Aubrey is a cautious person, someone who anticipates the cracks in the road before she gets to them, but that's not going to scare me off. Claire is my daughter too, and I want her.
Family is love. All my life I've heard those words, but this is the first time I've experienced it from the perspective of a parent.
At the sound of the knock, I send a cursory glance over an apartment I know is beyond reproach.
I pull open the door. Aubrey looks at me expectantly. She shifts her feet. Her gaze descends to the floor and back up to me.
“Hi.” Her mouth is soft, the word is soft, and it reminds me of Aubrey the woman, not Aubrey the mama bear.
“Come in.” I step aside and motion with my arm.
Her perfume assaults my senses when she passes me. Would she wear perfume to see my place? Maybe it's not perfume. Maybe it's just Aubrey.
“Where’s Claire?” I ask. I’d been looking forward to seeing her again.
“With my father.” Aubrey glances to the living room. My leather couch faces the oversize flat-screen TV, which doesn’t get much use unless it's football season. “I thought it best if I came alone.”
“Just in case, huh?” I rock back on my heels, hands shoved in the pockets of my jeans.
Her arms cross. “So far your home is beautiful.” She can’t keep the annoyance out of her voice.
“I did a good job hiding all my drug paraphernalia.” I snicker as she throws me a dirty look.
She stands still in the entryway, waiting for me to close the door.
I close the door and lock it. Safety first, Aubrey.
I take a step away from the door and realize how close I'm standing to her. She looks up at me, blue eyes piercing mine, splitting my chest in two. Her pink lips part, and they look so supple, so inviting. If I kissed her now, what would happen? Every cell in my body hurtles through me, alive, on fire, all because Aubrey looked at me and parted her lips.
She gulps and takes a step back. A big step back.
“Show me the rest of the place?” Her voice isn't soft anymore. More like someone making a request of their realtor.
“Yeah, sure.” I turn away from her, the fireball cells in my body cooling like comets that finally realized they’re just stars burning out.
I take her through the rest of the place. Kitchen, living room, office, extra bedrooms, two bathrooms. When we get to my bedroom, she looks everywhere but at the bed.
“It's not the same bed.” I'm teasing her, and I feel a twinge of guilt. She's so serious, though.
“I know,” she says hotly. She turns and leaves my room, but not before I catch the pink in her cheeks.
When I catch up to her, she's in the living room, looking at a large picture of a woman's chest dusted in silvery black glitter. Art, Jenna had called it when she’d proudly put it on the shelf. She'd called it edgy. I thought it was racy, but what did I care?
Aubrey's eyebrows lift. “Nice picture. I'm sure Claire will want to know why that woman has glitter on one of her private parts.”
I look away from the art. “It’s not mine.”
Aubrey looks at me disbelievingly. “It's on a shelf. In your home.”
“Jenna.” I explain.
Aubrey nods. The tension in the air is thick, awkward.
“You don't like it?” I can’t help the smile I feel spreading across my face.
“It's not that.” Aubrey says quickly. “It's just…" She stops, looks around.
I look with her. I know what's there, but I want to see what she sees. Everything is black, white, and shades of gray. Lot's of glass. Silver vases so shiny they could be mirrors.
“It's very adult,” she finishes.
I watch her lips twist. “You mean not kid-friendly.” My heart sinks to somewhere between my knees. I want Aubrey to like what she sees.
“It's not that, not really. It would have been way less kid-friendly a few years ago.” She reaches out, touches the tip of her finger to the corner of my media table. “Ninety degree angles? Not so kind to a toddling child's head. Or face.” She closes her eyes and looks away, and I want to know what she's remembering. Is it a time when Claire got hurt? Or Aubrey?
“Are you saying I'm not a predator, then?” I can't help the indignation in my voice right now. I get where Aubrey is coming from, but it feels offensive. I want nothing more than to be a daddy to a little girl who needs one. End of story.
Aubrey sighs. “I'm sorry.” She fingers the little gold C on the delicate chain around her neck. Her head jerks up suddenly. Her eyes are fiery. “Actually, I'm not sorry. Until now it has been me and Claire against the world. What kind of protector would I be if I dumped her into the hands of a man neither of us knows very well?”
“A gullible one, I suppose.” I don't like admitting it, but she has a point. I also don't like admitting how impressed I am with her tenacity, especially since I'm the one coming up against it.
We stand, staring at one another, until the air is electric and I feel the charge running over my skin, sizzling and crackling.
“You should probably know that Jenna and I broke things off.” My voice is rough. I drag my hand across the back of my neck and over my throat.
Aubrey pivots suddenly, hurrying to the front door. I stay rooted in place, watching her.
“We’ll see you at the zoo this Saturday. I'm a member, so we can get in early. Meet us at nine?” Her lips part as she waits for my response.
I stare. Did she hear what I said?
It dawns on me that she’s choosing to ignore what I’ve just told her. “Nine it is.”
She leaves, the door falling shut behind her. I go to lock it, and when I turn around the glittery breast picture catches my eye. My stride across the room is purposeful. I want that picture out of sight. With one hand, I remove it and set it on the floor so it faces the wall. Picture time-out.
I fall back, letting the couch catch me, and lay my head against the back of it. Thoughts run amok in my brain. And they're all about one person. A girl with raven hair and eyes blue like an ocean.
Aubrey is a complex creature. Layered. And every moment I spend around her makes me want to spend more moments around her, until they become hours and days and years.
What the hell?
I barely know Aubrey. She might as well have warning signs written all over her. Every movement of her body says to stay away. The pushed-out hip, the sharp angles of her arms that are almost always crossed in front of her. And those eyes. So guarded. But not dull. You'd think someone who spends her life keeping people at a distance would have lifeless eyes, but she doesn't. Every time I’ve seen Aubrey, her eyes are alight with some kind of fire. Like she's perpetually ready to fight, to defend, to protect. Herself. And Claire.
Aubrey is a fighter. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t have to beat her chest to demonstrate her strength. She reminds me of my dad. I should consider myself lucky she's being so accommodating with Claire and leave it alone.
That's exactly what I'm going to do. It's what I have to do.
Why can’t text messages have a recall button? I should’ve kept my mouth shut like I did at his house, but no. I just had to lie down tonight and overthink and text. Because everyone knows texts sent after midnight are sensible.
About Jenna… Is it really over?
Ten excruciating minutes later: So you did hear me.
Me: Was it about Claire? Is that why she broke up with you?
Isaac: Yes and no.
Me: Which one is it?
Isaac: Isn’t this a conversation we should have face to face?
Me: No.
Isaac: It went far beyond Claire. But she was the impetus.
I release a gigantic sigh of relief into my dark room. Now that I know that, I feel better.
Me: Are you using fancy doctor words on me?
Isaac: ???
Me: Your request to go to the zoo tomorrow was the impetus of this conversation.
Isaac: Are you using fa
ncy doctor words on me?
I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my cheeks.
Me: Nope. But if you’re lucky I’ll use some fancy insurance words on you.
Isaac: I look forward to it.
Me: See you tomorrow.
Isaac: Good night, mama bear.
I set my phone on the nightstand. The temptation to keep talking to him is too strong. I don’t even want to begin thinking about the fact that he’s single now. Or that my daughter is the reason.
“Are you sure you don't want to come with us today?” I ask my dad, whose back is to me. Spatula in hand, he pushes eggs around a pan on the stove.
“I have to work. Besides, you guys should spend some time alone. Just the three of you.”
I make a face. “We're not a family,” I say as I pick a raspberry from the bowl on the table and pop it into my mouth.
He twists at the waist, peering back at me with challenging eyes. “No?” He turns back to his task.
“No,” I repeat, my tone firm.
“Then what is your idea of family?”
His back is still to me. Maybe that’s why I feel free to say what’s going through my head. “Family is a Thomas Kincaid picture.”
The stiffening of his shoulders is my only indication he’s heard me. After a moment, he asks, “What does a painting of a snowy cottage have to do with family?”
“It’s not the snowy cottage.” I already regret saying it. “It’s what’s inside.”
“And what’s that?”
I pick at the red nail polish on my pinkie. I wish this conversation weren’t happening.
The scene is there, so realistic in my mind. I can see the fire blazing in the fireplace, feel the creamy pages of a book in my hands, smell the dinner in the oven. A meal prepared by my mother. The wood in the fireplace has been chopped by my father. All of this exists inside the snowy cabin.
“Come on, Aubs.” My dad turns to face me, his voice gruff, but I know he’s not mad. His tone comes from a place of uncertainty.
Gaze on my fingernail and the spot left bare by my peeling, I recite the scene I’ve envisioned. My eyes never leave him. His expression never changes.
He only moves when it’s time to grab plates. “I don't think what you're describing ever really existed. I think marketing companies created images of happy little families to drive you mad.”
“It exists and I missed it,” I mutter. Instantly I feel bad. I don't like telling my dad how I feel about it. It's not his fault she left.
“Sorry, Dad.”
“Don't be sorry to me. I'm not the one who you're denying a family.”
I blow out a short breath. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Just what it sounds like. Claire's real father is in the picture now. He may not be family to you, but he is to her.”
My dad doles out scrambled eggs onto plates and calls Claire. She skips in, smiling proudly. My eyes widen when I see why.
“You put on your own pants?” I go to her with my arms open. She nods and steps in. Her hair smells like the all-over baby wash I still use on her.
I pull back to look at her. “It's OK to ask for help while your arm is in the cast, Claire. Mommy and Grandpa don't mind helping you dress.”
“I like to do it myself.” She climbs onto her chair and picks up her fork. Her pajama shirt is still on. She definitely cannot manage that on her own.
“I understand.” I smile at her and eat my breakfast. Visions of Claire finagling her pants float through my head. While we're eating she tells my dad about every animal she plans to see today.
“Haven't you got that place memorized by now?” My dad laughs.
“Yes,” Claire nods solemnly. “Are you coming too?”
“Not today, Claire Bear. Grandpa has a job to do.” He gets up from the table and takes our empty plates with him to the sink. “Someone has to keep the lights on.” I roll my eyes affectionately. It's his favorite joke. It's probably the favorite joke of every journeyman at every utility company that ever existed.
Leaving the dishes in the sink, he comes to the table and plants a kiss on each of our heads. “Have fun today, girls. Claire, tell your dad I said hello.” He gives me a meaningful look over the top of her head and walks out.
Claire finishes her eggs, and with a tug of my hand says, “Let's go, Mommy!”
“We need to change your shirt first.” I pinch one of the smiling moons on her nightshirt. She giggles and runs ahead to her room.
“Hurry! Daddy might already be there.”
I freeze, palming the wall to steady myself. Daddy?
“Coming, baby,” I choke out.
Daddy.
Daddy.
Daddy.
The twenty-minute drive to the zoo has done nothing to untangle the knots in my stomach. Isaac has texted to let me know he's already there, waiting out front for us.
Claire and I walk from the car, and Isaac meets us halfway.
“I feel like an insider, getting into the zoo an hour before it opens to the public.” He slaps a high-five with Claire.
She skips ahead to the bridge, where she can watch the ducks and turtles in the lake below.
“How's Claire's arm?” Isaac asks.
“Aren't you supposed to wait until her next check-up to ask me that question?” I tease. Or, at least I think I'm teasing. Isaac doesn't laugh.
He puts his hands in his jeans pockets. He clears his throat, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“OK.” I draw out the word, but we can't keep talking, because we've reached the man waiting to take our tickets. I pull my membership card and ID from my wallet. He looks them over and hands me back my things. We step through the turnstile, and Claire runs ahead, snatching a map from the little brown stand. Isaac watches her, an amused smile on his face.
Claire surges forward, certain of where she's going. The zoo is nearly empty, so I'm comfortable with the lead she has on us. I can see her, and I know she'll stop at the giraffes. I can see one now, it's graceful neck bowing to pull food from the tall feeder.
“So that thing I wanted to talk to you about…” Isaac starts.
My heart beats faster. Bad things happen when conversations begin this way.
“I know you like living with your dad, but I was thinking maybe we could talk about one day giving Claire a home that both her parents live in.”
I balk. “We—”
“Barely know each other.”
“We're—”
“Practically strangers.”
I fall quiet, miffed. We've caught up with Claire. She's leaning against the railing, her chin resting on her right hand. I hang back, taking a seat on one of the benches. Isaac sits next to me.
A giraffe strides across the expanse of grass. My eyes track its movements, but my mind is going haywire. “Why did you ask if you already knew my arguments?"
Isaac leans forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees. “Because you don't know mine.”
“What are they?” The question has only been out of my mouth for three seconds and I already regret asking. I don't think I want to know.
He flicks his gaze over his left shoulder, so his eyes are on me. I don’t like the determination I see in them. “We could get to know each other better. You've already been to my place. You know what it looks like. You've been to where I work. We've shared a meal. You know I don't like spinach."
I can't help but smile at that part. At the restaurant last week, he'd asked the server to leave the spinach off his sandwich, and when it came with spinach, he meticulously picked off every last piece.
“I know you don't like flowers." Isaac continues.
“I like flowers.” I eye the large pink hibiscus blooms on a nearby bush.
“You don't like dates showing up with them.”
I nod slowly. “Right." He remembered.
“Aubrey,” he says, and the way he says my name makes me tea
r my eyes from Claire, who's peering through the metal telescope to the giraffes at the far side of the exhibit. “I’m trying to do what's right in an anything but typical situation."
“And you think moving in together is what's right?” I'm trying to understand his line of logic. Because it definitely wasn't mine.
“Yes. You'll have your own room, of course.” He shakes his head. “I didn't mean to suggest something else. If that's what you're thinking.”
“It wasn’t.” My words rush out. “I’m so surprised that I wasn't thinking much of anything.”
Isaac stands, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. “I just wanted to put it out there. We don't have to talk about it again today.”
Claire comes back to us, jumping like she's on a pogo stick. I’d like Isaac to put on his doctor cap and remind her she has a broken arm. Instead he laughs at her.
“Claire, please be careful. Your arm.”
“Yes, Mommy. Flamingoes next!” She pivots, heading for the next exhibit.
“Her arm is safe inside that cast.”
I throw a couple daggers at Isaac with my eyes. I’m not sure if it’s for thinking I’m overprotective or for knowing me well enough to know how I was feeling. “I just want her to be careful.”
“She's not doing anything careless. I've seen way worse, Aubrey. On a child even younger than her.” He studies Claire for a moment before breaking into a jog.
He has a nice run. Graceful. Rhythmic.
When he catches up to her, he picks her up by the waist and twirls her around. She laughs and leans her head back, so trusting that the person who has her will never let her fall.
I walk slowly, catching up to Claire and Isaac at the flamingoes. They're both standing on one foot, imitating the smelly pink birds.
“You too,” Claire points at me.
I stifle a groan and lift a foot off the ground. I'm not a silly person or a funny person. I never have been. But for Claire?
Anything for Claire.
“You know you want it…” The growl comes from low in Isaac’s throat.
“OK, fine.” I grin ruefully at the person behind the counter. “Brownie ice cream blast with chocolate sauce and sprinkles.” I turn to Isaac. “Are you happy? I got the biggest, messiest thing on the menu.”
Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1) Page 11