Those Nights in Montreal

by Beverley Kendall

  “Do you resent them? His kids?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean I don’t like the rest of his family. They haven’t done anything to me. Certainly not the kids.”

  Whenever she talks about them, she gets this wistful look on her face, which pushes me to suggest, “Then why don’t you meet them.”

  She stares at me, skepticism in her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Do you not get that I don’t want to see the man.”

  “Why would you have to? You just need to ask him if he could arrange it for you. I’m sure he’s told them about you.”

  Good, she’s not looking at me like I’m nuts anymore, her expression now thoughtful as if she’s giving the idea serious consideration.

  “But he’d still have to bring them.”

  “What if you asked his wife to bring them? You don’t have anything against her do you?”

  “No. But she might not want to.”

  Despite her apprehension, I sense a growing excitement below her cautious surface.

  “Well there’s no harm in asking, right?”

  “You think? I mean even for me isn’t that kind of ballsy? I can just imagine the conversation. ‘Okay John, I don’t want to see you but I’d appreciate it if you could arrange it if your wife brought your kids to meet me.’”

  Suddenly, she’s lying on my chest, her chin propped up on her folded arms. Steely determination glimmers in her eyes as she stares intently at me. “But you know what? I’m gonna do it. I want to meet them.”

  As if the possibility—well more like probability—of meeting her siblings has given her a new lease on life, she gives me a quick kiss and scrambles out of bed. She shoots a glance out the window. “Come on, let’s get dressed. It’s snowing and I want to make a snow angel.” Turning, she flashes me an ear-to-ear grin.

  “You go first.”

  Two minutes later, after she’s gathered all her stuff for her shower, she heads to the bathroom, leaving me alone in the room to wallow in my guilt.

  I don’t know what the fuck is my problem. I just torpedoed the perfect opportunity to come clean. Tell her about my mom. More importantly, tell her the whole truth about me.

  But when I saw how she was about her father—not that I’m comparing—but still… The guy’s been begging her to see him, begging her forgiveness for three years and she refuses to budge, refuses to give him another chance.

  When we first started going out, I could immediately tell that if she knew about my history, I wouldn’t have stood a chance with her. For one, she despises guys who sleep around. I might have been what she’d jokingly called a manwhore. And I still remember the disgust in her voice when she told me how her dad got off from owning up to his responsibilities because his parents were rich. Whether he was in the right or wrong, they were more than willing to throw their money around on their son’s behalf. She can’t stand people who abuse their influence. And she can’t stand dishonesty and let’s face it, that’s me from the get-go.

  I scrub my hands over my face. I know I need to tell her. Soon. Definitely sooner than later. I’m not even going to fool myself into thinking that just because we’re having sex again I’m in the clear. This whole thing can still blow up in my face big time. And that’s probably why I’m dragging my fuckin’ feet. I can’t risk losing her.

  But you know what? I’m not going to think about this right now. We’ve got three more days in Montreal, two more nights before we have to get back to reality of school and all that other stuff. I can deal with it when we get back.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  REBECCA

  With the six inches of snow that fall the morning after the “no sex” went out of effect, I am in snow angel heaven. That day we skip going to the slopes completely—like we have a choice—as we’re snowed-in. But it’s fun to just hang out romping around in the snow, watching movies and eating popcorn in front of the fireplace and cooking dinner with the girls.

  As I’m mixing the salad, Olivia jokingly tells me I look like I’m finally getting some. I tell her not to worry because she’s still getting enough for five of us. We all laugh and that’s when I find out my roommates made a bet on how long I could hold out. Neither thought we’d make it through the vacation so they’d bet on which day I’d fold. April won. Olivia, who by now couldn’t imagine days much less weeks without sex, didn’t think I’d last the first night. Yeah, that’s a confidence booster.

  The next day we ski in the morning and then to celebrate our last night there the six of us drive into Quebec City where we are legally able to be served alcohol in a club. Hello Canada! It’s more fun than I’ve had in forever. Even April and Troy call a cease-fire to the cold war they appear to have going. I mean it’s been almost a year since they had sex. I say they need to get together or move on. Okay, maybe I’m not one to talk, but honestly.

  Can I just say sex with Scott only gets better and better? It does. I’m convinced he’s lacing my drinks with Spanish Fly because I’m insatiable. I want it constantly. The guy is barely through the bedroom door and I’m all over him. The good thing is he has no problem with it. In fact, he says he loves the nympho in me because it’s the only way I’d be able to keep up with him.

  After spending our final day on the slopes, the guys have the van packed by three in the afternoon and by four we’re on the road. We arrive at Scott’s apartment nine that evening to drop him off.

  I walk with him to the entrance and resent how quick our goodbye kiss has to be, but I have four other people waiting for me impatient to get to their beds.

  An hour later, I tumble into mine wondering how long it’s going to take me to fall asleep without Scott spooning me—and no sex. My instinct is to call him, hear his voice, but I’m afraid that’ll just make the whole sleeping thing harder. Instead I grab my cell and text him.

  Me: Miss you.

  Scott instantly replies, almost as if he’d been sitting waiting for it.

  Scott: Want u.

  My nipples pebble and I feel a corresponding throb low in my stomach.

  Me: Me too. Night.

  Scott: C u 2morrow.

  I close the message app and place my phone on the nightstand. Ten minutes after my head hits the pillow, I’m in dreamland.

  * * *

  The thing I don’t like about vacations is coming home and dealing with the mountainous amounts of laundry that has to be done. Yeah, I get it that the machine does the real work and all we have to do is toss in the clothes—after they’re properly sorted of course—pour in detergent, fabric softener, and if you’re washing whites—some bleach. But let’s face it, it’s still work. The clothes have to be dried, folded, sometimes ironed and put away. This all takes time, making laundry day a big time suck.

  But when your only clean clothes consist of cotton pajamas with flaming red hearts, dingy gray sweats and the matching dingier hoodie, laundry is a necessary evil.

  So that’s how I spend more time than I like the following day.

  I speak to Scott briefly in the morning. Even though he denies it, I’m pretty sure I woke him up because his voice is get-my-blood-pumping gravelly, which to me, is a total turn on. We only talk a couple minutes and don’t make plans right then but promise to firm something up later in the day.

  Olivia goes down to Zach’s when I’m on load number two and April volunteers to do the food shopping when I’m on load number three—the last one. With the final load in the dryer, I now have a better choice of clothes to wear.

  Alone in the apartment with Clueless playing on the television in the living room, I’m pulling on my green sweater when my cell phone starts ringing. It’s the normal ring so I know it’s not Scott, my mom, Olivia or April, who all have personalized ringtones.

  My stomach is a bundle of knots as I scoop it off my bed. A glance at the number confirms it’s exactly who I think it is. John.

  God,
it’s like he knows down to the second when I’d be home. That’s okay because although he doesn’t know it yet, this time I’m actually going to take his call.

  Although I’m resolved to do this, apprehension is so thick in my throat it’s hard to swallow, hard to breathe. Before I answer, I take a moment and inhale a deep calming breath, praying it will bolster my courage.

  “Hello.” My voice is cool but my hand is clammy and my heart is racing.

  There’s such a long pause, I’m not sure he’s going to answer. The fact that I answered probably caught him off guard.

  “Rebecca?” he asks, sounding uncertain.

  Yep, I’ve managed to shock him.

  “Speaking.” I find it hard to keep still so I leave my room and head down the hall.

  “Rebecca, it’s your dad.”

  I don’t bother to correct him. “I know.”

  “Oh. I-I—” He lets out a nervous laugh. “It’s good to hear your voice. Good to talk to you.”

  I hate that the sound of his laugh causes my throat to close up with emotion. I don’t want to feel anything for him except indifference. I clear my throat and harden my heart.

  “I still haven’t changed my mind about seeing you. But I do want something from you,” I state briskly as I enter the living room then grab the remote and turn the TV off. Needing to stand, I walk back out into the small hallway leading to the front door and prop my back against the wall.

  After a moment of silence, he says too eagerly, “Whatever you want, Becky.”

  Ugh. No one calls me Becky. Haven’t since I was in the second grade. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Right. You’re not a baby anymore.”

  As if he knew me then.

  “I want to meet my brother and sisters. Do you think your wife would agree to bring them to Sparks when I come home for Thanksgiving? Unless she hates me,” I add in as an afterthought. Because she could. I would be a reminder of his former life.

  “Renee doesn’t hate you,” he hurries to assure me. “She’s always wanted to meet you. She thinks it’s important for you and the kids to have a relationship, just like I do. You are their big sister and they’ve been dying to meet you for a while now.”

  At his words, a wave of relief washes over me. Dying to meet you. He’d told me that the first time he’d call but that had been three years ago. I have no idea how they feel about me now.

  “Will you do it?” I ask.

  “Of course. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “I don’t want you to be there.” I need to be clear about that. That me wanting to meet my siblings doesn’t mean I want a relationship with him.

  “I know. I know,” he says softly, his tone resigned.

  My heart squeezes with sympathy for him he doesn’t deserve.

  I swallow hard before I speak again and will by voice not to crack or my courage to abandon me because what I’m about to say has been burning a hole in my gut for too many years.

  “Sixteen years. It took you sixteen years to call me. It took you sixteen years to decide you wanted a relationship with me. I didn’t have a say in that, I just had to accept it for what it was. When I wanted you, when I would have been thrilled to have a father, you didn’t want me.”

  “Rebec—”

  “No! Just let me have my say, okay?” I close my ears to the anguish in his voice. He’s going to hear me out. Determined, I go on. “You didn’t want me,” I say, my voice whisper-soft now. “And I learned to accept that. I’ve always said you can’t miss what you never had, but that was a lie. Even though I never had a father, for the longest time I wanted one. At one point I think any functioning, caring adult male would have done. But you know what, I’m over that now. I’m okay with it just being me and Mom.” I really am. “I’m not your daughter, not in a way that’s ever going to matter. So I wish you’d just stop trying. I wish you’d just leave things alone.”

  The ensuing silence last so long I’m in the process of ending the call when John breaks it by clearing his throat and it sounds as uncomfortable as the silence itself.

  “Bec-Rebecca, I didn’t do right by you or your mom, I can’t deny that and I have no excuse for it. None. So I’m not going to insult your intelligence by trying to make excuses for how poorly I behaved and the kind of man I was. Believe me, I understand why you don’t want to have anything to do with me. I wouldn’t want a relationship with me either.”

  I’m having such a hard time digesting what he just said, I can’t even move, my cell glued to my ear, my sweaty palm clutching it tight. These are the words I’d secretly waited years to hear, certain they would bring me…closure? Vindication? I’m not sure. Instead all it does it make my heart ache.

  “I know nothing I can ever do will make up for the last nineteen years. Nothing can. And I would do anything you ask me to do except that. I can’t stop trying. I can’t. You may never forgive me or it may take you twenty years to give me another chance but I won’t stop trying. You deserve that and more.”

  The boulder lodged in my throat makes it impossible for me to swallow. I try to blink away the tears smarting my eyes. “Jo-Da—” Damn. I don’t even know what to call him anymore. It’s a weird feeling when some of the anger fades. What’s left? I’m not even sure and it leaves me questioning everything I think about him and everything I know about myself. I shake my head wearily. I’m so confused.

  “I’ve changed. I’m not the same person who walked away from you nineteen years ago. All I’m asking is that you don’t close the door just yet. I’ll be here if you ever decide you want to see me or whatever. But I’m never going to stop trying, sweetheart. You’re my daughter and I love you. Will always love you.”

  I try to harden my heart against him but it’s no use as I feel it getting mushier by the moment. As shaky as I’m feeling and as much as my emotions are seesawing all over the place, I try to pull it together, compose myself before I say another word.

  “Listen, I have to go.” I’m proud that my voice cracks only a little. “I’ll be in touch a week or so before I fly home.”

  A sigh follows several beats of silence. “Right. I’ll let Renee and the kids know. Thank you. You take care, sweetheart.”

  I end the call because I’m afraid if I speak he’ll hear the raw emotion in my voice and know how close I am to caving. And I can’t cave.

  Thirteen years of my life I would have given anything to have him contact me. I would have performed cartwheels if he’d called and asked to see me. But he hadn’t. I’d had no father to take to my sixth grade father/daughter dance. No father to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight. No father to intimidate Matt when he took me out on my first date.

  For a second it’s like my legs can’t support me anymore. I slide slowly down the wall until my butt hits the floor, my hand not easing the death grip it has on my phone. Why had he waited so long to want me? Now, when I have nothing left to give?

  I’m not sure how long I sit on the floor fighting to hold it together. Right now I’m experiencing so many conflicting emotions. Emotions I don’t want to feel. I really thought I was over this.

  God, I need Scott. I need to talk to him. Need him to hold me and kiss me.

  Scrambling to my feet, I grab my purse and keys from the counter, my jacket from the tiny hall closet before heading out to my car. Fifteen minutes later I’m standing in front of Scott’s apartment knocking on his door, trembling.

  “I’ll get it.”

  I barely have time to register the sound of a female voice before the door is yanked open.

  “Chelsea, don’t—”

  My eyes go wide at the sight of a pretty blonde-haired girl. I instantly recognize Scott’s younger sister. She’s certainly matured since the last pictures I’d seen of her when she was ten. Which would make her twelve now.

  “Hi!”

  It takes less than a second for my surprise to wear off and then I find myself smiling in return. Well isn’t she friendly. Scott had said she was the
most outgoing of the kids.

  “Chelsea Marie Carver, you do not open your brother’s door.” With that stern reprimand, an attractive—equally blonde—woman hurries toward the door, coming to a stop behind her. After giving Chelsea a chiding look, she turns her attention to me, her gaze both quizzical and expectant.

  It’s clear I’m looking at mother and daughter; the resemblance between them is that striking. The blonde hair, the dark-green eyes and the shape of their mouth. Now I know where my boyfriend gets his looks.

  Over his mother’s shoulder, Scott steps into view. But the expression on his face forcibly wrestled my smile into submission. To say he doesn’t look happy to see me would be putting it nicely. The guilt and dismay is so palpable, it’s as if it reached out and slapped me in the face.

  I know when I’m not wanted. And it won’t take me thirteen years to figure it out either.

  It’s obvious Scott doesn’t want me here. I feel my body go cold at the knowledge and with it an icy shiver ripples through me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company.” I’m mumbling, my eyes downcast as the heat of embarrassment floods my face. I hurriedly turn to leave.

  “Becca!”

  Ignoring the desperate note in his voice, I quicken my pace, hoping to catch the elevator as it’s leaving. There’s no way I’ll beat him if I take the stairs.

  “Scott, what’s going on?” asks his mother.

  I hear the pounding of feet behind me seconds before I’m jolted to a stop by his hand gripping my forearm.

  “Becca, wait.”

  Oh God, please don’t let me cry. But I know I will if I look at him.

  Shaking my head, I mutter, “I’ll talk to you later.” I don’t really mean it but at this point I’ll do anything to get him to let me go.

  “I know what you’re thinking and you are wrong.” His tone is fierce and the vise-like grip he has on my arm says he’s not letting me go.

  I blink rapidly before turning my head and gazing up at him. His jaw is rigid as his eyes bore holes into me. I take a deep breath.