Seventeen
Mac
A long, hot shower after a long, exhausting run always seems to put things in perspective.
I tug the towel I’d draped over the shower door around me and step out onto a squishy floor mat. Staying at Nick’s apartment is sort of like being on vacation in some ways—complete with all of Mrs. Turner’s special touches and conveniences that I didn’t have at home, adjustable showerhead and memory foam mats included. When you’ve lived with all guys your whole life, there are some things that you forget to want or think you need, especially in a house where everything is about cars and sports and processed foods.
With a yawn, I pat my sore body dry. My muscles are spent and my head hurts a little, though I’m not sure if it’s because of the raucous thoughts that have been pounding away in there or being on the constant brink of tears today.
Wrapping my hair up into the towel, I hurry over to my pile of clothes folded on the toilet seat. I wince a little as I slip on some undies and socks and pull on my sweats and a long sleeve. If I’m going to search for apartments tonight, I might as well curl up on the couch with a glass of wine, too. And a pizza with bread twists. I salivate at the thought of medium pepperoni and olives, or maybe I’ll splurge and surprise Nick by getting meat lover’s toppings this time instead.
I’d like to think of anything other than the details I still need to figure out for my big move, like what I can afford to pay each month, a deposit and utilities, groceries and furniture . . . pizza seems to make everything a little bit better.
With a grunt, I rise to my feet and yank the towel from my head. I wipe the remnants of steam off the mirror and stare at an altered image of what I see when I walk out the door each morning. Wet hair hangs around me, face pale and eyes tired and red. Under the makeup and plastered smiles is a pale, pathetic woman who’s been hiding out at her best friend’s house, trying to put her life back together, and it shows—every sleepless night. Every tear shed. It’s appalling. But then I stare at my lips. Even though I don’t want to, I can’t help but think of Colton’s mouth on mine. I enjoyed kissing him, no matter how many times I tell myself it was wrong and will never happen again. The fact that he put me in that position at all—that he kissed me, making everything even more complicated between us—makes me angry. Especially when I realize I didn’t have the usual Sean-induced reaction with him as with other guys.
“What a waste,” I grumble, and my thoughts shift from Sean to David.
“Barbies are stupid.” He’d yanked the Barbie from my hand and thrown it down the hall.
“Stop it!” I’d taken off, running to pick it up.
“What, are you going to cry now? God, Mac, don’t be such a spoiled princess. Go ahead, run and tell Dad I’m being mean to you.”
I’m not a princess. With more intensity than usual, I lotion my face, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do Monday when I get to work, knowing I’ll have to see Colton and there will be this dirty secret between us.
I run a brush through my hair and pull it up into a ponytail. Grabbing my things, I fling the bathroom door open. I need answers and to straighten this out with Colton before it festers into something worse.
“Hey,” Nick says. I hear the couch squeak beneath his weight and the television goes mute. “Where’s the fire?”
I toss my towel in the laundry basket in his bedroom and breeze past him toward the front door.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, slipping on a pair of snow boots. “I have to talk to Colton.”
Nick stares at me. “In your pajamas?”
I stare down at myself, contemplating, then I nod. “Yep.”
“Okay . . .”
“I’ll explain later,” I say and wave his confusion and concern away.
“Okay. Good luck?” he says tentatively as I fling the door open, pulling it shut behind me.
Eighteen
Mac
I’m not sure what my plan is, exactly, but in four steps I’m pounding on his front door. “Colton,” I call through the door. “We need to talk about earlier.” I don’t see the motorcycle, but his truck is parked down on the street and that’s what he was driving earlier, so I know he’s home. I knock again. “We need to talk about a lot of things, actually.”
Suddenly, it dawns on me that Kylie might be there, and then what do I do? Just as I turn away from the door, it opens. And to both my horror and my relief, Colton’s standing there, eyes wide with surprise. He’s in his jeans and his long-sleeve shirt is pushed up to his elbows.
“Is Kylie here?” I whisper.
He shakes his head, chewing and clearly confused. He swallows and wipes his mouth with a napkin as I step by him into his apartment.
The instant I step into the warm room, I shiver. “It’s fucking freezing out there,” I mutter.
“Mac, now’s not—”
I hear small, musical laughter and glance over to the kitchenette. It’s not exactly a mirrored image of Nick’s place, especially not with a little girl sitting there, smiling at me with brown braids draped over her shoulders and sauce smeared across her face. She looks like she’s four or five and she’s staring right at me.
“You said a bad word.” She giggles and points at me with her fork. A spaghetti noodle falls off of it and onto the floor.
My hand flies to my mouth and I force my lips to stay shut should one of the many profanities I’m thinking spring from between them. Clearing my throat, I finally compose myself enough to speak. “Yes, I did say a curse word. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were here.” I give Colton a sidelong glance. I’m definitely surprised . . . and confused . . . but he doesn’t notice. He’s rubbing his forehead, his eyes shut as he lets out a deep breath.
“Mac,” he says on an exhale, “this is my daughter, Casey.” His eyes meet his daughter’s and he points to me. “Case, this is my friend from work, Mac.”
When his eyes meet mine, their blue depths fill with that something I’ve seen in them before—what I’ve considered judgment, until now.
“That’s a funny name for a girl,” Casey says, giggling from her seat.
“It’s short for Machaela,” I explain and Casey finally approves and gives me a little wave.
I wave back as she tries to twirl a noodle around her fork, but it keeps falling off, in spite of her determination.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Colton walks over to her, bends down, and wipes the spaghetti off the floor, and all the while I stand there, flabbergasted. I’ve seen her playing outside once or twice, but I never put two and two together. But being in his house, with crayons and coloring books scattered across the coffee table and a cartoon paused on the TV screen, makes it blatantly clear.
“Are you gonna eat dinner with us? We’re having my favorite—spaghetti with hot dogs.”
“Um, no, not tonight,” I say, slowly backing out of the room. “Maybe next time though, okay? I’m sorry I interrupted your dinner.” I can’t even look at Colton as I open the door. I hear his footsteps behind me as I step outside. Once I know Casey can’t see me, I turn around to face him—a very important question on my tongue. He’s silent and reserved as usual, with little more than unease crinkled around his eyes.
“Are you married?” I rasp as it all starts to make sense. “Is Kylie your wife?” I can barely keep the screaming disbelief from my voice.
Colton frowns and shakes his head. “No.” He peers back at Casey. “Kylie’s my ex,” he says quietly. I’m not sure if he’s frustrated or something else.
“I’m so sorry I barged in. I’m—” I take a step back. “Enjoy the rest of your dinner.”
“Daddy?” Casey calls.
Colton nods at me and shuts the front door.
Oh. My. God.
Nineteen
Colton
“Daddy?” Casey chirps again, and I finally let go of the doorknob.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and run my hand ove
r my face. “What is it, munchkin?”
“I think I’ve seen her before.” I smile when I register the sauce covering her face and spotting the floor again.
“That’s because she lives a couple doors down, with the funny man.” I point to her plate. “Can you please eat over the table?”
She nods, picks up a noodle, places it between her teeth, and sucks it in. “I like the funny man,” she says, grinning.
“I know you do.”
Casey rambles on, singing to herself as she plays with her noodles, and all I can think about is Mac. I sit down across from Casey while she finishes her dinner, ignoring what’s left of my own.
The look on Mac’s face . . . I’d wanted to tell her about Kylie, especially after how horrible things seemed at the shop earlier. But that kiss—it was a moment of weakness. It shouldn’t have happened.
Stay focused on Casey, work hard, save money, be a good father—that’s the plan. There’s no room for women and especially not my boss’s daughter. I’ve got enough shit going on; I can’t take on my feelings for Mac, too. It would be too complicated and distracting and dangerous. And yet . . .
I watch Casey as she plays at her food, picking it up only to drop it back on her plate. “Case,” I warn.
She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, like she’s contemplating whether or not I’m serious, but then she sucks another noodle into her mouth and continues humming. Thankfully, it seems we’re moving away from the tantrum phase, at least for now.
At first, I was angry with Kylie—for ruining my life. Then, it was all I could do just to simply coexist with her as the mother of my unexpected child after she’d lied. Then, it was coping with the long distance until finally moving here. Now, it’s Mac. Her expression the moment she saw Casey would’ve been comical if I hadn’t been so surprised to see her at my front door.
I collect my half-eaten dinner plate and eye Casey’s. “Would you like some more?”
She shakes her head. “Can I have milk?”
“Full or half?” If it were up to her, milk is all she would drink all day, every day.
“Full.”
“Alright. Use your napkin, please.” I walk around the counter and set our plates in the sink to wash later. I pull out the milk carton and turn around to see Casey’s eyes widen.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Casey baby?” I walk over to collect her water glass to use.
She forces a big, devious smile so wide her dimple shows, and I know she wants something. “Can I drink it out of my princess cup?”
“Are you done with your water?” She nods and pushes it toward me, the water only filling the bottom.
“What do you say?”
“Pleeeease?”
I chuckle and pour the leftover water in the small plant that sits by the sink. “Alright, because you’re so dang cute.”
“Daddy?” she says again from her chair.
“Yes, munchkin?”
“Can we get a fish? Mommy said I can have fish at her house.”
I reach for her princess cup in the cupboard. “She did, did she?” I look around the cupboard to see her. Even at five years old she has a tendency to grossly exaggerate, borderline lie. But she’s nodding, her head bouncing as she licks her lips, fervently trying to wipe the tomato sauce from her hands. “She said I could have as many as I wanted.” Her eyes flick to me and her cheeks redden when she realizes I’m watching her. She smiles, impish this time.
“Did she really say that? As many fish as you want?” I hold the milk hostage, waiting for her answer before I fill her cup.
“Well—she—she said I could have fish.” She wipes a stray hair from her face and licks her lips again, anxious for the milk I finally set in front of her. “And I want some here, too.”
“I see.” I stand there, deciding on my go-to answer from now on. “If your mom said you can have a pet, then we’ll see how it goes at her house first. If you take good care of your fish there—if you feed them and make sure they have a nice home to live in—then we’ll talk about getting them here, okay?”
She hesitates, blinking as she takes a couple gulps of milk, then she nods in agreement. I gently tug on one of her braids, lopsided and too loose; definitely not my best craftsmanship ever.
Casey sets the cup down, gasping for air. “Daddy?” she says, handing me her dirty, crumpled napkin. I step around the counter again and into the kitchen, turning the water on warm to wash.
“Yes, Casey?” I say. This has been the way of our conversations for almost a month now.
“Can we watch Ariel tonight?”
That stops me and I turn around from the pots and pans to look at her. “Again?” She nods and licks at the sauce still on her hands. “Don’t you like any other movies yet?”
Her face scrunches, and I can see how tired she is already.
“I’ll tell you what, if you take a bath, we can watch whatever movie you want.” Given her exciting morning with her mom getting their Christmas tree, she’ll probably be out like a light by eight.
“Can we have popcorn?” she asks with a giant smile. I nod and she’s already running into her bedroom, hands still stained in sauce and saliva.
“Don’t touch anything, Case! I’ll get your jammies.” I wipe my hands and hurry in after her.
Twenty
Mac
“My first mani-pedi,” Sam says as we sit down in two vacant massage chairs. “Oh, look. We’re just in time for the weather forecast—snow, snow, and more snow.”
I glance up at the local news as the pedicurist hurries over to fill the water tubs for our feet.
“Pick a color,” Letty says, shoving a basket of nail polish samples into my lap. I smile up at her and nod. We have a routine, her and I. No niceties; I’m generally in a hurry. I don’t tell her that today is different, I’m trying to slow down and enjoy my twenties.
“Mac, why are we getting pedicures in the middle of winter?”
“You’re seriously asking me this, Sam? After nearly fifteen years of friendship, I think you know the answer. But if you’re specifically asking me why I asked you to join me this evening, it’s because I have something to tell you.”
I drop my purse down in the space between our chairs, roll my work slacks up as far as they’ll go, place my feet in the tub, and start sifting through the colors.
“Well, I get you and your fingernails, but the toes? They’re just in boots and heels all winter. No one sees them.”
“I see them, Sam. That matters, right?” I wave my question away. “Never mind, I forget who I’m talking to.”
Sam glares at me then looks at the television.
“Look,” I huff, analyzing a pale purple, wondering if it’s muted enough to be considered a winter color instead of spring. “After staying with Nick and being surrounded by gray and black and brown the past week and a half, I desperately need some color in my life. Besides, bright toes make me happy, especially in the winter. And trust me, you could use a pedicure, at least. I know you think you don’t need one, but trust me, Reilly will appreciate you grooming every once in a while.”
I grin, unable to resist as Sam gapes at me in offended outrage. “I’m not hairy and gross, Mac. Geez. You make me sound like a Swamp Thing or something.”
I shrug. “Well . . .” Sam flicks my arm and my smile broadens. “See, this is fun. Thank you for coming with me. It gets boring coming by myself—no offense, Letty,” I hurry to say. The tiny salon owner only smiles at me as she tests the temperature of the water in my tub, then Sam’s.
“Alright,” Sam says on a sigh and picks up a trashy magazine. “Work your magic, Yasmin.” Letty’s assistant rolls over on a little stool and pulls one of Sam’s feet out of the water. “Mac, pick me a color while you’re at it, would you?” Sam says, flipping quickly through the pages. “They’re together?” she says in shock and holds up an enlarged photo of two celebs I know little about.
“Sure,” I mumble, distracted as I
dig through the colors for the perfect one. “I pick the—”
Sam’s hand flies up. “No hot pink, Mac,” she says. “That’s a you color. I need a me color—something more subtle.”
Obviously, I think. Keeping my cynicism to myself, I simply say, “I was actually going to mention the pale pink would look pretty on your darker skin, but never mind.” I know Sam isn’t like me in a thousand different ways, but I’d like to think I know her well enough to know her tastes compared to mine.
“Actually,” Sam says thoughtfully, “I do like this one. What do you think?” She holds the pale pink against the tanned skin of her hand and has a shamefaced expression about her.
“I like it. I think it works perfectly.” I find a bright orange I note to use when the first rays of summertime return.
“Sorry to bite your head off,” Sam says after a minute. “It’s just that this isn’t really my thing, as you well know. It’s weird having someone fussing over me and touching my feet.”
“I know you don’t get it, Mac, but—”
“No, I get it. I don’t like massages and people touching my body, believe it or not.”
Sam seems surprised at first, but then she lifts an indifferent shoulder. “Alison doesn’t either, actually.”
“Speaking of, have you seen my dad around much?”
Sam nods. “Once or twice since he helped her with the Tahoe a couple weeks ago.” She flips through her magazine. “Although I haven’t really been home too much. Reilly and I have been doing some last-minute projects on his place since it’s his first winter back and there are still a few quirks to figure out.” She mentions my dad and Alison so nonchalantly, I wonder if she has any thoughts about their relationship.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 45