Floored

by Melanie Harlow

  It was a good thing I couldn’t speak.

  God only knows what I’d have said.

  #

  The following morning he invited me to have lunch with him and his grandfather on Sunday. “Really?” My heart swelled happily. We were still in bed, Charlie on his back, me tucked against his side.

  “Yes. I’d like you to meet him, and he wants to meet you.”

  “You told him about me?” Picking my head up, I blinked at him, surprised.

  “Yes. He said he wants to see the girl who got me to go to a ballet. I told him when he sees you, he’ll understand.”

  Grinning, I hopped up and straddled him. “I’m excited.”

  “I can tell. Remind me to invite you to lunch more often.”

  “Stop it.” I slapped at his stomach, then pitched forward to lay on his chest, burying my face into his neck. “It’s not the lunch I’m excited about, silly.”

  “What is it?”

  I grinned happily. “I don’t know. Everything.”

  He kissed the top of my head, wrapping his arms around me. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  #

  The next day, I went to the mall with Mia to do some Christmas shopping. “Are you getting a gift for Charlie?” she asked, searching for a parking spot in the structure.

  “I already got him a bottle of Irish whiskey and some old-fashioned glasses, but I also want to pick up some towels for him.”

  “Towels?”

  “Yeah, he likes these fluffy white Turkish cotton ones at my house. I got them at Restoration Hardware, so I can grab some today.”

  She eyed me sideways. “He likes the towels at your house? Does this mean he’s showering there?”

  I opened the car door. “It might,” I said coyly.

  “Erin Marie Upton! What’s the scoop?” She jumped out and slammed the door. “Did you guys have the talk? Or are you showering but not dating?”

  I laughed when she grabbed my arm and shook me. “Yes, we talked. Yes, we’re dating. And showering.”

  “Eek! And?”

  “And it’s good,” I said as we walked toward the entrance to Macy’s. “He’s still a little hesitant and I’m still a little paranoid, but we’re doing OK. He’s introducing me to his grandfather on Sunday. I was thinking of asking him to Christmas Eve at my mom’s house, too.”

  “How sweet!” She pulled open the heavy glass door and I took it from her.

  “Hey, don’t open that. It’s heavy. You need to be careful.” I held it open so she could go through first, but she rolled her eyes.

  “Please. Between my mother’s visit and Lucas fawning all over me every second, I’ve barely lifted a finger to brush my own teeth this week.”

  “We worry about you. How are you feeling?” I walked beside her into the warm, noisy late-December bustle of the mall.

  “Pretty good. This morning, anyway. So let’s get moving before I have to barf again.”

  I made a face. “Yuck. Remind me not to have kids.”

  She laughed. “I’ll do no such thing. You and Charlie would have adorable babies.”

  “Mia!” I elbowed her. “Don’t even.”

  But for the first time—ever—my fantasy that night didn’t involve a vibrator, handcuffs, or even an orgasm. Just a real tree, Charlie and me, and four little hands tearing into their presents, blue eyes shining. I told myself to be careful. I told myself to wait. I told myself not to count on anything.

  But I fell asleep smiling.

  #

  My mother had been pestering me to come over all week. I’d been avoiding her because I had a feeling she wanted to grill me about Charlie. It’s not that I didn’t want to tell her about us, but I felt strangely protective of what we had. I knew she was hoping one of her kids would get married soon and give her some grandchildren. My brother was twenty-five and buried in his final year of law school at Michigan, so he was out. It was too much pressure for me. But on Friday afternoon, I finally gave in and went to her house for a quick cup of coffee before work.

  “When are you done teaching for Christmas break?” she asked, pouring coffee into a mug that said Blessed is a Woman of Faith. She handed that one to me, and took another cup down from the cupboard.

  “Tomorrow’s the last day of classes for two weeks.” At the counter I added a teaspoon of sugar and poured in some cream from the pitcher she’d set out.

  “Good. You work too much. You need some time off. You know, to get out a little more.”

  “Mmhmm.” Here it comes, I thought, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Three, two,—

  “So tell me about Charlie Dwyer. That was interesting to see you two together.”

  I gave her my decided-upon lines. “Not much to tell beyond what you already know. He was on patrol the night of my burglary. We got reacquainted.”

  “So you’re not dating then? You looked pretty cozy at the wedding.”

  “We’re sort of taking it slow.”

  “I would too with a man that has a daughter.”

  My heart stopped for a second. I must have heard that wrong. “A what?”

  “A daughter. Have you met her yet?” she asked, as casually as if she was asking if I’d met his cat.

  Clink clink clink went her sugar spoon in the cup. The dishwasher hummed. The tiny television in the corner chirped with morning talk show hosts. And a jackhammer pounded inside my head. I put two fingers to my pounding temple. “Where did you hear he has a daughter?”

  She carried her cup to the table and sat across from me. “Well, I ran into Shirley Munson yesterday. You remember Shirley, she goes to St. Joan and had the two sons about your age, the ones who opened that car dealership on Gratiot? The one got caught cheating on his taxes and his wife, and Shirley was so embarrassed. She had just been bragging about what good husbands and fathers they were, too. About how their wives didn’t even have to work and that’s what makes a home work—when the wives are home with the kids. I think it was a dig at me because I’m divorced.”

  “Mom. Go on.” My fingernails dug into my thighs. “How did you hear about a daughter?” My mouth could barely form the words. My brain could barely fathom them. A daughter?

  “Well, anyway, she evidently kept in touch with Charlie’s mom, Jane. Either that or she made it her business to know the gossip clear down in Des Moines. But when she heard me mention his name, she said Charlie dropped out of college to marry some girl that he got pregnant and even though they got divorced, he moved up here to be closer to the daughter. So you haven’t met her yet?”

  Bile rose in my throat. “Uh…no.”

  Whatthefuck? Whatthefuck? Whatthefuck? Charlie had a daughter? An ex-wife? Why had he kept all this hidden from me? And what the hell was I supposed to say to my mother? If I told the truth, I’d look like the biggest dope on the planet. If I played like I knew everything, she’d ask me a lot of questions I couldn’t answer. Like what’s her name?

  I felt sick. My stomach churned, a whirlpool of anger, bitterness, resentment, shame, fear. I looked down at my coffee, knowing I’d vomit if I even took one sip but uncertain how to get out of staying and drinking it. But I couldn’t sit still once second longer. “Mom, I’m sorry, I just remembered something I have to do before class.” I jumped up, carrying my cup to the sink and dumping it out.

  “What? You just got here.”

  “I know, but I have to mail a package right now or it won’t make it in time.” I scooped up my purse from the floor and raced for the door.

  “In time for what, Christmas? A package for whom? Erin, what on earth?”

  But I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.

  Charlie had a child.

  A daughter.

  I got in my car and drove aimlessly. I didn’t even know where to go. What to do. Should I call him? Confront him? Accuse him? A thousand little moments went through my brain, crawling like ants. That’s why he didn’t want me to see where he lived—there was evidence there of
a daughter. An ex-wife. That’s why he warned me I could get hurt—because he knew he was lying to me, keeping this from me. That’s why he didn’t want my mother to get in touch with his—he didn’t want me to hear about this behind his back. But when was he planning to tell me? We’d reconnected in early October, and it was Christmas now. He’d had more than two months to tell me.

  But he didn’t. He waited for me to fall for him.

  Maybe he’d never been planning to tell me at all because he never intended to let us be more than we were.

  I felt sick, betrayed, hurt. This is why, I thought, stopping at a light. This is why you can’t trust anyone, especially people who warn you off. God, I’d been so stupid! He’d flat out told me he was no good for me, and he was right! Why hadn’t I believed him?

  Anger boiled up in me, rising to the top of my emotional soup. How dare he? How dare he assume that he’d get away with this? How dare he assume dating someone with a kid was fine with me? How dare he assume he can just strut into my life and mess with it? I was right to begin with. He hasn’t changed at all. He’s a bully and a liar and an arrogant prick.

  In front of my car, a father and small child crossed the street. The child, a girl bundled in a puffy purple snow suit, waddled slowly until her dad picked her up. More memories surfaced. The night at the ballet. The afternoon at the skating rink. The way he’d helped those tiny kids.

  I have a soft spot for little girls.

  I thumped my hand on the steering wheel, tears finally spilling through the shock. OK, he wasn’t a horrible person, not entirely. But why hadn’t he just been honest from the start? Why didn’t he want me to know he had a child? Was this his approach to relationships, then? Just reveal what you think the other needs to know and hide what you’re embarrassed about, even if it’s another human being?

  And where did this leave us?

  Did I even want to date someone with a child? Could I handle it? I’d never even considered it. Having kids seemed like something far off in the future—something that came after you had a wedding and a house and plants you remembered to water. Sure, I’d daydreamed a little about Charlie and me having a future, but it wasn’t real.

  This child was real. Painfully real. It needed to be fed and watered. Like, several times a day. I wasn’t good at that!

  A car behind me honked, and I realized the light had turned greened again. I put my foot on the gas, but I drove so slowly, the cars behind me started passing me one by one. On auto-pilot, I drove to the studio, but when I pulled up in front of it, I didn’t get out and go in. I sat staring into the front windows, thinking about the night he showed up at dance class with Krista with a K, ditched her and then came back for me.

  So that’s the pattern. Date a girl, let her get just close enough, then dump her.

  I frowned, thinking about the way he tried to warn me off, not only that night but other times, too. Things began to fall into place, puzzling pieces of Charlie’s life that didn’t seem to make sense before.

  That’s why he left Purdue.

  These are the “bad things” he’s done.

  She’s the “nice girl” he messed up with.

  Well, the next one wouldn’t be me. Turning off the car, I made up my mind to confront Charlie as soon as possible. Call him out on his lies. Tell him we were done.

  Oh God. I let my head fall forward, my forehead thumping the steering wheel. A Scene.

  #

  Around six, I had a break in my teaching schedule and considered calling him, but decided I couldn’t handle hearing his voice. He was at work anyway, and likely wouldn’t pick up his phone. Instead, I texted him, carefully typing each word so I’d have none of my usual, embarrassing auto-correct issues.

  Can you come by after work? It’s important.

  He didn’t respond right away, so I finished rehearsal and drove home, stopping at the store for a bottle of wine. By the time I got back in the car, I had his answer.

  Sure. But it will be late. And I don’t have your gifts wrapped. Are we still on for tomorrow night?

  Crap. How should I answer that? I didn’t want to lie and pretend everything was fine, but I didn’t want to get into this over the phone, either.

  My hands shook as I texted my reply, which was supposed to be Possibly, but because I was flustered, what I sent him was Pus funk.

  “Dammit!” I dropped my phone in my lap and rubbed my temples. It buzzed against my legs a moment later.

  That’s a new one. You might have to teach me this time. I’ll be there around eleven.

  It was just after eight. I had three hours to dread the evening ahead.

  I really needed that wine.

  I took a shower and poured a glass.

  Confession: I poured the glass first and took it into the shower with me, soaping with one hand, drinking with the other.

  I got out and got dressed, choosing jeans and a sweater instead of pajamas, although I really just wanted to curl into a ball and go to bed, forget today ever happened. After picking at a salad but finding myself unable to eat, I abandoned the effort and sat fuming on the couch, pickling my anger with wine. I drank a second glass, and then a third. And the more I pickled it, the more intense it grew—for fuck’s sake, he’d had every opportunity to tell me the truth! The only bit of truth I could see was that he didn’t take me seriously. I was a fling, that was all. Not worth honesty. Not worth trust. Not worth commitment.

  I was a fling, and he was a liar.

  I was not OK with that.

  My house was so quiet I heard the crunch of his footsteps in the snow as he came up the driveway, a few minutes before eleven. I was expecting his knock, but I still jumped when it sounded, three sharp bangs on the glass. Pinot Grigio in hand, I stumbled to the door and opened it.

  My confidence flagged when I saw the way he lit up at the sight of me. When I felt the way my heart beat faster at the sight of him. Somewhere in the back of my mind, hope sprouted. Maybe it’s not true. Maybe I should ask and not accuse. Maybe I should listen to his side.

  “Hey,” he said, his eyes clouding with concern when he noticed my troubled expression. “What’s going on? Everything OK?”

  “We need to talk.” My voice shook.

  “Uh oh. Sounds serious. Are you breaking up with me already?”

  Tucking my hands inside the sleeves of my sweater, I stepped back from the door. He shut it behind him and took off his snowy boots, careful to leave them on the rug. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, but he was wearing a thick blue toggle-close sweater with a flannel shirt underneath that made me want to get inside his clothing and stay there.

  He set my wine glass aside and reached for me, and before I could stop myself, I let him take me in his arms. Kiss my head. Rock me a little. “Hey you. What’s up?”

  It felt so good. So damn good. But growing in the pit of my stomach was the sickening dread I used to feel when my parents would get home from a party and I knew an argument was coming. Maybe I don’t have to say anything. Maybe I can pretend not to know. We can just have sex and ignore this another day. Then I glanced at the dead plants on my windowsill and came to my senses.

  What was left of them after the pickling, anyway.

  “I want to talk.”

  “OK.”

  “I can’t talk like this. You have to let me go.”

  He squeezed me tighter. “Never.”

  I pushed him away and moved a step back. The room spun a little. “Don’t say things like that.”

  He looked confused. “Things like what?”

  “Things like never, when it comes to letting me go. You don’t mean them. You’re a liar.”

  He glanced at my wine glass. “Are you drunk?”

  “No,” I said, although it was obvious I was.

  Charlie narrowed his eyes. “Erin, what is this about?”

  “This is about you making a fool of me.”

  “And how did I do that?”

  “You have a daughter!” I burst ou
t. “A daughter! And you said nothing to me about her, not for months! And you know I kill plants!”

  Charlie’s mouth hung open for a second. “What?”

  “And an ex-wife too! How could you think I wouldn’t find out, Charlie?”

  He shook his head slightly. “Where is this coming from?”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “No,” he said carefully. “But I don’t like the way you’re attacking me with it.”

  I coughed and sputtered. “You don’t like it? You don’t like it? You’re a piece of work, Charlie Dwyer. You march in here, with your badge and your drill and your hard wood, and you lie to me and seduce me and get me to fall for you, and now you don’t like it that I found out the truth?”

  “Seduce you! Erin, what the hell? This isn’t like you at all.”

  It wasn’t, but it felt sort of good to just let fly whatever I felt like saying. “Just be honest for once,” I snapped. “Do you or do you not have a daughter? Were you or were you not married to her mother?” Against all odds, that little piece of me prayed he’d say this was all a misunderstanding.

  He hesitated too long.

  “Answer me!” I yelled.

  “I don’t see why I should,” he yelled back. “You’re just going to stand there and judge me like I knew you would.”

  I shrank back. “Judge you! Is that what you think this is? I’m judging you for having a child? For being married and divorced?” But I was drunk, so it came out more like juszhingoo than judging you.

  “For making mistakes! For being less than perfect, which we both know you are. You’ve never done one thing wrong in your life, Miss Perfecty Perfect Homecoming Queen with her clean floors and her ABC spice rack and her fake scented Christmas tree that doesn’t drop any needles. We can’t all be as perfect as you are, you know.”

  “Fuck you!” I shook my finger in his face. “I did make a mistake, and that was letting you into my life. You had every opportunity to tell me the truth, and you didn’t. You lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie to you!” Charlie’s blue eyes blazed. “I chose not to share something with you at this point in our relationship. It’s my personal life, and I get to choose when I share things!”