“You're kidding?" He's excited now, grabbing a lime from the basket with the oranges and tossing it on the cutting board.
I shake my head. “I'm not."
“Well, then, I'm going to teach you something."
He cuts the lime into quarters and grabs a container of salt from a cabinet.
“Nope. No way." I shake my head. I know what he's doing.
“Fine. If you're happy with that boring red wine. Be my guest." He laughs. “Or my roommate. Be my roommate."
He rubs a lime on one quarter of the rim of the shot glass, rolls the glass around in the salt, and pours in the tequila. Eyes on me, he takes the shot and, without wincing, brings the lime to his mouth for a bite.
“Fine." I’m probably going to regret this, but in this moment I don't care. I’m finally not sick and being around Isaac makes me feel young, like I really am my age. Some days I feel so much older. I flash him a grin and point at his empty shot glass. “Teach me."
Isaac eyes me. “No more red wine?" He reaches over the counter to where my wine glass sits, abandoned. “You can't mix wine and tequila."
“No more red wine," I say with more confidence than I feel.
He pours it in the sink. I gulp. Why do I feel like I'm in over my head?
Isaac repeats the process, lining up the shot of tequila for me. “Lick the salt, take the shot, and bite into the lime. Simple as that."
“Right," I repeat. I'm nervous.
Isaac comes close so he's standing right beside me. “I've seen you do shots before."
I narrow my eyes at him. I remember that perfectly.
I do what he says, tasting the salt, grimacing at the tequila, and puckering when I bite the lime.
“Well?" He asks. I lift my eyes to his and find him grinning ear to ear.
Actually, it wasn't that terrible. I like salt. I like tart citrus. The sting of the tequila...well, I could get used to that.
“Not terrible."
He holds out his fist, and I bump it.
As I watch, he sets up a second round, and we take it together. There's a nice, warm feeling coming over me.
I turn around, the edge of the counter digging into my back as I let it support my weight. “You know, there's another stereotype about Latino men..."
Isaac gazes down at me. “And what would that be?"
I swallow. “They’re incredibly passionate."
His eyes grow darker. “You tell me, Aubrey. Am I incredibly passionate?"
I lean my elbows behind me on the counter and look away. “Hard to say. It was a long time ago."
“I see. And there have been so many since me that I was swept to the back of your memory bank."
“Hardly."
“Not many? Was there someone special? Did some lucky guy get to spend time with you and my daughter?" Possession takes over in his voice.
“No. After you...well, I was pregnant. And then I was a mother to a baby. And things, you know, they, uh..." I look down at my midsection. “They don't really look the same after you have a baby." I run my hand over my stomach. It's mostly flat now, but there are telltale signs a life grew in there. My belly button isn't the same. It's bigger than it used to be. And the skin around it reminds me of a crepe dress my grandmother used to wear.
“Can I see?" His eyes are earnest. He leans forward.
“You want to see my stomach?" Did I hear him right? Maybe the tequila is clogging my ears.
“I want to see where Claire lived. I know it sounds crazy, but I missed seeing her in there. I missed out on seeing you with your belly swollen. I just... I don't know. I missed out on so much." He looks sad, so sad. I feel bad that I know what it was like and he doesn't. For a moment I wonder if somehow I could’ve tried harder to find him, but the thought dissipates. What more could I have done? Life dealt me the cards. All I could do was play them.
His sad eyes make me say yes. “Just remember, I'm not going to look like I did five years ago. Assuming you remember."
Using my hands, I hop to a seat on the counter and lean back on my elbows. Isaac steps in front of me, his hands pushing on my knees to split my legs. He steps between them and reaches for the hem of my shirt, eyes on mine.
My cheeks are warm. He’s waiting for me to give him a green light, so I nod slightly.
The fabric glides against my abdomen, and the cool air brushes my bare skin as he pushes up my shirt, past my belly button, coming to a stop just under my breasts.
I suck in a breath and turn my head. I don't want to see his face. What if he hates what he sees? He was with Jenna, perfection personified. I’m certain she doesn't have a dimple on her ass, let alone crepey skin on her stomach.
“Aubrey." He breathes my name and I look. His hand dangles out over my stomach. His eyebrows are raised, asking permission. I meet his gaze and nod. When his hand touches my stomach, I feel more than just it’s warmth.
“You're as beautiful right now as you were the night we met." His hand runs in a circle, searing heat over my skin.
“Of course.” I sit up, and Isaac's hand drops from my stomach. My shirt falls back into place. Everything is as it was before. Except for Isaac. He hasn't moved. He's still between my legs.
I bite my lower lip and close my eyes. Isaac's nearness is almost too much to take. I can smell him, if I squeezed my thighs together I'd capture his waist.
With a gentle push, he lowers me back down on the counter. My eyes open when his hand releases the back of my head and I watch him lift my shirt again. He leans down, kisses my belly button, then branches out, working in a semi-circle. His fluttery kisses descend, until his mouth is at the top of my hipbone. He nips my skin and goosebumps cover my arms. His fingers meet the waistband of my pants, one finger running the length, from hip bone to hip bone.
My hands are in his hair, the urgent sound of my zipper competes for space with the sound of heavy breaths. I look down, and he looks up, the stubble on his chin grazing my tender skin. It's just like it was the last time, our only time. He stands, lifting my butt off the counter with one hand, then starts to ease my jeans off my hips. I wiggle to help him, and he smiles down to me.
A faraway yell pierces the thick, lusty kitchen air.
Everything pauses. My jeans, halfway down my hips, the peek of lavender lace, the rush of blood.
Isaac helps me up, then off the counter.
“I—” My hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
"It's OK. Go check on her." He adjusts himself through his shorts and clears his throat with a shallow, embarrassed sound.
When I reach Claire, she's already fallen back to sleep. Her rhythmic breath is deep, her lower lip slack. I lean in close to her face, feel the short stream of warm air touch my cheek, then back away so I don't disturb her.
I could go back out there. We could pick up where we left off.
The wall holds my weight as I sag against it. My heart thunders in my chest. I'm not sure if the adrenaline is from what I was doing with Isaac or from hurrying to Claire.
Either way, the spell has been broken.
I lie down beside Claire, careful not to jostle her casted arm. Streams of moonlight give off enough light that after a few moments of my eyes adjusting, I can see her profile. Her pert nose. Eyes the same color and shape as her father's.
Tears stream sideways into the pillow, and an ache starts behind my forehead. I don't know why I'm crying. It happens sometimes when I spend too long staring at my daughter. Maybe I should see a therapist again.
Or maybe I should go back out there and let Isaac be my therapy.
Instead, I close my eyes.
It’s good things didn't go any further tonight. This is one relationship I can't afford to fuck up.
Last night...
I roll over and close my eyes. I don't want to be awake yet. I want to envision what could have happened if Claire hadn’t yelled out. If Aubrey hadn’t fallen asleep in Claire’s bed.
She was relaxed. Her walls were down. She wa
s sweet and sensual. She wanted me.
I love seeing her like that. It's a welcome change from her usual front of self-possession.
She'll blame it on the tequila. I know she will. It’s an easy target.
The sunlight peeks in through my curtains, and one of Aubrey's hairs shines on my sheets. It must have hitched a ride on my shirt, because she sure as hell wasn’t in my bed. I pick it up, let it dangle from my fingertips before I drop it onto the floor. Outside my door I hear a giggle, then a shushing sound.
It's Saturday, but that means nothing to me. I don't sleep in. I throw back my covers and stand, ignoring the strain against the front of my shorts, and go turn on the shower.
When I get out, I feel more prepared for the day. Less affected by thoughts of last night.
“Hey girls," I say when I walk out to the living room. Claire's seated on the couch, her legs criss-crossed. Aubrey sits beside her, a book open between them.
“Hello," Aubrey says stiffly, briefly meeting my eyes. She looks back down to Claire's book, picking up where she left off.
She may have only looked at me for half a second, but I saw everything in her eyes. Regret, embarrassment, unease.
“Daddy, did you know sea scallops have one hundred eyes?" Claire blinks up at me. Aubrey's words trail off as Claire stops paying attention to the book. She tosses it on the empty couch cushion and gets up, walking to the kitchen. Even from ten feet away I can see the tension in her shoulders.
“I didn't know that." I smile down at the top of Claire's head. “Is your mom reading to you about sea scallops?" I head for the kitchen to get my dose of morning caffeine.
“Nope. My teacher told us yesterday at school." Claire's on my heels, carrying her book. I pick her up and swing her onto the counter. She sets the book beside her in exactly the same spot Aubrey was last night.
“Don't move a muscle," I tell Claire. I walk a few feet away to pour my coffee. Aubrey comes to stand by her, poking Claire on the nose as she leans against the counter. Claire giggles and Aubrey winks at her.
“What do you two want to do today?" I sip my coffee.
Aubrey tries to look everywhere but into my eyes. Finally she has no choice and has to look at me. Her cheeks color. She clears her throat. “I thought we'd visit my dad." She takes a strand of Claire's hair between her fingers and twists gently. “What do you say, Claire Bear? Do you want to see Grandpa?"
Claire nods her head vigorously. “I haven't seen him in ten years." Her eyes are wide, her voice somber.
I smash my lips together to keep from laughing.
Aubrey grins and points a thumb at Claire. “The exaggeration is strong with this one."
I laugh while I take the makings for French toast out of the fridge. “Am I allowed to tag along? I wouldn't mind seeing John." The guy fascinates me.
I pull back from the fridge in time to see the uncomfortable look is back on Aubrey's face. “I guess,” she says.
“I guess?" I ask, dumping the ingredients on the counter and eyeing her.
“Sure." She shrugs.
“You can say no." I crack two eggs into a pie pan. Instead of looking at her I whisk the eggs. It's obvious she doesn't like to be put on the spot.
“It's OK, Isaac. You can come.” She glances at me as soon as the words are out of her mouth.
I’ve caught the double entendre, and I'm guessing she wishes I hadn't. She flushes, and I can't help my smirk.
Even she can't maintain her stoicism. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
Coughing, she turns away and asks “Do I have time for a shower before breakfast is ready?"
“Sure. Claire and I can hang out until you're ready."
Aubrey lifts Claire from the counter and sets her on her feet.
I wash and dry my hands at the sink, watching Aubrey go.
“Maybe take a cold shower," I say loudly after her.
She looks back at me over her right shoulder, running her middle finger down her cheek, a silent expletive statement.
Her spunkiness makes me smile. “I tried that last night. Didn’t work out.”
She exhales loudly and throws her hands in the air. But I know she's happy.
I could talk to John all day. I'd be carrying the conversation, but still. John's not much for talking, but he'll answer any question asked of him. If he were a character in the movies, he'd be in one of those old westerns my dad used to watch on Saturdays, back before there were a million channels to choose from. John’s character would have a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, a constant frown, and be ready to kick ass at any moment. Now, in the present, he looks like he's still ready to kick ass at any moment.
“What was the scariest moment you've ever had hunting?” I ask him. We're sitting out back, watching Claire play in the sand box. I've warned her not to get sand in her cast, because there's no way to get it out until next week when she's ready for her final cast. Aubrey wanted to put a plastic bag over her arm and tie it off, but I talked her out of it. She's inside cleaning now. I think she wants to take care of her dad. And cleaning is how she does that.
John crosses a booted foot over one knee and leans back in his chair. “Once, I was bear-hunting with my friend David. We'd just gotten back to the truck, and it was nearly dark. I sat on my tailgate, and I was drinking a beer. I heard a rattle and said to David, “Do you hear that?” David said no, and I thought maybe I was just hearing things. A few moments later, I heard it again. I got down and shined a flashlight under my truck. Sure as shit, there was a rattlesnake under there. The damn thing had a rat in its mouth.” John shakes his head. “Only reason it didn't bite me.”
My mouth hangs open. Every rattlesnake I’ve ever seen has been behind an inch of protective glass. “That's crazy.”
“I've done a lot and seen a lot, but that was the closest I've come to being badly hurt.” He nods slowly. His voice is nonchalant, like the smooth surface of still water. No ripples from wind, no movement from a current. Still and steady.
John watches Claire pour sand through a sieve into another container. Inside I hear the banging of dishes. It's almost as loud as the Bob Seger music Aubrey turned on when she got started.
“Bob Seger, huh?” I say off-handedly. “Not what I would've expected from Aubrey.”
At this, John smiles. “Aubs likes her Seger. Old Time Rock n Roll is her favorite. I played it when she was younger. Back when my old Chevy broke down every week and I'd spend Saturday's getting it running again. She sat on my toolbox and handed me tools. Usually the wrong ones.” John's nostalgic grin reaches his ears. “She called them Chevy Days.”
I chuckle, picturing Claire as a young Aubrey, handing me tools. I don't know how to fix trucks, so I've placed us in the OR. The tools probably have similar functions.
John leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Isaac, I hope you understand how special Aubrey is to me.”
I mimic his posture. “Of course I do.”
“And you know about her mother?” He meets my eyes. When I nod, he looks back to his hands.
“Aubrey doesn't let people in. Not readily, anyway. What she's doing with you goes against her nature.”
“She's doing it for Claire, I think.” It hurts even saying it, but I know it's true.
John nods. “Yeah, she is. But I think in time, she might come the point where she's doing it for herself too.”
I don't say anything. I'm not sure what John's getting at. And I can only hope that he's right.
“What I need to know is if you asked them to move in just so you can be a full-time father to Claire. Did you?”
I sit back, my eyes on Claire. She brushes sand off her bare legs.
“Yes...and no. My goal is to be a father to Claire. But my hope…" I glance behind my shoulder, inside the house, but I don't see Aubrey. I lower my voice anyway. “My hope is that Aubrey will see we need to be a family. That we'd make a really, really good one. That we'd probably have been one this whole time if we'd exchang
ed last names five years ago.”
John looks at me sharply. I'd like to look away, but I don't. He wants to stare me down for creating a baby with his daughter before I really knew her. I get it. Because I have a daughter of my own now.
His gaze stays on me for a few more seconds, then he goes back to watching Claire.
“Good luck.” He says. “Aubrey's as tough as they come. She shoots from the hip and she doesn't play games.”
I agree with John, but only to a point. I've seen Aubrey's softness. It may be well-hidden, but it's there, and she gives it freely to the people she loves. Her tough exterior is love-soluble. I've made a career out of fixing broken bones. And I know I can fix her broken heart.
“I understand.” John is a lot like Aubrey. Or I guess Aubrey is a lot like John. His exterior is more weathered than Aubrey's, but it functions the same.
“Dad.” Aubrey steps from the house, one hand planted on her hip, the other holding out a grayish ball of...lint?
John's eyes flick over to her. When he sees what she's holding, his eyebrows squish together, and he looks away.
“Every time, Dad. You have to do it every time. I told you already. It's a fire hazard.” Aubrey’s exasperated. I'm still trying to understand what’s happening.
“I will, Aubs.” John reassures her, but he sounds a little petulant. Like a teenager being scolded by a mother. Or a husband nagged by his wife.
My back teeth clamp down on my cheek to keep from laughing. These two have the most unique relationship I've ever seen. And I thought my mom and I were different.
Aubrey thinks she and I are so dissimilar, but we're not. What has bonded her and John is the same thing that has bonded my mom and me. It goes beyond the normal and into the realm of shared brokenness.
“Claire, baby, come inside for a snack,” Aubrey calls out. Claire stands up and comes to us, smiling. Always smiling.
She stops in front of John. “I made a castle with a moat. Because there's an army of monsters who want to get in. And the moat has alligators in it.”
“That's a good way to keep the monsters out.” John leans forward and lightly tugs on one of the braids I watched Aubrey weave into Claire's hair this morning.
Our Finest Hour (The Time Series Book 1) Page 17