by Lia Lee
“Daddy, it’s okay,” I tell him, trying to head off a potential fistfight between my dad and his boss… shit. My dad’s going to have to look for another job now.
Dad doesn’t answer. He just gives me a look. There’s disappointment in his eyes. He slowly shakes his head as he looks between the two of us, then gives a disgusted wave and turns, walking away.
It hits me as I watch him—why he’s more disappointed than anything. He’s been here. He’s been in this exact situation—where he was the older and more powerful man messing around with a young woman. I know he was in this situation because I caught him doing it. Come to think of it, she was probably around my age, the woman I caught him with when I was a kid.
He expected better from me. And he expected better than Nathaniel. And we just made him relive what I know is one of his biggest regrets—that he didn’t appreciate my mom more when she was alive, and that he spent his time on meaningless sex instead of loving her the way he should have.
A lot of the disgust and anger I have toward my dad melts a bit. He’d been very, very wrong, but he was paying for it now, and there would be no peace for him. Not really. He needed me now.
I turn to Nathaniel. “It’s over between us. Don’t call me. Don’t try to contact me. Our age difference is too much of an issue, and we have absolutely nothing to offer one another. And I sure the hell am not ready to be anyone’s stepmom—assuming there really is no wife hidden in your attic or something. Just… just stay away.”
With that, I turn on my heel and go after my dad, ignoring the way my heart aches at the look in Nathaniel’s eyes.
I manage to catch up to Dad outside, just as he’s getting into his car parked in the gallery’s private lot.
“Dad! Wait!”
He snaps his head in my direction, and even in the dim light of the nearby streetlamps, I can still see that sting of disappointment in his eyes.
“How could you have been so foolish?” he states, a kind of severity in his tone that I haven’t heard since I was a kid. “He’s double your age, Poppy. I didn’t raise you to be some older man’s fuck doll.”
His choice of words makes me reel on the inside. Despite some truth to his words, he has no right to judge me. He’s been in this exact situation. Only worse.
“You barely raised me at all,” I hurl back, allowing spite to coat my words. “You worked all the time, and on one of the very rare occasions that I did come and visit you at the office… well, you know what happened that day…”
Dad bows his head, a clear admission of guilt but also pain. I hurt him just now, but he has to own what he did if he wants to reprimand me for being the “younger woman” screwing her older boss.
“It’s not just the fact that he’s older, Poppy,” Dad finally says, daring to make eye contact again. “Nathaniel Stone has a… troubled past. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
I walk closer to him, my resolve softening when I see how broken he really looks. At this moment, I feel like a five-year-old girl just wanting to cuddle her daddy.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him, fighting against the lump forming in my throat. “It’s over. I won’t be interning at the gallery anymore.”
Dad furrows his eyebrows, his expression harsh again. “Did he fire you? Because we can take him to court, Poppy. Unfair dismissal. If he sexually harassed or manipulated or seduced you, in any way, we’ll take him to the cleaners.”
I smile, knowing that he’s just saying that out of love for his daughter rather than hate for Nathaniel. In fact, Dad has tons of respect for him. It’s a little gutting that more than one relationship has been ruined in this mess.
“No, it was a mutual decision, Dad. I’m okay with it, really.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He gives a slow nod and then gestures to the car. “Come on, sweetie. I’ll give you a ride home.”
I etch another weak smile and walk around to the passenger-side door. After I get in, and Dad turns the ignition, he pauses and looks over at me.
“Did he ever tell you what happened to his wife?” he asks, his voice as low as a whisper.
I can’t hide my surprise over the question. Nathaniel made it clear that there was no secret wife on the scene, but that was all he said. He had a wife?
“No…” My voice trails off as the past tense of that sentence sinks in. He had a wife. So, that means she must have died. “W-what happened to her?” I ask Dad, my voice shaking a little.
Dad lets out a heavy sigh like he’s battling with his answer. “It’s not my place to say, sweetie. But her name was Danneel, and she died when Micah was just a baby. If—” He breaks off midsentence and sighs again. “If you and Nathaniel… do decide to keep this relationship between you going… then I’m sure he’ll tell you about her in his own time.”
For the first time since Mom died, I don’t feel like a semi-orphan. This is the realist conversation my dad and I have ever had. It’s like, before, there was a wall up between us, and no matter how hard we tried to chip it away, it never relented. Until tonight—until one moment of clarity and vulnerability had punched an almighty hole right through it, causing the diamond-hard foundations to crumble.
As Dad pulls the car out of the lot, against my better judgment, I gaze at the gallery’s two glowing bay windows as we pass by. The venue is still swarming with people clinking glasses and laughing while they admire Vanessa’s art.
Then I see him, just a quick glimpse, a tall, handsome statue striding over to rejoin his guests.
My heart skips a few beats, yearning for what it can no longer have, but then I peer back over at Dad, and the corners of my lips curl up.
Maybe some things really are for the best…
Chapter Fourteen
Nathaniel
I’m holed up in one of the back workrooms of my gallery. I’ve spent most of my waking hours here, and too many of the hours in which I should have been sleeping. It’s been a week since Poppy walked out on me for good, and I’m a fucking mess. I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. It feels like someone turned down the color settings in my world. Everything had seemed vibrant and alive when I’d had Poppy in my life, and now everything’s gray and muted. I don’t want to do much of anything besides stare at the walls.
And paint.
I’ve been painting. It’s the only thing, besides Micah, getting my ass out of bed this last week. I didn’t expect it to hurt this damn much. I haven’t been this wrecked since Danneel died. Even that, though, was a different kind of wrecked. It was heartbreaking and sad, and I was angry, and I was sure I’d never, ever love anyone again. Definitely not the way I loved her. And I hadn’t wanted to. She was my one and only. I spent the last five years, before Poppy, sating my needs with women who meant nothing, because I didn’t want anything more than that. None of them was my wife.
And then Poppy opened the gallery door, letting in a flurry of wind that knocked over that damn painting. What started out as lust and desire became so much more. I started seeing her as my forever, a woman that my wife would have liked, a woman who pushes me to be better, to feel more.
And she’s gone.
This heartbreak is different, I think as I lay more paint on the canvas. I didn’t have the power to save my relationship with Danneel because it was just her time, but Poppy is alive. She’s here, in this city, and I can’t have her. She’s so near, and she doesn’t want me.
Old and dirty. That’s how she sees me.
I try to force my mind off Poppy, breathing in the comforting scents of oil paint and turpentine. Rock music plays from the speakers, and I’m wearing a pair of paint-smeared jeans and a T-shirt. It reminds me of my college days; getting lost in work, dealing with life through my art. I miss this. I’d stopped completely after Danneel’s death and was sure I wouldn’t bother with it again.
I add a little more ochre to the canvas, and my mind goes to Micah and the talk we had earlier this morning. We’d been s
itting at the island in the kitchen, eating bowls of cereal, his short legs dangling, kicking the legs of his stool. He’d looked at me with his big hazel eyes and tilted his head.
“Is that pretty lady coming back?” he’d asked, and I’d barely been able to breathe.
“Maybe,” I said, not wanting to go into it more than that.
“Is she going to be my new mommy? I really want a mommy, and she seems nice.”
It had taken everything in me not to lose my shit and break down at that moment. The memory of Danneel’s death had washed over me again, taking me right back to that night when I’d held Micah in the aftermath, knowing it was just going to be him and me. Knowing that I’d have to raise him alone as a single father. I was so scared at that moment, and when the nurses came to take him for a few hours, so I could allow myself to grieve, I’d gone straight to the hospital’s stairwell and let it all out, wailing into the echoing metal.
This morning, I’d changed the subject with Micah by talking about some cartoon he liked, but it felt as if I’d been knocked flat.
I’m in love with Poppy. Completely, utterly in love with her.
I hadn’t realized it until the moment of Micah’s innocent question that, even if I hadn’t wanted to admit it, I’d already been thinking about forever with Poppy.
I don’t know how I’m going to do this. How am I supposed to live the rest of my life without seeing her beautiful face? Without her giving me that devilish little lift of her eyebrow that tells me she thinks I’m full of shit? How am I supposed to live without those little smiles of hers, the ones that make me feel like I’m about a hundred feet tall?
How am I going to fall asleep every night for the rest of my life without her in my arms?
I toss the brush down. Fuck it.
I head up to my office. More importantly, I head for the bottle of whiskey I keep in the liquor cabinet in there. Micah’s nanny has agreed to stay in the penthouse for a few days while I work through this, and I’m all for taking advantage of that. Getting good and loaded sounds like a fantastic idea.
But by the end of my fourth shot of whiskey, my mind has begun to remember other things. Unwanted things. Things about my parents that, like Danneel, I’ve tried my hardest to banish into a dark corner.
Suddenly I’m back in my old room again. The one with the tattered curtains and the mattress on the floor. Outside, the rain had just started to pelt down, with a crack of thunder rolling in the distance. But it wasn’t the storm I was afraid of; it was the clock. It was almost 7:30—the time my father came home of a night, intoxicated from after-work drinks with his buddies.
And judging by the slam of the front door and all the yelling, he was right on time. So I waited. Again, like clockwork, I heard him shove my mother against a wall, the crack of a palm hitting a cheek as loud as that damn thunder. But tonight would be the last time he’d dare touch her.
I was fifteen now, and strong—much stronger than the coward in the other room had been when he was my age. For years, I’d watched on as he hit her, swore at her, degraded her, powerless to stop him. But not anymore. Now, I could take him on and show him who the real man of the house was.
After flexing my arms, I flung open the bedroom door and stalked out to the living room. My mother was on the floor, sobbing, blood dripping out of her nose. When my father looked up, he smirked. I’ll never forget it; he had no idea what was coming to him. I rushed him, slamming him up against the fireplace that he was damn lucky wasn’t lit. He stumbled into the pile of charcoal and tried to get back on his feet again but couldn’t. He was even more drunk than usual, and I was going to play that to my advantage.
I took the poker from its holder just within arm’s reach and struck him with it. Nowhere that could kill him; just hurt him. I hit his shins, his knees, his thighs, and arms. Tomorrow his body would be riddled over with cuts and bruises, yet that still wouldn’t amount to the scores he’d given my mother over the years.
When I was finally done, I scuffed him by the collar and made him look right into my eyes. “You touch her again, and I’ll kill you,” I said, my hatred for him laced on every word.
Then I shoved him back into the fireplace and turned to help my mother.
That night, we left him there—a blubbering mess that neither of us would ever see again.
With a few blinks, my eyes refocus on the bottle of whiskey. I pour another shot, down it, then get up, ready to go and put the finishing touches on her portrait.
Chapter Fifteen
Poppy
I know watching Netflix with a tub of double chocolate ice cream is kind of pathetic, but if this is what I need to do to heal and move on, then so be it. Bring on the reality TV shows and weight gain, because I’m committed.
Just as I settle in to watch the latest episodes of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, the intercom for the door buzzes. Seriously? Just after I sat down. FML.
With a heavy sigh and very reluctant effort, I jump up and head over to the intercom to press the button. “Who is it?”
I hear muffled voices on the other end, one high-pitched and the other older and feminine.
“I can say my own name!” I freeze when I recognize that little voice. “It’s Micah Stone. Can I come up and see you, Poppy?” My gut somersaults. What the hell is Nathaniel’s kid doing here?
“Um, okay,” I manage to sputter out, and before I stop myself, I hit another button, allowing Micah entry into the lobby downstairs. Shit. A second thought hits me. What if he isn’t alone? What if his asshole, yet devilishly handsome father is with him? And Nathaniel’s using Micah as a way to see me. No… surely, he wouldn’t stoop so low.
Within a minute, there’s a series of solid raps on the front door, and when I sneak a peek through the peephole, I’m relieved to see Micah and his nanny. Thank God.
I step back and release the chain over the door before opening the door wide. Micah practically leaps into my arms, squeezing me so tight my bones start to hurt. What on earth is this about?
As soon as Micah releases me, I take a deep breath. Seeing him and his nanny was about the last thing I expected today, and my mind is still reeling. The nanny starts to apologize profusely, saying that they found my address on some paperwork in the penthouse, and Micah wouldn’t stop insisting on talking to me.
I smile and reassure her it’s okay. “Honestly, it’s fine. I was just having a quiet night in anyway,” I tell her, then look back down at Micah. “Micah, how can I help?”
“It’s my dad,” he replies, his eyes glazing over a little. “He’s so sad, and I don’t know what to do. I try to cheer him up all the time—I even gave him my favorite teddy to cuddle, but he still cries.”
The wave of sorrow that sweeps over me is the worst one yet. Poor little Micah; he shouldn’t ever see his dad like that. Maybe I was too hasty the other night at the gallery. Maybe Nathaniel and I should’ve made a time to talk about things properly; clear the air on a better and more mature note.
Fast forward an hour, and I can’t believe I’m here. Standing outside the gallery.
If I had any sense of self-preservation at all, I’d turn myself around and go back home to the safety of my Netflix and decadent tub of ice cream.
But when a brokenhearted little boy shows up on your doorstep and tells you that his daddy’s been crying and he bets you could cheer him up, you pull on your big girl panties and go check on the asshole you’re pretty damn sure you might be in love with.
Micah’s earnestness, his big, hazel eyes that reminded me too much of his father’s… I just hadn’t been able to say no. I’d promised him that I would check on his dad.
And here I am.
I might be an idiot, but at least I’m one who has a heart.
I use my key (which I forgot to return to Nathaniel) to let myself into the gallery and quickly put in the code, so the alarm doesn’t trip. The nanny told me that Nathaniel had been holed up here at the gallery for days, so this seemed like the place to f
ind him.
I grimace. If he’s in his office with some bitch, I’m going to lose it.
As I walk in, I see that there’s a light on in one of the back rooms, so I head that way, hoping I’ll find him there and get this over with.
“Nathaniel?” I call softly as I approach the door. There’s no answer, so I step inside the room and look around. All that’s in here is a large drop cloth, splattered with paint, an array of painting supplies, and a huge canvas. I glance around again for Nathaniel, but there’s no sign of him. Curious, I walk around to the front of the canvas.
As soon as I look at it, I freeze. My jaw drops.
It’s… me.
I can barely breathe as I step closer to the painting. It’s gorgeous. The artist captured everything, from the angles of my face to the weird way my lips quirk up when I’m smiling. The woman in the painting… me… is giving that little smile, her eyes sparkling mischievously. Who the hell has done this?
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” a deep voice says behind me. I spin, and Nathaniel’s standing there in the doorway, a bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand.
I tilt my head and gesture at the bottle. “Please don’t tell me that’s what you’ve been doing the last few days.”
“Like you give a damn,” he says with a smirk, but there’s no missing the bitterness in his voice.
I walk toward him. I can barely breathe. My stomach is twisting, my heart pounding. I knew I’d be affected seeing him again, but I didn’t expect it to be so intense.
I should have known better.
I reach him and lift my hands, cupping his face between them. “I care,” I murmur, meeting his eyes. He looks away, and I say his name. He meets my eyes again. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Micah came to see me,” I add, still being gentle. “He’s worried about you. He said you’re sad, and that he thought I could make it better.”
A tear slides down his face, and I gently wipe it away with my thumb. “I’m sorry he bothered you… I didn’t know he realized…”
“He didn’t bother me. I’m glad he told me,” I say softly. “He was worried. He’s a good kid, clearly. He doesn’t seem to believe in standing back when he thinks someone needs help.”