Isaac and Don’s bedroom. In their bed. Beside Isaac.
I smiled. Don was on duty tonight, but Isaac and I had certainly had a pleasant evening together. Now he was out cold, just as I’d been until—
The sound. What was it? I craned my neck and listened.
There it was again. Ah, a car door slamming. Must have been one of the neighbors coming home at—what time was it? I looked over Isaac at the clock on the bedside table. Three o’clock? Damn, someone was out late.
Then came footsteps. And voices. I furrowed my brow, turning my head toward the window that overlooked the driveway.
A shoe scuffed on wood, and my spine straightened. A dull thud, then another, and there was no mistaking: someone was on Isaac and Don’s porch.
Panic rushed through me. If it was an intruder, they weren’t the stealthiest in the world, but there had to be a reason someone was here in the middle of the night.
I nudged Isaac’s arm. “Isaac, wake up.”
“Hmm?”
“Someone’s here.”
“What?” He rolled onto his back, the shadows rendering his features completely invisible. “What do you mean?”
“I just heard someone.” I gestured over my shoulder. “On the porch.”
Then a door opened downstairs, and Isaac sat up.
“Christ,” he muttered. “If that’s Ryan, Don’s going to kill him.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed his bathrobe. “I’ll be right back.”
He left the bedroom, and I listened as his steps faded down the hall. I half-expected to hear him chewing Ryan out, but only murmured voices made it up the stairs. Then those voices and every set of footsteps faded. The house was silent but definitely occupied. Maybe it was simply because I knew Isaac and Ryan were in the house somewhere, likely having a very tense conversation, but even when they were out of earshot, I swore I could feel their combined presence.
Not five minutes after Isaac left the room, renewed activity broke the silence downstairs. Then, two distinct sets of footsteps came up the stairs. Isaac murmured something, and in response—
Don? What was he doing home at this hour?
The light came on, and after I’d blinked enough times for my eyes to adjust, my heart jumped into my throat. Don came in ahead of Isaac. He was still in his uniform, and he looked absolutely exhausted. Not just because of the dark circles under his eyes or the pallor of his face, but the way his shoulders slumped like the weight of the world rested on them.
And…my God. I’d never seen the man cry, sometimes wondered if he was capable of it, but now he looked like he was a breath away from breaking down.
“Don?” I sat up. “What’s going on?”
He shook his head. “Crazy night.” He sank onto the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. Rubbing his temples, he swore quietly.
Isaac sat beside him and kneaded the back of Don’s neck.
“What happened?” I put a hand on Don’s arm. He smelled vaguely of sweat, alcohol and marijuana, and his hands shook like I’d never seen before. “Is everything okay?”
“Ryan snuck out of Julia’s place,” Don said quietly. “She called me at work, and we went looking for him. Found him—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “We found him in one of the clubs downtown, drunk off his ass.” He sighed. “God, he’s a mess.” Still rubbing his temples, Don ran us through everything from Julia’s frantic phone call to getting the kids into the cars.
“God, what if I hadn’t found them?” he asked, his voice hollow and unsteady. “I mean, Kristy was so damned messed up, and they were both with…with people way older than them. Shit, this…” He trailed off, and his shoulders slumped.
“You did find him, though,” I said softly. “He’s home safe.”
He took his fingers away from his temples, and his face had paled. “I just can’t help thinking about all the things that could have happened. To him or Kristy. Fuck, I just…this…” He brought his fingers up to his temples again.
Isaac squeezed Don’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“I just found my kid in a club with a fake ID, alcohol on his breath, and his hand up some twenty-something girl’s shirt.” Don sounded like the act of speaking took what little energy he had right out of him. “Then I got to listen to him tell me all the reasons why this is our fault before I listened to him puke in the gutter before he passed out in the car.” He lay back across the bed. “No, I’m not okay.”
I stroked his cheek with the backs of my fingers, my skin brushing his stubbled skin. He closed his eyes and pressed against my hand like a cat seeking more contact.
“At least he’s home safe now,” Isaac said.
“I know,” Don breathed. “I just keep wondering how the hell we got to this point.”
“He’s a teenager,” I said. “He’s rebelling.”
“He’s pissed at me,” Don said. “He’s pissed about everything with the baby, all of that, and—” He cut himself off and exhaled hard. “I have to be honest. After tonight, I’m even more scared of doing this whole parenting thing again.”
My spine straightened. “What do you mean?”
“The baby.” Don sat up and looked at Isaac, then at me. “I mean, regardless of whose biological kid it is, we’re all going be in this, and I…”
I put my hand over his. “I’m as nervous as you are about this baby, but I am really, really glad I’m going to have you there so I don’t fuck up.”
He sighed. “I’m not so sure you want to follow my example, especially after tonight.”
“Listen to me.” I squeezed his hand gently. “What you did tonight? That’s being a good parent.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Except it feels about like rescuing a kid from a building I set on fire myself.”
I kissed his cheek. “I don’t think you give yourself nearly enough credit. No, you haven’t been a perfect parent, but who has?”
He said nothing.
“What would your dad have done tonight?” I asked.
His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“If you’d been in Ryan’s position, and your dad came and pulled you out of a club. How would he have reacted?”
Don shuddered, and I clasped his hand between both of mine.
“Ever since you walked in here,” I said, “you haven’t breathed a word that wasn’t concern for Ryan or beating yourself up for being what you think is a bad father.”
“Except you’d think I could have kept him from going in there in the first place.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And when he went off on me, telling me what hypocrites Julia and I are…”
“He was drunk,” Isaac said.
“Yeah, but how often does getting drunk just make someone say what they’ve been holding back when they’re sober?” Don’s voice cracked again, and he quickly cleared his throat. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he said, “Christ, I don’t even know how to talk to him about this.”
“Don,” I whispered. “The very fact that you’re trying to figure out how to talk to him, not punish him, tells me you’re on the right track.”
“We’ll see about that,” he muttered.
“I’m serious.” I ran my hand up and down his arm. “Teenagers rebel. If he’s doing it because he’s upset about this situation, then you or maybe all three of us need to sit down and talk to him, but it doesn’t mean you’ve irreparably screwed up.”
Isaac rested his hand on Don’s knee and kissed his cheek. “This doesn’t mean you’ve failed as a parent, Don. He’s acting out, but there’s nothing that says the two of you can’t recover from this.”
“Maybe not.” Don’s voice was hollow and quiet, like it took all the energy he had just to speak. “But I have no idea where to start.”
“Why don’t you start with getting some sleep?” Isaac whispered, running his fingers through Don’s hair.
Don sighed. “I don’t see that happening any time soon.” Still, he pushed himself up off the bed. “Let me at least
grab a shower. And…I’m sorry I woke you guys up.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Isaac stood and put his arms around Don. “Waking us up is no big deal. You were taking care of your son.”
“Trying to, anyway,” Don whispered. He kissed Isaac lightly, then disappeared into the bathroom to get a shower.
Isaac and I looked at each other, eyebrows up.
“Think he’ll be okay?” I asked.
“Don or Ryan?”
“Both, now that you mention it.”
“Probably.” He sighed and looked at the closed bathroom door. “He’s stressed so much about being a good father, and had such a god-awful example of what a father should be all those years.” He shook his head. “I just wish Ryan could see how much Don wants to be a good dad. Honestly, if Ryan had any idea how much his dad is trying…” Isaac shook his head again, trailing off.
“Well, maybe when they talk tomorrow,” I said, “Ryan will see that.”
Isaac nodded. “I certainly hope so.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Donovan
I stripped off my uniform and grabbed a shower, then collapsed into bed between Isaac and Carmen. He molded himself against me, one arm draped over my waist, and kissed the back of my neck. Carmen faced me, tucking her head beneath my chin.
This was one of those nights when, had I just a little bit of energy left, I would have gladly sacrificed an hour of sleep to make love to Isaac. And Carmen. Both of them. The world had shifted off its axis. I needed to be close to them and know that something was still right.
But tonight, I simply had. Nothing. Left.
Exhaustion carried me off in no time, but the mental chorus of worry, fear and regret kept me in that limbo between consciousness and restful sleep. Every creak of the house settling was Ryan’s bedroom door opening. Every car going by was someone taking my son somewhere he didn’t belong. When I managed to dip into deep sleep, I couldn’t find Ryan in the Temple or I was on the side of the road listening to him puke or hate me or both.
The sun had barely risen when I gave up and got out of bed. My head throbbed, and I could barely see straight while I put on the coffee.
Before the first drop of coffee had fallen into the pot, Isaac joined me in the kitchen. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes.
“Carmen still asleep?” I asked finally.
“She’s in her room,” he said. “Getting an early start working, as always.”
I managed a halfhearted smile. “That woman’s got more discipline than anyone I know.”
He laughed. “No kidding. Maybe she can keep us in line after all.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ll see.”
We fell quiet again. Then he said, “Get any sleep?”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Same here.” He pulled a couple of cups out of the cabinet and set them beside the coffeepot. “You going to talk to him when he gets up, or let him finish being hungover first?”
“Sooner the better, I guess,” I said.
“Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“No. But it needs to be done.”
“What are you going to say?”
I shrugged. “Just going to play it by ear.”
He put his arms around me and kissed me lightly. He looked over his shoulder toward the stairs, then back at me. “You do realize that in sixteen years or so, we get to go through this whole teenager thing again, right?”
I groaned. “Don’t remind me. But hey, maybe we’ll get it right this time.”
He touched my face. “You got it right this time. You’ve always done the best you could with the knowledge you had.”
I sighed. “I have to wonder about that sometimes.”
“All parents fuck up,” he said. “You’ve done the best you could.”
“Is that good enough, though?”
“Let’s put it this way,” he said. “If it’s a choice between fucking up at parenting the way you think you have with Ryan, or fucking up the way your dad did with you, then I’ll gladly take this.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Really?”
“Have you ever once thought he wasn’t good enough to be allowed the privilege of being your son?”
“What? Jesus Christ, no.”
He smiled and kissed me. “Then you’re a better father than yours ever aspired to be.”
I rested my forehead against his. “Well, let’s not start handing out Father of the Year medals until after this conversation.” I lifted my head and nodded in the general direction of Ryan’s room.
Isaac grimaced. “Good luck. I’m sure you’ll be fine, though.”
“I hope so,” I whispered.
“You will be.”
With one last parting kiss, Isaac went back upstairs. I leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping my coffee in the silence while I waited for my son to get up.
Carmen’s comment about my own father kept reverberating through my head. I knew exactly how he would have responded to this situation. He’d have berated me for dragging him out of the house in the middle of the night, not to mention throwing it in my face that my mother would have been so disappointed in me. He would have screamed at me the whole way home last night, then gotten up this morning and repeated it all so I didn’t forget a word. Once his voice gave out, I’d be grounded until I was dead.
That was on a good night. In reality, had I pulled a stunt like Ryan did last night, my dad wouldn’t have helped me to bed so I could sober up before he let me have it. If I was too drunk to listen to him, he’d have let me pass out and lie where I fell until the next morning. Then, before long, I’d be in the bathroom dabbing blood from my nose and mouth.
Pouring myself another cup of coffee, I couldn’t shake the sick nervousness in my gut. Last night was a wake-up call. Something had to change, because with every clash, things were getting colder between us. The distance kept growing, and while I couldn’t let what happened go unaddressed, I also couldn’t let the rift between us get any wider than it already was. Another shouting match punctuated by slamming doors wouldn’t bring us any closer together.
God, please, let this be the right thing to do.
Around ten thirty, Ryan’s bedroom door opened. Slow footsteps padded across the hall downstairs, and the bathroom door closed. I waited in the kitchen, sipping my coffee and dreading the conversation that inched closer with the start and stop of the shower, more opening and closing of doors, and more footsteps. When the stairs squeaked beneath his feet, the hand holding my coffee cup shook too much to drink it without dropping it.
I set my cup on the counter as Ryan shuffled into the kitchen. He looked at me for a second, something like fear and contempt mingling with an expression of fatigue and the pain of a hangover. His eyelids were heavy, the shadows under his eyes dark. His lips pulled tight like he was this close to puking.
“Coffee?” I asked.
He nodded, wincing from that simple motion. He took a seat at the kitchen table while I poured the coffee. Neither of us spoke as I set the cup in front of him, though his posture stiffened slightly when I sat across from him.
Looking into his coffee cup, he muttered, “So how grounded am I?” The sarcasm in his voice didn’t quite mask the nervousness, though. It might have been embarrassment or maybe a little of both. I couldn’t be sure.
“You’re not.” I set my coffee cup down.
He stared at me. “I’m not?”
Shaking my head, I said, “I just think we need to talk. About a few things.”
“Like,” he paused. “Like what?”
“You tell me.”
That caught him off guard. From the half-confused, half-terrified look he shot me, I guessed he was wishing I’d just chewed him out, grounded him and called it a day.
Returning his gaze to the safety of his coffee cup, he said, “I don’t know. You’re the one that wants to talk.”
“Seemed like you had a few choice words for me last night.”
> His cheeks darkened, and he inclined his head even more, as if to hide the extra color from me.
“How much did you have to drink last night?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t remember.”
“How much do you remember drinking?”
“Enough to fuck myself up,” he snapped, wincing and rubbing his forehead. Normally I’d have gotten on him for cursing, but that was the least of my worries at the moment.
Trying not to let my voice betray my own nerves, I said, “Were you trying to fuck yourself up?”
He looked up again, eyebrows jumping slightly as if he hadn’t expected the question. “What?”
I tapped my thumb on the handle of my coffee cup. “Did you have that much to drink because you wanted to get that drunk? Or did you just lose track?”
Rubbing his forehead, he closed him eyes and sighed. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know or you don’t remember?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to know why the fuck you were three sheets to the wind with your hand up some random girl’s shirt last night,” I growled.
Surprise flickered across his face.
I suppressed a groan. “Tell me you remember at least that much.”
He said nothing, and the silence spoke volumes. I remembered all of last night with painful clarity, but I had no doubt the booze had blurred his memory a bit. Much like a hell of a lot of wine had blurred my memory of one particularly fateful night.
“How many times have you been to the Temple?” I asked.
He shrugged. “A few.”
I thought of the way I’d found him last night, drunk off his ass and tangled up with that girl. The questions were on the tip of my tongue, but I wasn’t so sure I wanted the answers to all of them. Any of them, really. I wasn’t even sure I could articulate the questions. No matter how many times I’d rehearsed this conversation in my head, I was lost. Totally lost.
Finally, I took a breath and hoped for the best.
“Ryan, I want you to be honest with me.” I folded my hands behind my coffee cup and kept my voice low and even. “I’m not asking because I want to punish you or embarrass you. I just want to know.” I paused, wondering if I could get the words out at all. “Have you had sex with Kristy?”
Who's Your Daddy? Page 29