by Claire Adams
Their good-natured jokes and comments faded. The whole gold spectacle of the Caesar's Palace lobby faded too. For a moment, there was just Quinn and I.
I held my breath. I should have discussed it with her before, but it just seemed right. I hoped it was right. I hoped for more, but this was the first step and I did not want to stumble over it.
"I'll just go get my room key," Quinn said. She waved to everyone and went off to the counter.
I played it casual and chatted with the other players for a few more minutes and then caught up with Quinn as she headed for the elevators. Somehow, in the immense hotel full of people, we managed to get an elevator all to ourselves.
"Too much?" I asked. "I know we didn't talk about it, but now at least you know how I feel."
Quinn shook her head. "Owen, this is a big tournament for you and the last thing I want to do is get in your way. Whatever we are does not have to be part of your public image. I know you fought hard to get where you are and I don't want to cause any controversy for you."
I dropped my bag and took both her hands. "That's all in the past. And now that you are moving on with your career and Dark Flag as your hobby, there is no reason why I can't tell everyone who you are and what you mean to me."
Quinn went still, her hands warm in mine. "What do I mean to you?"
I had to kiss her three times before the words would come. "Everything," I said. "Quinn, I love you."
The look in her chocolate brown eyes melted all my fears. Quinn reached up on tip toe and kissed me again. "And I love you."
I had just wrapped my arms tightly around her waist to delve deeper into the kiss when the elevator doors opened.
"There you are!" a voice called.
Mr. And Mrs. Thomas appeared. "We were just knocking on your door. I thought you would have checked in by now. Don't you have a game to be getting ready for?" Mrs. Thomas asked.
"We don't really know how these things work, but we read the schedule," Mr. Thomas said. He shook my hand. "Seems like you're top billing on a lot of the events."
"See, I told you he was a professional gamer," Quinn said.
"Quinn told me the story about you and the little white chapel," I said. The words just jumped out and I could not take them back.
Mrs. Thomas laughed. "Oh, it was so romantic. Mostly because it took all the pressure off the big to-do we had planned. It would have killed my family not to have had the big white wedding, so it was fun to run off on our own right before."
Quinn took my hand and squeezed hard. "I always thought it was romantic too. I mean, you two had planned that big wedding for months and months. You really knew what you wanted."
I took a deep breath. Quinn was right. I knew what I wanted and there was no reason to rush it. We were together, our hands linked, and her parents smiling at us.
"So, I did a little check up on your playing and it appears there are lots of bets to be made," Mr. Thomas said. "Better get down to the book before you get started."
"Betting against me?" I asked.
"No," Mr. Thomas said, "I always bet on family."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
I focused on the wine-colored carpet to keep my eyes from tearing up. The bouquet of white roses was fragrant and heavy in my hands and I turned to study the petals as the pastor began talking.
"No matter what family, friends, or life has planned for you, there is nothing like letting love make the decision. It just feels right," he said. "Sure, some people call it spur of the moment and some people say that only fools rush in, but when I see two people as in love as you are, I know there is no room for doubt."
I heard my mother sniffle and I finally looked up. She was stunning in the white satin dress we had found in a small boutique inside the Venetian. My father wore a dove gray suit and a smile so bright he looked like a new man.
"Of course, a few decades of successful marriage and grown children also help to remove doubt," the pastor said. My parents laughed.
Owen laughed too. He stood next to my father as his best man. As my parents began to renew their vows, he winked at me and my heart soared.
Earlier, my father had joked that Owen was funding their second Vegas wedding. It had been two years since my father won a cool three thousand dollars betting on Owen in the Dark Flag tournament. Since then, "bet on family" had become our family motto.
We threw rice as my parents walked arm and arm down the aisle. They disappeared to have their photographs taken outside. I moved to follow, but Owen grabbed my arm.
"I know you have this whole big backyard white wedding plan," Owen said, "and I love it, but we could always just get married now. I mean, you haven't even set a date yet. The way you've been working, I'm going to have to marry you on the side of the road or in the back of an ambulance."
"March," I said. "Just after your birthday. How does that sound?"
Owen kissed me, and I could feel his warm smile against my lips.
"Where are our witnesses?" my father called. He smiled broadly as we jumped apart. "Come on, now, you aren't thinking about following in our footsteps, are you? I thought you were much more independent than that."
"Oh, she is, believe me," Owen said.
We joined my parents outside. Traffic driving by honked congratulations as my parents posed under the sign. Finally, we raised plastic champagne flutes in a toast.
"To family – those lost, found, and forgiven," my father said.
"And to a happy future, together," I said, finally feeling whole and happy in the hot Vegas sunshine.
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THE SINGLE DAD
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Blake
I could feel the sweat dripping down the back of my jersey as I adjusted the flag sticking out of the waistband of my sweats. It was a chilly December afternoon to wage a touch football war between the Waltham Police and Fire Department, but a big storm was predicted for the following week, and we were determined that if this were to be our last game of the season, we were going to go out with a bang.
It was the fourth quarter and the score was tied 21-21 as my firefighters took the field. I listened as my best friend, Tony Williams, outlined our last chance at scoring on our opponents, but in my head I was calculating how much longer I could play before I had to call it quits and go pick up my 16-year-old daughter, Nina, from my ex-wife’s house.
“B, you listening?” Tony shouted.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said with a sheepish grin, knowing that he’d repeat the play as soon as we broke out of the huddle.
“Get your head on, man,” Beatty, the acting offensive lineman, scolded as we lined up for the play.
“Mind your own fuckin’ business, Beatty,” I shot back, as I took my place at the end of the line.
Tony moved behind the center and started the call, I watched out of the corner of my eye until I saw the snap, and then took off down the field.
“Go wide, Gaston! Go wide!” Tony called, as I ran toward the sideline. I turned and saw him drop his arm back and then launch the football in my direction just before two defensive players knocked him over. I could hear Tony swearing a blue streak as I kept my eyes on the ball hurtling toward me. I caught it and took off in a dead run heading for the end zone.
“Run, you slow son of a bitch!” Tony screamed, as I evaded the defensive players who were definitely bigger, but decidedly slower than I was. A half a yard from the goal line, Joey Vanetti, a young and fit detectiv
e who’d recently joined the Waltham PD, grabbed me and yanked me to the ground.
“Uhf!” I grunted, as I hit the grass and felt the wind rushing out of my lungs. I lay there still clutching the ball to my side trying to catch my breath. When I did, I sat up and grumbled, “It’s touch football you stupid fuck. No tackling!”
“I didn’t tackle, old man,” Joey laughed, as he offered me a hand. “I pulled you down by your flag.”
“The hell you did,” I shot back, as I ignored his hand and pushed myself up onto my feet. I was in damn good shape for a 38-year-old man, but not as good as a 23-year-old just out of the Academy. I knew I’d pay for this tomorrow, but right now I was pissed at the guy who’d punched tomorrow’s ticket for me.
“Chill out, Gaston,” Tony said, as he walked over and stood between the two of us. “Vanetti, you are one seriously stupid mofo. Don’t make me call your CO and tell him how you’ve brought shame upon the squad.”
“Fuck off, Williams,” Joey said with a grin.
“Ahh, I love good healthy competition between those who are charged with protecting and serving the public,” Tony crowed, as he took the ball from my arms. Lowering his voice, he added, “It helps me work out the frustration from not getting laid.”
“Trouble in paradise, Big T?” I asked, as he turned back toward the guys waiting for the next play.
“My friend, without trouble there would be no paradise,” he sighed. I smacked him on the back of the head as we bent down for the huddle.
A half an hour later, our victorious team was shaking hands with the vanquished and making plans to meet over at The Lucky Clover on Lexington. Tony pleaded with me to join them all for just one beer, but I had to beg off since Nina was waiting for me to pick her up.
“Aww, man, I thought divorce would make you more fun,” Tony complained. “Now you’re always going to pick up the kid or heading over to take care of something at Remy’s condo. Why did you even divorce her if you’re going to still be doing all her work? At least if you’d stayed married, you’d be getting the benefits.”
“You have no idea what you are talking about,” I chuckled as I shook my head.
“Oh, that’s right; how are the swingers?” Tony asked, a little too curiously.
“They’re still after me,” I said, wanting to avoid having this conversation within earshot of any of my co-workers. Tony’s idea of what swingers did was based on out-of-date stereotypes and internet porn, and it often irritated me when he brought the subject up.
“Yeah, but that wife is smokin’ hot, man!” Tony said, lowering his voice. “I’d hit it if it wasn’t for her old man.”
“And the fact that you love your wife,” I said with a wry grin.
“Yeah, well, there’s that, too,” Tony grinned. “But seriously, what a bunch of weirdos, right?”
“Dude, I’ve explained this to you a million times,” I sighed. “Swingers aren’t the weirdos you imagine them to be. They’ve got their kinks, but a huge part of the whole thing is based on consent and communication. It’s not the pill-popping hippies you think you remember from the life you never lived.”
“Harsh, man,” Tony said, giving me a fake hurt look. I laughed and slapped him on the back before I climbed up into my pickup and backed out of the parking lot.
It didn’t take long to get to Remy’s since nowhere in Waltham is more than a short drive, but by the time I was pulling into the drive, my phone was blowing up with messages from Remy asking where I was and when I would pick Nina up. I took a deep breath and reminded myself not to lose my cool in front of my daughter.
I was halfway up the walk when Remy whipped open the front door and started in on me.
“You were supposed to be here 45 minutes ago, Blake,” she said, in the disapproving tone that made me simultaneously cringe and want to tell her where to shove her superiority complex.
“It was the last game of the season,” I said, knowing that this would not be enough to ward off her disapproval.
“Oh, I see; so a touch football game is more important than spending quality time with your 16-year-old daughter?” she asked. Her know-it-all tone made me grind my teeth as I tried to look past her to see if Nina was ready.
“No, Remy, it’s not more important than Nina,” I sighed. “It’s a commitment I made to the guys I play ball with, and I was following through on it.”
“Unlike you do with other things…” she muttered under her breath, but still loud enough for me to hear what she’d said.
“Remy, I’m not going to fight with you tonight,” I said wearily. “I’m tired, and I just want to get Nina and go home and shower.”
“Why? Do you have a hot date or something?” she sneered. “I don’t know why you’d pick Nina up on a Saturday night if you already have other plans.”
“Yes, Remy, I have a hot date planned,” I said, knowing I was baiting her, but unable to stop myself from doing it. That was one of our biggest problems; she’d accuse me of something I hadn’t done, and I’d take responsibility for doing it in a way that taunted her for accusing me. We were on a collision course with divorce from the day we got married.
“Who is she, Blake? Someone from the department?” Remy demanded. “Who is your hot date?”
“Hey, Punkin!” I called, as Nina emerged from behind her mother carrying a purple backpack and dragging a rolling suitcase that looked like it was filled with enough stuff for a month-long trip.
“Dad, don’t call me that,” Nina said, rolling her eyes almost all the way into the back of her head. I often forgot that she was a teenager now, and not the sweet little girl I’d carried around on my shoulders or helped bait a hook on summer fishing trips out at the Cambridge Reservoir.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize we were in teenager land today,” I said, grabbing her bags and quickly kissing her head before she ducked away and climbed up into the passenger seat of my truck.
“Who is your hot date, Blake?” Remy persisted.
“My hot date is a pizza and the most recent episode of The Walking Dead,” I said with a shit-eating grin on my face, knowing that it would piss Remy off. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
“You’re such a smart-ass, Blake,” Remy shot back, as I waved goodbye and gunned the truck’s engine just to piss her neighbors off.
I drove back toward home, stopping to pick up the two large pizzas I’d ordered on my way to pick Nina up. She didn’t say much as we drove, and that worried me.
“You okay, kiddo?” I asked, trying to play it cool and not dig too hard or too deep and cause her to clam up. Navigating the landscape of a teenage girl from the inside was a whole new world for me, and I’d learned from experience that it was better not to wield a heavy hand or ask too many questions.
“Yeah, fine,” she said unenthusiastically, as she stared out the window.
“How’s school?”
“It’s fine,” she said unenthusiastically.
“Did your old man do something wrong besides calling you by the hated nickname?” I asked. “If I did, I’m sure I could apologize and then do penance.”
“Dad, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t do anything. I just don’t feel like talking.”
“Well, can you at least tell me what’s going on in school so that your mother can’t accuse me of being uninformed and uninterested?” I asked, feeling less guilty than I normally did about playing the “Mom’s bad” card tonight. Remy was a good mother, but even after the divorce, she remained a pain in my ass.
“I don’t know; my grades aren’t great, but I’m working on getting them up before the end of the term,” she said, looking over at me apprehensively. “I’m doing okay in Chemistry, but Trig and History are giving me a hard time.”
“Do I need to hire a tutor to help you?” I asked.
“Oh God, Dad, please stop,” she said, rolling her eyes again. “I can’t take this from both you and Mom. I’ll get my grades up. I swear. Can we just let it g
o?”
“Are you having boy trouble?” I asked tentatively.
“DAD!” Nina shouted. “Do not even go there. I can’t even with you!”
“Okay, okay!” I said, backpedaling hard. “I won’t go there. I’m just saying I’m here if you need to talk about anything.”
“Anything?” she asked, as we pulled into the driveway. “You’d really talk about anything? Like sex and birth control and how to put a condom on a boy’s penis?”
“Okay! Okay! Stop! Just stop!” I said, holding up a hand. “Yes, I will talk about anything, but I’m not going to talk about that last thing until after I’ve had a shower, some dinner, and a beer…or two.”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” she laughed. “I have zero need to discuss any of those things tonight. Can we watch Saw 2 during dinner?”
“Do we have to?” I asked.
“Fine, My Little Pony it is,” she teased, as she danced up the walk holding the pizzas, leaving me to follow in her wake carrying her bags.
Chapter Two
Emily
Saturday afternoon I was in the kitchen chopping celery and onions to mix with the can of tuna I’d opened for lunch. I’d spent the morning grading papers from my sophomore History class, and was in desperate need of a break after reading one too many essays that started with “Back in the day.” I’d turned on the radio and was bopping to the sound of Van Morrison’s “Domino” when I felt a head bump my lower leg.
“Oh, Howard, not again!” I cried, as I turned to see my fat orange tabby cat drop yet another stunned mouse at my feet. Howard sat looking up at me expectantly before looking down and giving his prey a light pat with his big paw. He mewed at it, then at me, and when I didn’t immediately respond with a treat, he hauled himself to his feet and walked out of the kitchen, stopping to throw an irritated look at me over his shoulder. “Don’t give me that look, mister! I’m not the one who can’t always finish the deed!”
The mouse wasn’t dead, but there was no way I was going to kill it, so I grabbed a paper towel off the roll and reached down to grab the creature’s tail. Howard returned to the kitchen and wound himself around my legs as I walked to the back door.