The Two-date Rule

by Tawna Fenske

  Her voice was so soft, he felt sure he hadn’t heard right. “What?”

  “Homelessness,” she repeated, not tearing her gaze from above. “That’s what we were. Homeless. It happened twice before my mom left, then more often after that.” Her voice murmured low and even, like someone reporting the facts of a fender bender. “My dad would lose his job, and we’d get evicted and end up living in a tent for a while. Or the car, if it was winter.”

  “Oh, Willa.” He rolled to his side to face her, cupping her bare hip under the covers. She didn’t roll toward him, didn’t take her eyes off the ceiling.

  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, not sure what else to say.

  “Don’t be.” She turned to meet his eyes, her gaze steady and unwavering. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Still—” God. What could he even say to that? Him with his parents still living in the big white house with its rose beds and three garages. They hadn’t been rich, not at all, but they hadn’t been homeless. Not even close.

  “It’s okay,” she said, even though Grady knew it wasn’t. “It was cold a lot and we were hungry, but there was this one night my dad pointed up at the sky and said, ‘Lookie there. Told you I’d get you those stars. Anything you need, baby girl—you can count on your daddy to get it for you.’”

  Grady stroked her hair, unsure what to say to her. “He sounds like a”—what was a good word?—“complicated guy.”

  “He was. Is.” Willa pressed her lips together. “He’s still alive. Obviously.”

  “Do you see him much?”

  She glanced down at the edge of her sheet, fiddling with the hem. “Not as often as I should.”

  Should.

  That word seemed to drive so much of Willa’s life. Grady reached up and stroked a finger down her cheek, willing her to look at him again. When she did, her eyes were glittery in the darkness.

  “He has to be proud of you,” Grady said. “And even if he isn’t, you should be proud of you. You’ve gone and made your own stars.”

  It sounded cheesier coming out of his mouth than it had in his head, but she gave him a shaky smile anyway. “I have.”

  She reached down and threaded her fingers through his where his hand rested on her hip. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For not looking at me like…I don’t know. With pity.”

  “Pity?” He brushed the hair from her face. “You’re the least pitiful person I know.”

  This time, her smile seemed steadier. As her eyes held his, she unlaced her fingers from his and slid them to his cock.

  He started to laugh, to tell her there was no way he could go again so soon. But he felt himself thickening in her grip and knew anything was possible.

  “Christ,” he hissed through gritted teeth as she stroked him. “What you do to me—”

  “Make me see stars, Grady.” The words were almost a dare, like a quest. “Please.”

  It should have sounded dorky, like something from a soap opera, but it was the hottest invitation he’d ever heard. As his blood bubbled to a boil and his dick throbbed in her grip, he rolled her onto her back and kissed her hard.

  “Anything you want,” he said when he broke the kiss. “Anything.”

  And then he set out to give it to her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Guilt finally drove Willa to visit her father, something she’d been meaning to do for weeks. She made excuses about the long drive or how busy she was with work, and those things were all true.

  But the bigger truth was that she hated being around him.

  She loved him—loved him with a fierceness that surprised her sometimes. But she hated who he’d become, who she remembered herself to be when she was around him.

  Also, his house smelled like moldy cheese and wet newspaper, and he never kept the curtains open.

  “Dad?” She pounded on the door, hoping he’d answer. Hoping she wouldn’t have to break in the way she sometimes did.

  “Hello? Dad, are you in there?”

  Silence. Which could mean he was sleeping or passed out or—or—or—

  “Willie!”

  His voice sent a spear of alarm straight down her spine, and she whirled around to face him. As she took in his bedraggled appearance—torn jeans, inside-out T-shirt, five days’ worth of scruff—her lungs deflated like two Mylar balloons.

  “Dad.” She took in the case of cheap beer he gripped in one hand, the unsteadiness of his gait. “You scared me. Where were you?”

  “Aww, c’mere.” He pulled her into a rough hug, and Willa tried not to stiffen. The booze leaked from his pores, forming an eye-watering haze around him. “Can’t I get a hug from my best girl?”

  “It’s good to see you, Daddy.” She let her arms go around him, conscious of how skinny he’d gotten. Wasn’t he eating?

  She drew back, fighting to keep her discomfort masked. Her eyes stung from the fumes, or maybe that wasn’t the only thing. They hadn’t even set foot in the house yet.

  As she glanced at the beer in his hands, she felt her fingers curling into her palms. Breathing deeply, she ordered herself not to lecture. Not to judge. It never did any good.

  “You went to the store?”

  “Yeah, I was running low on things.”

  “Things?” She scanned him for groceries, maybe a bar of soap or a carton of eggs.

  He shrugged. “Money’s pretty tight this month, you know.”

  It always started there. The request for cash would come soon, maybe before they made it through the door. Willa’s guts twisted with guilt. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cave again, but she knew she would. She always did.

  “You didn’t drive, right?” she asked. “To the store?”

  “Nah, I don’t drive much these days.” He shrugged again, averting his eyes. “Can’t afford gas or insurance. Been thinking about just selling the truck.”

  Thank God for small favors. “That might be a good idea.”

  He straightened up suddenly, like he’d been shot with an arrow, but the grin spreading over his face was less alarming. “Come on inside,” he said, smile displaying the gap where a barroom brawl had relieved him of two teeth. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  “Okay.” Willa took a breath, steeling herself. “I brought you something, too.”

  “No shit?” He grinned at the big cardboard box at her feet. “Lemme get that for you.”

  He stooped down and picked up the box, then turned to twist the doorknob. The set of his shoulders, the flash of dexterity—it was a glimpse of the man he’d been before.

  Before.

  As he pushed the door open, Willa bit back the urge to remind him to lock it. This wasn’t exactly a safe neighborhood, though God knows he didn’t have much to steal.

  The smell hit her like a mushroom cloud. She held her breath until she couldn’t anymore and then slowly breathed it in. Stale air and something new—maybe plastic?

  She let her sinuses adjust, fighting back warring waves of nausea and nostalgia.

  “Don’t just stand there; come on in.” Her dad shuffled toward the kitchen, so Willa followed and did her best not to gag. The stain on the sofa, that was new, and what the hell had he spilled all over the counter?

  “Make yourself at home.” He ambled into the kitchen and set the case of beer on the counter.

  Home. If that wasn’t irony, she didn’t know what was.

  Willa took a shaky breath. “Want me to make you a grilled cheese sandwich, Daddy?”

  “Nah, no bread,” he said. “Or cheese. It’s been a rough week.”

  “Right.” Willa hefted the cardboard box onto the counter, nudging his beer aside. “I actually brought those things. How about you have a seat and I’ll make lunch?”

  It was three in the afternoon, not ex
actly lunchtime, but her father didn’t argue.

  “That sounds real good, sweetheart.”

  Willa scanned the counters for the old cast-iron skillet, the one that had belonged to her mother’s mother. That had been in the box, too. The one they’d brought her when they came to say her mother was dead and never coming home.

  Her grandfather had looked her right in the eye as he said the words that day, gauging her reaction. She’d curled her fingers into her palms and fought to be strong, to show him she was a big girl who didn’t cry.

  Later, after he’d gone, she’d sobbed in her father’s arms, howling like her soul had been ripped out while her dad stroked her hair.

  Banging the skillet to jar herself from the memory, Willa turned on the burner. Her mom had learned to cook in this same skillet when she was a little girl. What would it have been like to have a mom teach her to cook?

  Her dad wrestled a can of beer from the packaging and cracked it open. “I think I’ll have one of these.” Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back and drained half the liquid in a few gulps.

  “Ahhh.” He slammed the can down on the counter, making her jump. “You want one?”

  “No thanks.” While the skillet heated, she got to work unpacking the box, filling his fridge with butter and milk and a bag of grapes she’d found on sale. Apples were cheaper, but he couldn’t chew them anymore with his teeth in the shape they were now. She’d been hoping to land a contract with a chain of dental offices, which came with the perk of discounted services. But that hadn’t come through. Not yet.

  “Need help?” he asked, already wandering toward the living room.

  “I’ve got it.” She busied herself scrubbing a cutting board, keeping herself moving. Butter, bread, cheese, she worked methodically, blocking out the sound of the television flickering on from the other room and her father cursing at whatever was on-screen. Could be sports, could be the weather; it was anyone’s guess.

  “So how’s the job hunt going?” she called.

  “What’s that?”

  “The job hunt,” she repeated as she sliced his sandwich in half and added a handful of grapes on the side. “Any leads?”

  “Nah, not yet.”

  As she walked into the living room with the plate, she spotted him hustling to tidy the living room. To make things nicer for her. Her heart balled up tight as he stood up and squared his shoulders.

  “Talked to one guy about doing some handywork at one of the elementary schools. He started asking about police records, though, so—”

  “Right.” Willa gestured to the couch. “Have a seat, Daddy. Lunch is ready.”

  “You’re too good to me, sweetheart.” He touched the side of her cheek, watery eyes holding hers for a few beats before he took the plate and sat down. “Man, this looks good. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Willa sat down on the edge of a rickety-looking folding chair. Then she popped back up again, remembering her gift.

  “I made you something.” God, she hated the sound of her own voice. Like a nine-year-old scampering out of art class with a finger painting to tack up on the fridge.

  Still, she hurried back to the kitchen and reached into the cardboard box she’d brought. “A friend of mine”—her voice lifted a little on the word “friend,” not that her dad would notice—“a friend of mine has a mom who does welding. She helped me make this for you.”

  She carried the TV tray back to the sofa, setting it down in front of him like an offering. “This way you don’t have to balance your dinner on your knees all the time.” She picked it up and set the tray, grateful it seemed steady.

  “Aww, shit.” Tears glittered in the old man’s eyes, and Willa swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. “You made this? For me?”

  She had to look away. It was too much. The earnestness in his eyes, the delight over such a small thing.

  “It was pretty easy to make.” She swiped the back of her hand across her cheekbone, blaming the stale air for the unwelcome trickle of tears. She cleared her throat, willing herself to keep it together. “She had a bunch of different beginner projects in this book,” she continued. “I got to pick one, and this seemed perfect for you.”

  “It is perfect,” he agreed. “’Specially since I got a new TV.”

  Willa blinked. “What?”

  The old man hooted, pleased with himself for shocking her. “Got it just yesterday.”

  He pointed over her shoulder, and Willa turned to see the monstrosity mounted on the wall. Holy crap, how had she missed that? She’d been so focused on groceries and stains and—

  “Is that— Is it brand-new?”

  “Sixty-five inches,” he said proudly, failing to answer the question as he took another swig of beer. “Got it with the money you sent last month.”

  “But…that money was for rent.” And groceries. And the debt collectors who always seemed to be banging on the door.

  “Right, right.” Her dad shook his head and picked up his sandwich. “Just wanted to treat myself a little, you know? It’s been a rough month.”

  It’s been a rough month because you can’t hold down a job and you won’t get treatment for your drinking and—

  Willa bit her tongue. There was no point. She’d said the words over and over and over again until they could trip from her tongue in her sleep, and still it did no good. Her father wasn’t going to change. Not ever, she knew that now.

  She turned to look at him, wishing she could hate him. That would make things so much easier, if she didn’t love him so much.

  Love is stupid.

  “What’s that?” her father said around a mouthful of grilled cheese.

  “Nothing,” she said, embarrassed she’d spoken aloud.

  “Mm.” Her dad wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Damn, baby. That’s good.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” she said automatically, positive he didn’t notice the stiffness in her voice.

  “Could you make me another one of these?”

  “Sure.” She started to get up, but he caught her hand in his gnarled one. His eyes locked with hers, and for the briefest second, she remembered the guy he’d been.

  Told you I’d get you those stars. Anything you need, baby girl—you can count on your daddy to get it for you.

  “Thank you for the present, Willie,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” She swallowed back her emotions, all of them.

  “You’re a good daughter.”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice to say anything. He released his grip on her fingers, and she took a step back with her heart leaden in her chest. Turning toward the kitchen, she reminded herself how her feet worked. Left, right, left, right, one in front of the other until she reached the kitchen.

  “Hey, would you grab me a beer while you’re up?” he hollered after her. “I’m parched.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned against the counter, cursing herself for ever thinking it could be different. For thinking she’d ever escape the pattern. “Sure thing, Daddy.”

  …

  From the moment she got home from her dad’s house, Willa worked with an intensity bordering on mania. Sleeping became an afterthought. Eating, too, and any grooming that wasn’t absolutely mandatory.

  She juggled RFPs and redesign proposals. She analyzed color schemes and uploaded beta sites to the cloud. She coded web pages until her eyes crossed and Stevie nudged her hand with his wet nose, reminding her that both of them required sustenance beyond the coffee she brewed to fuel herself and the dog biscuits she tossed him so he’d forgive her for skipping his afternoon walk.

  “Just a couple more hours,” she assured him as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

  Stevie heaved a sigh and threw himself onto his bed in the corner. Willa glanced over, wishing she could do the same. Wishing
she could curl up in a ball and feel confident the bills would get paid, the clients would stay happy, the money would keep rolling in.

  But she didn’t trust any of that, so she kept working.

  The texts from Kayla and Aislin were concerned but not frantic. They’d been through this before.

  Kayla: Running date? I’ll piggyback you this time. Fresh air = good.

  Aislin: It’s not healthy to skip brunch. Café Lemony at ten?

  They accepted her perfunctory replies that she was slammed with work, that she couldn’t take a break now. Not for a few days at least. Not until the roar of panic and self-doubt and fear quieted to a softer buzz.

  It was Grady who grew worried. His texts were jovial for the first couple of days.

  Grady: Interested in bowling? Definitely not a date.

  Grady: Forget bowling. Paintball?

  Grady: Okay, no paintball. Wild monkey sex?

  That one made her laugh, and also take a moment to tap out a quick reply.

  Willa: Sorry, work’s nutty. Rain check?

  That bought her a couple more days of solace, which she appreciated. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him. She was dying to, would give anything to drop everything for a movie date or just the chance to see him for an hour or two. To feel the way she’d felt when he held her in his arms after game night. Only she had to keep working. Just a few more hours, a few more bids, a few more emails to clients about future projects. She had to keep them happy, had to keep their business.

  On day four—or was it five?—another text came through.

  Grady: Tried calling, since this is awkward to ask via text. Is this you ghosting me? No hard feelings, but can you let me know?

  She knew she should answer. It was douchey of her to ignore him, to make him worry the way he was. Grady didn’t deserve that, especially since he was due to fly out again in a few days.

  Tonight. She’d text back tonight, just as soon as she finished this RFP.

  A few hours later, he texted again.

  Grady: That sounded lame and needy, huh? Please ignore.