My dad lets out a breath and rests his elbows on the edge of his desk. There’s a lifetime’s worth of images tattooed on his muscular arms. Years of hard work callous his hands, and fleetingly, I remember a morning years ago when I asked him why he worked so much. Because I’m the parent, and it’s my job to take care of you rascals. Someone needs to put food in your bellies and make sure you have warm clothes when it’s cold outside. “I can help,” I’d told him, and I’d meant it.
When I finally look up at him, his expression is pensive and expectant, so I continue. “I guess I would’ve expected you to confide in me, and the fact that you didn’t—it pisses me off. A lot.”
“Sweetheart,” he says quietly, his eyes exuding more emotion than his voice conveys. “You do so much for me, and I’m damn proud of you and the woman you’ve become, but you’re not my equal.”
I flinch at his words.
“You’re my daughter. Whatever decisions I make have nothing to do with respect, but what I feel is best for you.”
I blink a few times as the sting of his words set in, and for the first time in my life, the silence of the shop is blaringly obvious. I clear my throat so that my voice doesn’t give the ache in my heart away. “Does she want something from you?”
The moment I say it, my dad is shaking his head. He lets out a breath and leans forward in his leather-seated chair, his elbows braced on the surface and his fingers laced together. His gaze locks on me. “She wants to know you,” he says easily enough, but I can tell he’s still hesitant. “She wants you to have the chance to know her—if you want.”
“I still don’t understand.” Why the secrecy? Why now?
My dad gestures to the other leather padded chair in the corner of his office. “Machaela, do you remember the night your mother left?”
I pause. “I remember some things.” I remember the note and the fear I felt when my dad just left us there—fear of what that meant. I remember David yelling at me and me worrying about Bobby because his six-year-old self didn’t understand. I didn’t even understand.
“You don’t remember how long you stayed in our bedroom, sitting on our bed, staring at your mom’s dresser and holding her perfume in your hand?”
My gut clenches as a slice of a memory resurfaces, more emotions than anything, and I look at him.
“You were in there, with your snow coat and scarf still on when I came home.” After the bar closed, he doesn’t say. He clears his throat. “You asked me if I was okay. I left you kids alone for hours, with barely a second thought, and you were worried about me.”
My nostrils flare, and I shut my eyes, willing the burn of tears to stop.
“You changed that night, Machaela—we all did. But you and David, you had grown up in a matter of hours.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, sweetheart, you need to understand why her coming back here scares the shit out of me. I don’t want you getting hurt like that again. I don’t want her taking something else away from you like she stole your innocence, your childhood. I wanted to protect you from this. Jesus,” he rasps and leans back in his chair, running his hand over his face. “Machaela, you think I don’t know and appreciate all that you do? You have no idea how hard it was for me to keep this from you, but it was the only way I could protect you.” He pauses a moment and I try to ignore the lump of emotions swelling inside me.
“And, if I’m honest with myself, your mother coming back made me feel guilty as hell, too, and I think I wanted to keep her from you out of spite.”
“Guilty? Why?”
He stands up and walks over to the drawn blinds at his office window, peering out at the shop. “I’ve been selfish,” he says. “I went from being a protective father who wanted to keep you close and safe to taking away your youth, making it so that you can’t see outside of us—your brother and me—and that’s not okay.” He takes a deep breath and turns to face me. “I let you take on too much too fast, and you haven’t stopped since. That’s my fault.”
My brow starts to ache and I realize I’ve been frowning too long, even more so now that an ominous, looming feeling settles over me as he hesitates.
After a few moments of silence, he asks, “When was the last time you took a photo?”
I draw back a moment, surprised and confused. “It’s been a while, why?”
“What else do you do for fun? And I’m not talking about running until you’re blue in the face every morning, either.”
I frown, and when nothing comes to mind, I shrug. “So I’ve been busy. I have my whole life ahead of me—”
“Exactly.” He turns around fully, eyeing me with shrewd intent before he steps closer. His navy blue coveralls are stained and tattered, his name tag torn off years ago. “You need to take a step back for a minute, from this routine you’re stuck in, and think about what you want.”
“Dad—”
“It’s taking its toll on you, Machaela.” He puts his hand up the instant I open my mouth. “You’re a kickass office manager, but is that what you want to do all your life? Photography used to get you excited and inspired, and you’re not even doing that anymore. Sweetheart, you’re a beautiful, vibrant young woman with the world at your fingertips, but you’re too busy worrying about everyone else to live life for yourself. I don’t want that for you.” His dark hair is longer than he likes, combed back and curling around his ears. And he needs to shave.
“You’d fall apart without me,” I jest, but it’s also the truth.
“I promise you, sweetheart, I won’t. And as much as you love and care about me, it’s not your job to mother me or Bobby. You never should’ve had to, to begin with.”
Alarm makes the hair on the back of my neck rise, but I have to ask, “What are you saying exactly?”
His jaw stiffens, but he doesn’t blink or look away. “I need to let you go,” he says. “I want you to live your own life.” His words prick a small burning hole in my heart, but I try to keep my composure as my world tilts and transforms in that moment. “I don’t want to be the reason holding you back anymore. Whatever you decide to do about your mom is up to you, but I don’t want you to regret your life ten years from now or wonder what the hell happened to your youth because of me.” His tone is so calm and certain as I try to imagine my life any differently.
“Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart. I’m not kicking you out of the house or firing you.”
Any reassurance in his voice is lost upon me. I straighten in my chair and smooth out my sweater and skirt, as if the mere appearance of composure will help the chaotic disarray I feel inside. “Then what? You want me to start taking pictures again?”
My dad steps toward me. “That’s not good enough. I want you to have goals. I want you to be living a life you want—that’s going to get you where you want to be someday. I don’t want you working some job you fell into or felt obligated to take on.” His voice is edged with an emotion I’m not sure I recognize. “I have this place because it’s what I know. I loved it at first, and I’m sure part of me still does, but sometimes I wonder how different life would’ve been for all of us if I hadn’t dove in headfirst and never came up for air. I don’t want that for you. I want you to be able to experience a different life than me while you’re still young.”
Despite an exhale, a tiny tear trickles down my cheek. “I guess I have a lot to think about then,” I say with an emptiness I have never felt before.
My dad reaches for me and pulls me to my feet and into his arms. His embrace, in some ways, feels like a goodbye. “You’re my baby girl,” he breathes. “And I love you more than life itself. I hope you see how selfish it is of me to keep you so close, to encourage you not to go out and live a little—nothing too crazy, of course.”
Imagining my life differently leaves me feeling purposeless, but I nod and wrap my arms around my dad, pulling him closer against me. He smells of Old Spice and grease, a familiar, comforting mixture that nearly crumbles w
hat little strength and energy that remains.
He kisses my forehead and pulls away.
“What about David and Bobby?” I ask, brushing my hair out of my face. “Do they know?”
My dad exhales, clearly exhausted by all of this. “David, well, I’m not sure what to do about David. I haven’t told him yet—in fact, I’m not even sure I can get ahold of him.” He frowns and stares down at the ground before he seems to refocus. “But Bobby, he’s young yet and resilient. He’ll be okay. We’ve talked and I think he has more questions than anything.”
When my dad looks at me again, his eyes are brighter, and his expression is more relaxed than I’ve seen it in weeks. “I told your mother I’d give you her phone number and you would call her if and when you were ready.” He takes a step closer. “But you don’t have to.”
I nod and smooth out my clothes again, noticing the smeared mascara on my hands. “I think I’ll stay at Nick’s again,” I say absently. “At least until I figure some things out. If I go home”—I lift a defeated shoulder—“I dunno.”
My dad dips his chin and studies me. “Whatever you need to do. But I still want you to let me know where you’re at. If you’re worried about sending me to an early grave, that’s the way to do it until I know what your plan is.”
My plan. I’ve never had much of a plan. I’ve often joked about getting my own place one day, but I never gave it any real thought. I collect my fracturing thoughts and clear my throat. “I clearly have a lot to think about,” I say and my dad crosses his arms over his chest, listening. “I should go.” I turn to leave. “See you tomorrow.” The words feel strange on my tongue.
“You know,” my dad says behind me. I look at him over my shoulder. A small smile curls the corner of his lips. “Just because I want you to start thinking about you doesn’t mean I don’t want you around so I can keep an eye on you.” His eyes harden. “And don’t go getting a late rebellious streak, either. I’m too old for that shit.”
“I’m the good child,” I remind him.
“I know it,” he says with a chuckle. “Now get out of here. Go be twenty-four. You work too damn much.” He kisses my forehead and walks back around his desk.
I almost tell him to head home himself, that his work will be here when he comes back, but I stop myself. “Bye, Dad.”
He winks at me and I open the office door. Cool air from the shop accosts my face and another chill rakes over me. With a deep breath, I head toward my office. Reality begins to settle in the silence, and I feel my chest grow heavy again and my eyes begin to burn with unshed tears.
I’m wiping the moisture from under my eyes when I hear a familiar voice call my name. Startled, I turn to Colton’s stall.
“Sorry to bother you,” he says, walking over. “I just—”
“It’s fine.” I wave his apology away as I catch my breath, praying this is quick. He eyes me a moment, taking in my bedraggled appearance. “What’s up?”
“I—uh—just finished the hatchback. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to call Nancy tonight or save it for tomorrow.” His voice is easy and cool, like it usually is, but there’s something in his expression—or maybe it’s those crystal-clear blue eyes that shine a little differently, making him seem less imposing and more . . . human.
“Um, I’ll give her a call tonight before I leave. If she wants to pick it up after hours, I’ll leave the keys in the overnight box for her.”
Colton hesitates a moment, then nods before he turns on his heel.
“Uh, thank you, by the way,” I add.
He peers back at me.
I blow a loose strand of hair from my face, wondering how messed up he thinks my family probably is. “For sending Sam to make sure I was okay yesterday. I’m really sorry you had to see all of that.”
To my surprise, Colton’s features soften and his posture seems to relax a bit. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” His voice is less brusque and his eyebrows draw together. “Family stuff can be tough,” he adds, astonishing me. And even though his eyes are on me, I get the feeling he’s lost in thought. “It wouldn’t be so hard to ignore the painful stuff if the lines between love and hate weren’t so blurred.” His eyes refocus and, if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks flush a little.
I nod, ever so slightly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Whatever I feel for David and my mom feels very close to that. I feel the burn of a tear trickling down my cheek and Colton lifts his hand, the back of his finger brushing against my skin. The warm sensation of his touch is unnerving to both of us, it would seem and we stand there in awkward silence for a moment, staring at one another.
When Colton shoves his hand in his pockets and his eyes widen. “Oh, I—uh—guess I should give you this.” He hands me a single key. Our fingers brush, something that’s likely happened a dozen times before, but for some reason, his fingers—our fingers—linger this time.
When I notice Colton’s eyes narrow slightly, I jerk my hand away. “Thanks.”
He nods slightly, his mouth quirked up in an uncertain, confused purse of his lips. “See you tomorrow,” he says, and he’s out the door, leaving a spicy vanilla scent in his wake.
Ten
Mac
Sitting in Nick’s apartment, on his gray sectional that’s apparently now my new best friend, I take a sip of my pinot noir. I lean back, gazing into the flickering flames inside the small faux stone–ensconced hearth. These are great apartments, some of the newer and nicer in Saratoga Falls. This time, I peer around the room with different eyes, at the open concept and the modern appliances, and I try to picture myself living in a place like this. His place smells like aftershave with no trace of cigarette smoke as far as I can tell. I’ve seen him smoke on the balcony, but you’d never know it. There are nicer things in here than I think Nick cares to have, but then Mrs. Turner is one of those parents who likes to make sure her wants for nothing.
I look at Sam, curled up on the other end of the couch, the light of her phone brightening her face as she fiddles with it. With the overhead lights off, Nick’s apartment is quasi-dark, leaving the flames in the fireplace and the haphazardly strung Christmas lights draped over the sliding balcony door to brighten the room.
“I need to start looking for a place,” I think aloud. My overstuffed suitcase is pushed up against the wall, between the fish tank cabinet and the hallway. I glance back at my need-to-be-hung outfits draped over the kitchen chairs. “Nick won’t be able to put up with me for very long.”
The cushion shifts beside me and Sam sets her phone down on the coffee table. “I think this is exciting,” she says and takes a sip from her wineglass. “You’ll have your own place with your own things. You can just have ice cream for dinner if you want and no one will know any better.” The smile in her eyes fades a little. “I think your dad’s right. This is good for you. You don’t want to resent your life later down the road.”
I settle deeper into the couch, wondering if Sam realizes how similar our situations are. She has Reilly, yes, but her entire life is wrapped up in her family—in that ranch. “Maybe,” I say, “but it feels weird, thinking about a completely different life than the one I have now. My dad makes it sound so easy, but there’s more to it than living for me. He’s telling me to rethink my entire life—where I live, my goals, my job. That’s not something I can just fix real quick. It’s a lot. Besides, it’s not like I’m unhappy how things are now; I like helping my family.”
“I know,” Sam says quietly. “But on the bright side, you can have a personal life now—a boyfriend—without your dad or brother breathing down your neck. I can’t remember the last time you dated . . . anyone, actually.”
I’m fine with Sam thinking my reluctance to date has anything to do with my dad, so I don’t argue. “Things are definitely going to be different.” The sound of the fish tank filter and the crackling coals fills the silence as we stare into the fire.
“Maybe we should plan a day trip somewhere for a fun photoshoot!” Sam chi
rps. “That would be fun.”
I smile and take a sip from my wineglass. “As soon as it snows we can take a trip to the Turners’ cabin.”
“Yes!” Sam’s grin grows, ear to ear. “We haven’t even talked about our annual snow trip yet. We’ll get the whole group together.” She pauses and a mischievous twinkle lights her eyes.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
She pulls her feet underneath her and her wine sloshes in her glass a bit as she resituates herself. “I just remembered something, that’s all.”
“Yeah? It must be pretty juicy.”
She simply grins.
“Seriously, Sam. You’re freaking me out.”
She laughs a bit maniacally. “I know something you don’t know . . . well”—she shrugs—“at least, I don’t think you do.”
Leaning my head back against the couch, I whimper, hoping she’ll take pity on me. “I’m not sure I can take any more surprises right now.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re so dramatic. It’s nothing big.”
“Just something entertaining, apparently.” I take a small sip from my glass, and when Sam doesn’t say anything, I raise an expectant eyebrow. “Well, are you planning on divulging, or . . .”
“In due time.” Her mouth quirks up at the corner and her ocher eyes glimmer like summertime in the firelight. One thing Sam is great at is keeping things to herself. She only shares when she’s ready, as the past few toiling years of her life have proven.
I groan and shut my eyes, leaning my head back against the couch cushion. “Fine.” We sit in silence for a minute, listening to the melody of the air bubbles in the tank and the flickering flames. I didn’t ask Nick if I could build a fire before he left for work, though I hope it’s okay. I make a mental note to create a list of questions for him and ways I can help him around the house while I’m here.
There’s a tap-tap-tap at the door, and I jump, my wine nearly splashing out of my glass. “Jesus—” There’s another knock. I grumble and climb to my feet. “Coming,” I call through the door. “Calm down.” I look out the peephole and see Bobby standing there, running his fingers over his short hair. He looks anxious when I open the door. “Hey.” I gesture for him to come in. “Is everything alright?”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 40