the calm and collected demeanor Uncle Tim coached into me all these years is like peeling off my skin. But the weird thing is, it isn’t painful. It’s a relief.
“I just...I had to see you. To tell you something.”
My smile makes her step back, at first. Then the confusion softens and she drifts back, waiting.
“You were wrong,” I tell her.
She gives a raspy laugh. “Wow. You’re one hell of a flip-flopper, you know that?”
“No, just came to my senses.” I nod to my truck. “You want to warm up?”
“Um....” She stares at it, still blinking the water from her eyes. “That’s...that’s okay. I should get home.”
“Oh.” I jam my fists into my pockets. “Where is that, these days?” These days. Like she’s been gone weeks or months.
Mara shrugs and pulls her hair around to the side of her face. “Does it matter?”
Her feet shuffle on the sidewalk, boots scuffing someone’s faded chalk arrows leading to a coffee shop.
“It does to me.”
“Won’t for long.” The cigarette she puts between her lips bobs while she speaks. “I’m moving.”
“Moving? Why?”
“Once again,” she says, grumbling when her lighter won’t catch in the wind, “does it matter?”
I step closer, foreheads practically touching, and shield her until she can light it. She gives me another confused look before thanking me.
“Anything to do with your dad being in town?” When she doesn’t answer, I nod and sigh as I look up and down the street, like I’ll find the solution strolling past. “Do you want my advice?”
“No.”
“Running yourself out of town because of one person isn’t going to fix anything. You should stay. This is your home.”
“It’s not my home,” she snorts, but her amusement melts straight into anger. “I don’t have a home anymore, remember?”
I’m tempted to ask if she’s thinking of the fire in her loft...or the night she left my house. But I’m too afraid of what the answer could be.
“And besides,” she goes on, gliding around me, “it’s not just my dad.” She glances behind us when I follow and fall into step beside her. “It’s a whole damn family reunion.”
“What’s that mean?” I’m not letting her do this, slipping back into the games and hiding behind the wit. She can keep the rest of the world at as great a distance as she wants. But not me. Not anymore.
“Levi.” She exhales my name in a cloud of smoke, aimed right for the sky. “Go. I want to be alone right now.”
“You always want to be alone.” I grab her elbow when she tries to speed past me at a crosswalk. As I turn her to face me, she stiffens, fuming and ready to fight. “But the problem with making sure you’re always alone?” I loosen my grip but don’t let go, as I make myself look her in the eye, no matter how hard it is. “You’ve got no one around when you get lonely.”
One cell at a time, I feel her relax. Not completely, but enough so I know she’ll stay when I let go.
“Who says I’m lonely?” she whispers.
“I am.” I shrug, the confession rolling through the air like the trail from her cigarette. “And if I am, even with all the people I’ve got in my life—I know you are.”
“I’m not you.”
“I know. That’s what I love most about you.”
This time, her step back is sharper, cut short by the crosswalk pole behind her.
“I didn’t....” I start to backtrack, to erase that word I shouldn’t have used. With Mara, “love” might as well be a tornado siren. I’m surprised she doesn’t take off at a full sprint down the street.
Then I remember what I’m supposed to be doing, here. Drop the business act. Stop pretending everything is fine.
It isn’t. It hasn’t been for a long time, even before we met. The difference is that, once I met her, I saw how wrong everything really was.
“I love how you just do...basically whatever you want,” I tell her, reflecting the smile she tries to hide. “I love the way you talk, with so much conviction. You aren’t afraid to be yourself.” When I begin to close that gap between us, she straightens her shoulders instead of shrinking back. “I love how I feel when I’m around you.”
I see her breathe faster. Like some part of her wants to run—the part that only knows how to leave when shit gets tough. The part that tells herself the line between alone and lonely isn’t as thin as it really is.
But she stays, listening to another part of herself, the one I’ve gotten to know better than anyone. It’s the mirror image of the first part: digging in her heels when someone says she can’t do something, and she’s determined to force-feed them their own words. That sense of outrage on others’ behalf, helping them find justice. Helping people move on, even if she isn’t sure how to do that herself.
“I have something for you. Please, just...just come look at it, okay? It’s in the truck. It’ll take two seconds, and if you want me to leave you alone after that....”
I don’t finish the promise. I can’t, because I know I’m not going to give up this time around. Another lesson from Tim: chase what you want. Even if it takes years, or leaves you mangled and breathless along the way.
Her cigarette burns down to the filter. She snubs it on the pole and flicks it into the street. “Fine,” she sighs.
I halve my normal pace to stay alongside her; her feet move like the sidewalk’s made of quicksand. She puts a breath strip in her mouth and takes deep breaths, trying to compose herself again.
“What happened with your dad?” I ask. The question grates her, but I know she’ll answer honestly. She always does.
“He bought a house here,” she whispers, “and moved my mom into it with him.”
“Wow. How, uh...how do you feel about all that?”
“I have no idea. How am I supposed to feel?”
This kind of sentence would usually be sarcastic, coming from her. Somehow, right now, I know she’s really asking me.
“Probably a lot of things at once,” I say, finally. We’ve reached the truck. I move the wind chimes into the back and hold her door open for her; she gives a small smile as thanks and climbs in. Once the heat’s blasted feeling back into our limbs, I go on.
“Happy, for one,” I say, “because your mom will do a lot better in a real house, with focused care.” I cut my eyes at her. She’s nodding imperceptibly, mouth drawn into a tight line as she adjusts the vents. “Sad, maybe, or guilty that you couldn’t be the one to give that to her, no matter how much you wanted to. But you shouldn’t feel guilty about that. Your dad’s in a different place financially and...and emotionally, being able to do that.”
Again, just barely, she nods.
I draw a stream of air through my mouth, twisted as I bite some skin inside my lip. “Angry,” I add softly. “Why now? Why is he putting in all this effort now, instead of back then?”
This time, she doesn’t nod. Just lets the tears slide from her eyes, down her temples and along her nose, without wiping them away.
“Scared,” I finish, and place my hand on top of hers, “because...what do you do if you forgive him? You don’t know what you’re supposed to feel for him, if it isn’t anger.”
“Exactly,” she whispers, so quiet I can barely hear her over the heater. She turns and stares at me.
“You don’t have to know yet. And you don’t have to forgive him all at once. When I forgave my dad...I just did one thing at a time, over and over. I’d get angry, tell myself to let it go, then repeat. After enough time...you realize you aren’t angry about it, anymore. Then you move on to the next thing.”
“I honestly have no idea how to do that,” she sniffs.
“I could help you.”
The air changes. Mara doesn’t accept help easily, a quality I know well.
I also know she can’t think of a single reason not to accept it, this time. She needs it, and I’m willing. I’m here.
I run my thumb over her fingers. She’s got a ring on her pinky that looks like a snake coiling around it, two blue gems for eyes.
“Oh, your present! I already forgot.”
Mara watches me twist in my seat, scrambling behind us for the chimes. “A present? What for?”
“Just something I thought you’d like. My mom got a bunch in Colorado, but she told me to tell you to help yourself, so...I picked one out for you. Hope I did okay.”
She unwraps it as carefully as I packed it. Piece by piece, she reveals the framed shards.
Her breath quickens again, when she gets to the middle section. The piece with the brand name.
“What is this?” she whispers. Her head turns to me, but her eyes stay on the letters, fingertips brushing the script.
“It’s a wind chime. I know it’s totally random, like, why would I give you that, but I thought—”
“I love it.” Her smile mixes with a sob as she finishes unwrapping it, then holds the entire thing up to the ceiling of the cab. We watch the pieces turn in the streetlights of the city, twisting and clinking. “How...how did you know?” She touches the center piece again and looks at me. “About the perfume?”
“That one? You’ve heard of it?”
Honey, When It Ends: The Fairfields | Book Two Page 20