by Tracy Brogan
He turned round in time to watch the pants land on the floor.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Looks like they’re working just right to me.”
He set the coffeepot back in place, pushed the brew button, and walked over to her, looking adorably scruffy with his pillow head and whiskers.
Tom scooped one arm around her waist and clasped the other as if they were dancing.
She warmed straight through from her toes to her smile. “Oh, that’s right. You’re a morning person, aren’t you?” She’d learned that at the ice-cream parlor. She’d stumble in at nine thirty with a double-shot espresso, while Tom was already halfway into his day.
He started spinning her around slowly. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your coffee started.”
“Ah, thank you. Just one more thing to love about you.”
The pants around her feet were cumbersome, but his body was warm and inviting. She lifted one foot and then the other, effectively kicking the denim out of their way. They shuffled in a tiny circle. The storm raged outside, but in the little kitchen it was sunny.
“I didn’t expect you to be a dancer, Mr. Murphy.”
His laugh was rich and warm against her ear. “This is about the extent of it, Miss Hamilton. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“This is all I need.”
She meant to be flip and funny, but the words came from somewhere deep, and he paused. Tom lifted his head from the crook of her neck and gazed down at her.
“You could do better, you know.”
She lifted up on her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “On the contrary, I think you’re quite the catch. Marti says so, too.”
He started shuffling them again. “Does she now?”
“Yes, because you have a truck, among other admirable attributes.” She hadn’t shared the best with Marti, but there had been some guessing.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you didn’t discuss any of my attributes with your sister. It’s likely to end up in Dante’s documentary.”
She breathed in, catching a hint of yesterday’s cologne. “That would make it a whole different kind of movie now, wouldn’t it?”
Tom’s arm around her middle tightened.
“Yep. But it could certainly start the same. A woman walks into a room and drops her pants.”
Libby laughed. “Technically those were your pants.”
“Whatever. All I know is that right now neither one of us is wearing pants. And that seems like a terrible opportunity to squander.”
He pressed his lips against hers as if it had been weeks instead of moments since their last kiss, hungry and thorough. He scooped her up and set her bottom on the counter. She wrapped her legs around his waist and twined her arms around his shoulders. Even through the fabric of his shirt she could feel his muscles bunching. The thrill of that would never get old.
“Aren’t you supposed to pick up Rachel?” she asked as he started on a button of the flannel shirt.
“Not until eleven thirty. We’ve got time.”
He popped the first button and kissed her neck again as the windows shook against the storm. It was exotic, feeling his warm mouth and his whiskers scrape across her skin while the thunder rumbled outside. Libby gave over to her senses.
A muffled bang sounded off in the distance, familiar but unrecognizable as Tom’s kiss clouded her awareness.
Then she heard it again, and she opened her eyes.
Time stopped.
Libby saw it all from a distance. Everything in slow motion.
Rachel pushing open the door, bursting in from the rain in a bright red coat, like a stop sign in the middle of the road where you least expect it. Her smile fading and turning to astonishment. The sound of a backpack hitting the floor.
An older woman coming in just behind her, with pale blond hair and Rachel’s features.
Tom lifting his head and twisting his upper body toward the sound, even as he pulled the edges of Libby’s shirt back together.
Her legs around his waist went slack, and her head bumped back against the kitchen cabinet.
“Rachel?” Tom gasped.
His daughter stood frozen, nothing moving but her eyes. She looked to him and then to Libby, and Libby had never felt so small.
“Dad? Miss Hamilton? God, what the hell?” Rachel turned away then, toward her grandmother’s outstretched arms, for certainly that’s who the other woman was. She glared at Tom with such contempt, Libby felt him wince.
“Jesus, Rachel,” Tom said. “What are you doing here?” He tugged on the edge of his shirt, but it didn’t help. He was still standing there in his underwear.
Rachel looked up at the ceiling. “You told me I was always welcome, remember? It never occurred to me you might be busy screwing someone in Mom’s kitchen.”
“Honestly, Tom. How disgraceful,” Anne said, a frown cutting deep into her skin.
Libby wanted to disappear. She worked to close the buttons of her borrowed flannel shirt, but her fingers were shaking and clumsy.
“This is why you stopped pushing me to move home, isn’t it?” Rachel said, still not looking at him, her voice stretching thin. “Because of her. Because you’re up to this kind of shit. God, Dad, you are so gross.”
Tom reached over and grabbed the jeans that Libby had left on the floor. He struggled to put them on as Libby slid down from the counter like a reptile, wishing she could slither into the other room and not be any part of this.
“Clearly I wasn’t expecting you, Rachel. I was supposed to pick you up at eleven thirty. So what are you doing here?”
His daughter turned back around, her eyes flashing, her cheeks stained red. She sneered at her father as he zipped up his pants. “I asked Grandma to drop me off here after church. I wanted to surprise you. But I guess the surprise is on me, huh?”
“Surprise me?” His voice was flat and hollow.
Libby’s heart felt hollow, too. As if it might pop like a bubble and disappear forever.
“Yeah, I was thinking I’d stay here for a few weeks,” Rachel said. “Give us kind of a trial run, you know? Glad I didn’t bother bringing my suitcase in from the car.” She picked up the backpack and jerked open the door. “Take me home, would you please, Grandma? I’m not staying here now. I’m not staying here ever.”
Rachel walked out into the storm.
“Rachel!” Tom tried to follow, but Anne stepped in his way, blocking his path with her palm to his chest.
“You haven’t changed a bit, have you? I kept telling George you’d finally grown up. But now I see I was wrong. I gave you too much credit. Connie would be so ashamed of you.”
Tom wouldn’t talk to Libby at all on the drive to her parents’ house, and she struggled with every breath to hold it together. She just didn’t know what to say. The venom in Anne’s voice had poisoned her, too.
She and Tom hadn’t done anything wrong. They were adults, and she loved him. But that didn’t matter. For Rachel to learn about them that way, to discover them in that situation, was unbearable, even to Libby.
Tom was in flames on the inside. She could feel it. But he wouldn’t say a word. With every mile he retreated, away from her, away from all the goodness they’d found.
Because now it was tarnished. Even she could see that. No matter how much he might care for her, no matter how much love they might have built between them, she’d just cost him his chance to get Rachel back.
She was still wearing his flannel shirt, and a pair of drawstring exercise pants he’d pulled from the closet after Anne and Rachel had driven away. Her glorious wench dress was stuffed into a black plastic garbage bag.
He pulled up in front of her house and didn’t even shift the truck out of drive. He just pushed his foot against the brake with all his might.
“I’m sorry, Libby.” His voice was scratchy as sandpaper.
She turned his way, clutching the plastic bag. “I wish you’d talk to me about this.”
�
�There’s nothing to talk about. It’s a total clusterfuck. All of it. I forgot my priorities. I’m sorry you got caught up in that, but this isn’t going to work.”
“That’s not true. Rachel will come around. She was surprised, that’s all.”
He looked at her as if he wasn’t sure why she was still there. “She’s not your daughter. It’s really none of your business.”
His words were brutal and raw, and she wanted to fight him. She wanted to remind him that what they had was good. And it was real. He’d let her inside his life, and he’d made Rachel her business the moment he asked for help with that goddamned collage.
But she knew he wouldn’t hear her, so she got out of the truck and slammed the door. He drove away and left her standing in the rain.
CHAPTER twenty-six
There wasn’t enough booze in his house to get him as drunk as he needed to be. It took a lot. He remembered that from the months after Connie’s accident. But he drank what he had in the house. Four beers and a shot of Jack Daniel’s. Not a bad buzz for four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. He kept waiting for George to show up and throw gasoline on this fire. But he didn’t.
Evening came. It got dark, and somewhere around midnight Tom must have slept because he woke up at six in the morning with a neck stiff from lying on the couch, and a head splitting from alcohol and self-loathing.
He’d been here before, in this ugly place. The misery was comforting in its familiarity. He knew how to behave in this space. Knew what to expect. Nothing but more of the same.
Tom ate leftovers from his refrigerator, took a shower, and thought about going to get more food. He thought about watching television, or raking some leaves, or calling Dr. Brandt. But he did none of that. He wasn’t really sure what he did, but suddenly it was dark again, so he got undressed and climbed into bed.
Lying in the quiet darkness, with the scent of Libby’s perfume wafting up from the sheets, all those thoughts he had blockaded from his mind for the last day and a half broke through. The numbness gave way like an avalanche, and the pain grew chisel sharp. But he understood this kind of pain better now. He knew he simply had to feel it, ride it out, or suffocate from it.
The truth was, he loved Libby Hamilton. With all his heart. And in a long line of mistakes, letting her go would be the biggest of his life.
Losing Connie had been an accident. A tragic, unavoidable twist of fate, but this thing with Libby, and what had happened with Rachel—that was stuff he could fix. Hurt feelings and misunderstandings could be talked through. Dr. Brandt had taught him that.
He and Rachel were learning how to do that together. She was old enough to understand what his feelings for Libby meant. In fact, the worst thing he could do would be to behave as if his relationship with her was less than it was. Libby had shaken him back into his own life. And while what happened yesterday morning in his kitchen had been regrettable, it wasn’t a tragedy. It didn’t have to devastate anyone. It was an obstacle to overcome, not a life-defining moment.
Anne was wrong.
He had grown up. He wasn’t a coward, and he wouldn’t hide behind misdirected guilt or self-inflicted shame. Connie would never have let him do that. He owed it to her memory, and he owed it to Rachel, to push past this.
And he owed it to himself to make things right with Libby.
Tom was up before dawn the next morning, not that he’d slept much. He’d spent most of his night chasing visions, and an hour or more just pacing around the bedroom wondering if Libby was asleep, or if she was thinking of him. He’d nearly sent her a text, but it seemed too juvenile. He’d sent one to Rachel, though, at one in the morning.
WE NEED TO TALK.
She’d answered immediately.
I KNOW. I CAN MEET YOU AT THE COFFEE SHOP NEXT TO THE HIGH SCHOOL AT 7 A.M. GOOD?
She was willing to meet him, anxious to talk. That had to be a good sign. But he was nearly sick to his stomach as he drove there the next morning.
He walked in and saw her sitting with a tall, dark-haired boy. She was wearing a beret and looked far too grown up. They both stood up when Tom came near.
“Um, hi, Dad. This is Jake.” She gestured to the boy.
They sized each other up, and Tom wasn’t sure who this was more awkward for, because certainly Rachel must have filled this kid in.
After a slight pause, Jake held out his hand. “Mr. Murphy. It’s nice to meet you.”
Tom shook it. “You, too.”
Rachel blushed. “Um, thanks for waiting with me, Jake. I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Sure.” He gave Tom a nod and loped away.
“Nice kid,” Tom said.
“Yeah, he is. You want to sit down?”
They slid into a booth.
“Rachel, about Sunday, I—”
“No, Dad, let me go first. Please?”
He was relieved by her insistence, since he had no idea where to start.
Rachel picked up a sugar packet from the tabletop and twisted it in her hands. “I think I owe you an apology.”
If she had tasered him, he could not have been more shocked.
“I should have called you first to let you know I was coming. And I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. It’s just that, well, you freaked me out.”
“You freaked me out a little bit, too. I had intended to say something to you about Libby sooner. I just didn’t know how to get it out there.”
“Well, it was certainly all out there in the kitchen. I think my retinas are scorched for life.”
Rachel had Connie’s sense of humor. He wasn’t sure that was such a good thing for him at the moment.
“It was unfortunate for you to see… that. But I want you to understand, my relationship with Libby has nothing to do with why I let you make your own choice about moving back. I’ve been very clear about wanting you home.”
“I know. That’s what Dr. Brandt said.”
Tasered again. “When did you talk to her?”
“Yesterday. I asked Grandma to take me to see her.” She picked up the paper coffee cup from the table and took a sip.
When did she get old enough to drink coffee?
“What else did Dr. Brandt say?” Waiting on that response was like waiting for test results. He wanted to know, and yet, he didn’t.
But Rachel shrugged. “Oh, you know her. She just kept asking me how I felt about things.”
If he wasn’t so wired and nervous right now, Tom might have laughed at that. As it was, all he could do was ask, “And? How do you feel about… things?”
Rachel gave a big, ponderous sigh. “I’ve thought a lot about all of this, and I guess I have to understand that you’re not really that old.”
“Old?” Fly ball, left field.
“Yeah. I mean, so it kind of makes sense that you’d want to be with somebody that you like. Part of me was really mad the other morning because it felt like you were cheating on Mom, or that you’d forgotten her, but I don’t think Mom would want you to be all by yourself forever.”
Grown men didn’t cry. And if they did, they sure as hell wouldn’t do it in a coffee shop.
Rachel took another sip of coffee. “And I guess if I had to pick somebody, Miss Ham—um, Libby is kind of cool.”
Tom would have fought her on Libby if he’d had to, would have worked to help Rachel understand there was a place for both of them in his life. But now he didn’t have to. Gratitude flooded through his limbs, filling him with a long-absent contentment. He was going to have to send that Dr. Brandt a very nice fruit basket come Christmastime.
“I don’t know what to say, Rachel. I’m so proud of you for being grown up about this.” He wished he could claim some credit for what a wonderful young lady she was turning out to be.
“I’m kind of proud of you, too, Dad.”
Yet another jolt to his system. He was going to have heart failure any minute now. “Proud of me?”
Rachel nodded, her blond waves bouncing slightly. “You�
�ve come a long way in the last few months. I like you again, now that you’re not being a big, bossy jerk.”
Just like her mother. Compliment him with an insult so that he couldn’t feel too good about it. But he did feel good. Because she was proud of him.
“I don’t really appreciate you calling me that, young lady.” He probably should have sounded stern, but he was so goddamned relieved, he couldn’t help but smile.
She sipped her coffee. “I’ll make a note of that. But one thing you should know. If it’s all the same to you, I think I might stick to that other plan of moving home after I have my license. Not because of any of this, but, well, I don’t want to be that far away from Jake.”
This would probably be a good time for a paternal lecture about responsible behavior and good judgment, but given his track record, it seemed a little hypocritical. And the only part of that statement he cared about was the bit about moving home. “That would be fine, Rachel. Come home whenever you’re ready.”
She nodded, and a little smirk tilted at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll call first.”
CHAPTER twenty-seven
Libby stood at the doorway of the ice-cream parlor surveying the remnants of Marti and Dante’s wedding. Like every other aspect of her life, this now seemed an insurmountable mess for her to clean up.
The roses had wilted and turned brown with no water, a sink full of dirty dishes smelled funky and sour, and the cloudy December day outside painted everything in a sad, gray palette. Everything about this place had lost its luster. Or maybe that was just her. Every place she’d looked since Sunday morning seemed to be missing color and warmth and invitation.
She’d waited all day yesterday for Tom to call, or send a text, or even a smoke signal. Anything to let her know where things stood between him and Rachel.
And between him and Libby.
He’d left her standing in the rain without a backward glance. At least Seth had the decency to pretend he was coming back. But Tom Murphy was not one to give encouragement where none was intended.