Love Emerged (Love Surfaced #3)

by Michelle Lynn

  “Why?” My heart speeds up like a race car on the final lap, gearing up for something bigger and badder.

  “Sit down.” She eyes the chair across from her.

  Since she’s done smoking, I take a seat. “Just tell me. What’s going on?”

  I’m not close with my father, or his family. I’ve only had a few phone calls with him this year, and our talks are brief and superficial with mundane conversations about the weather, jobs, and if I needed money. His family doesn’t recognize me as a part of their family, and I don’t really care to be associated with a family bearing an embezzling grandfather, a hooker-loving uncle, and a coke-addicted cousin. Each has been through the gamut of the online gossip. That’s to be expected when someone has agreed to have his or her life taped every day. My dad’s family owns Vitron’s Entertainment, a popular restaurant chain company. My aunt thought it would be good publicity to have a reality show.

  Of course, I wasn’t asked to be a part of it. Not like I would have accepted anyway.

  “He’s sick, and he would like to see you.” She pours another glass.

  I mentally remind myself to stop her after this one. “Why didn’t he call me himself?”

  “Because you told him you were done with him two months ago.”

  “No, I didn’t. I never said that. I told him I was busy with my new job and didn’t have enough vacation time.”

  “Well—”

  “Well, what? Those are two completely different things.” I sit up a little straighter in the chair, my feet preparing for my getaway.

  “You’ve always had a strained relationship with him.”

  Does she not see our own relationship as strained?

  “Just”—I shake my head—“what’s going on with him?”

  “I told you, he’s sick. It’s his liver. It’s not a surprise. The man drinks like a damn whale.” She rolls her eyes.

  I refrain from pointing out the similarity between my parents as she gulps down the rest of her bourbon.

  “Like, he needs a transplant?” I’m growing impatient from her lack of information.

  “I think so. June didn’t go into many specifics. Just that they both would like you to come visit. He’s at his condo in Chicago. So, I’ll escort you, and we’ll go this weekend.”

  Her glass clinks to the table, and she reaches for the bottle again, but my hands and reflexes are faster, so I win out and tuck it between me and the arm of the chair.

  “I think you’ve had enough.” I ignore her exhausted eyes. “That’s five days from now. You’re going to stay in Detroit this week?”

  “Oh God, no. I’m leaving tomorrow, but I’ll meet you at the airport on Saturday morning. We’ll go there together.”

  “I think I’ll drive in by myself. You don’t need to chaperone me, Mom. I’ll be fine.” I stand with the bourbon bottle in my hand.

  “You’re leaving again? Why are you always in such a rush?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I need to finish some work if I’m leaving this weekend.”

  She nods and plucks her bourbon bottle out of my hand, her babysitter for the night.

  “I’ll call you when I’m in Chicago.”

  Unable to settle down until I find out exactly how my dad’s health is, I grab a taxi to make my way to the lakefront.

  I sit down on a bench, looking across the lake to Canada. The Ambassador Bridge that attaches Detroit to Windsor, Ontario lightly lights up with dusk slowly approaching. I pull my phone out of my purse, and my thumb hovers over my dad’s name.

  Hugh Vitron, a male figure who’s always seemed mysterious to me. He has foregone marriage after my mother, and instead, he’s found that serial dating is his choice. A forever bachelor. No meaningful relationships to speak of.

  I shake off the apprehension and click the green button to dial him.

  Voice mail, voice mail, I wish in my mind.

  “Bea,” he says, excitement filling his voice.

  “Hi . . . Dad.”

  “I’m guessing you talked to your mom.” He muffles the phone.

  I’m guessing he’s telling his sweet nothing to leave the room because his daughter, who’s probably older than her, is on the phone.

  “I just left her. How are you feeling?” I need to cut to the chase because I tend to be like a toddler with emotions—throwing and yelling when they’re too much for me to handle.

  “I have cirrhosis of the liver.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” My feet bounce on the ground, and I close my eyes.

  “I’m dying, baby. That’s what it means.”

  The prick behind my eyes is the first reaction to the news. Next, my nose burns, and I lose control of the wetness overtaking my vision.

  “What about a transplant? There’s nothing they can do for you?”

  Surely, people with money can buy things on the black market.

  He laughs, and it’s the first time I’ve heard him sound so calm in his amusement. Usually, it’s forced and drawn out to make others truly believe he’s enjoying their company.

  “Not in my case.” One would expect despair, begrudgingly upset that there was nothing to do to save their life. “I’ve known for a while, but it’s becoming unmanageable.”

  My head falls forward between my shoulders, and I push back the tears that want to escape. Not while on the phone with him. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. Everyone is. Will you come and see me?”

  “Yes. Mom said this weekend. You’re in Chicago, right?”

  “This is where my doctor is, so I’ll be here for . . . a while. I’ll make reservations at that pizza place you like so much.”

  I was five when he took me there, but that doesn’t stop me from smiling because he remembers.

  “Okay. I’ll be in on Saturday morning.”

  “I can’t wait.” His voice sounds like he’s smiling from ear to ear.

  I hang up with my dad and pick up my head, wishing my heart wasn’t searing with dread. I can’t even explain why these emotions of loss are flowing through me because he hasn’t exactly been Johnny-on-the-spot as my father. If anything, he’s been more like a distant cousin, popping in and out.

  But, now, he’s dying.

  The thought is like being jabbed with fifty needles right to my heart.

  My head falls into my hands, and the tears I’ve been trying to push away leak out one at a time until they link into streams down my face. The man they say is your first love—which, in my case, would be my only love—won’t be on this earth soon. The relationship I always thought might bud into a father-daughter bond will disappear with his existence. I’ll have a weekend in Chicago with him, in the hopes that it heals the hurt he’s caused me most of my life.

  Dylan

  “YOU’RE GOING TO WORK YOUR ass off today, right?” I ask Brad on our way up to Deacon Advertising.

  “Shut up, man.” He straightens his tie.

  At least his appearance is good, but the pricey suit that his ex-fiancée made him buy makes him look like he should be the boss, not some number-pusher.

  “I’m just saying. I called in favors to get you this job.”

  He takes his fist and hits me square in the upper arm. “I got this. No worries.”

  “No taking off to find Taylor, got it?” I remind him for the fiftieth time.

  I can just see me looking for him at lunch, only to find out he hightailed it somewhere on a dead-end lead on the whereabouts of his ex-girlfriend from college.

  “Please. No one is talking. I’m about to hire a private investigator.”

  “Seriously¸ what does this girl have? Gold between her legs?” I ask.

  He stares at me, long and mean, as though he’s trying to make his eyes shoot darts at me. “She has gold in here.” He taps his heart with his palm.

  “Sap,” I murmur as the elevator doors open, and I step out of it.

  “You know, it will happen to you someday. There will be a girl who will have the ability to
make you do anything,” Brad says.

  I shake my head. “Never. I would never choose a girl over my own life goals.” Just as the words leave my mouth, I stare up to find Bea at the receptionist desk.

  She looks at me with disappointment and hurt filling those beautiful hazel eyes. I regret abandoning her that night. I should never have left, but I’m not the type to sleep around and not care about the person. And if I care about Bea, then my heart will break. So, it’s better this way with both of us acting like we don’t care.

  “Well, well, well . . . we meet again.” Brad closes the distance with lightning speed, pulling Bea into his chest. He lifts her and swings her around.

  “Put me down!” She hits his shoulders.

  I’m happy to see she’s back in her stilettos and short skirts. If I can’t touch, I like to look.

  “That’s not what you were saying last night.” Brad looks over her shoulder at me, raising his eyebrows a few times.

  I know he’s trying to ignite a rise out of me, and I wish I hadn’t questioned him last night, asking if they had slept together.

  “Still looking for Sigma Kappa Lame. Oh, whoops, I mean your ex?” she asks.

  I cross my arms over my chest, waiting for the fireworks. If I thought Brad’s eyes pinned at me were shooting darts, they’re shooting damn nuclear weapons at Bea.

  “No, and don’t make me put you in a headlock and give you a noogie,” Brad threatens.

  Bea laughs. “A wedgie, too? How about you throw me across your knee and spank me?”

  “Too many before me,” Brad says.

  Bea steps back, showing how much that insult affected her.

  “You can spank me.” Samantha stands and rests her arms on the desk, giving him a nice view of her cleavage.

  Bea holds up a hand to her. “Calm down, little one. He’s still pining over his ex whom”—she coughs—“he cheated on.”

  That wounded puppy I thought she was has just turned into a ferocious junkyard dog.

  “Isn’t that right, Brad? Now, you want to get her back? Good luck to you on that.” She saunters by him.

  He clenches his teeth while his face turns red. “It’s better than sleeping with half of the Michigan swim team. Wasn’t it only Tanner and me—oh, wait.” Brad acts like he’s looking up, remembering in his head.

  He’s alluding that either himself or Tanner might have slept with Bea. If that’s the case, that would mean, she’s had two of us.

  Fuck me.

  She spins on her stilettos with fury filled in her eyes. “Go to hell, Brad.” She looks directly at me, as though she can hear my thoughts. “Never.” She spins back around and goes to her office.

  “Nice, asshole,” I say to him. “Way to make a great impression on your first day.”

  Brad shrugs—uncaring, like always, about anyone but himself.

  “How about we grab a drink tonight?” Samantha asks him.

  I stare blankly at her, Does she have no standards?

  “She started it.” Brad sounds like the preschooler he’s acting like when he answers my question.

  “Let me show you to your office.” I breeze by him and walk him to the accounting department.

  By the time I reach my desk, I spot a reflection of pink under my keyboard. Lifting it, I glance back at Yasmin, seeing that she’s concentrating on whatever she’s working on.

  I never slept with your brother or Brad. Relax.

  I crumple it up in my hand and throw it away in the trash can next to my desk. Was my face that transparent that she thinks I cared?

  Trying to push Bea out of my mind, I turn on my laptop. The screen finally boots up, so I type in my username and password. Lo and behold, there’s an email from my Nike contact. That tension that has been resting on my shoulders for the last few days lifts when I read that she’s willing to hear a new pitch. It’s a break—a monstrous break, but mostly, an opportunity. If I land it, I’ll be a senior account exec or maybe higher. But, if I fail, then I’ll be done. I need the most talented people in this office to work with.

  Sliding my desk chair out, I decide I’d better go ask Tim for some recommendations as to who to take with me on the promotion train.

  His office door is slightly ajar, and I overhear Bea in his office, so I walk a few steps away and wait. Her voice carries out of the door as she’s asking for some time off.

  “I just can’t do it, Bea. We’re on crunch time here, and we have too many accounts, so we can’t afford for you to be gone,” Tim says, denying her request.

  “But, Tim, it’s my dad. He’s sick, and I’m only asking for a long weekend. Friday and Monday. Maybe Tuesday, at the most. I’m always here, working late. It’s three days,” Bea argues.

  This whole thing piques my interest.

  “Why are you even going? I thought I heard that you and your father didn’t have a relationship.”

  Bea’s voice becomes louder now. “That’s none of your business, and I’m not sure how you know anything personal about me.”

  “Come on. Your family is famous. The Vitron’s, right?”

  I rack my brain for Vitron. It sounds familiar, but that doesn’t clarify much to what Tim’s saying.

  Why is Bea’s last name Zanders?

  Finding all this too interesting—like a soap opera drama—to pull back and not eavesdrop on the conversation, I linger by the door, closer now.

  “Seriously? Listen, Tim, I have the vacation time, and I want to use it.”

  “I said no, Bea. I’m sorry, but you can leave a half day early on Friday. I need you back on Monday morning though. You’re supposed to pitch to the Fraedrich company.”

  “Kevin can do it.”

  “You know how Mr. Fraedrich likes the women. He wants you to present.” Tim’s voice lowers.

  I can’t hear what he is saying, but a second later, Bea thrusts the door open and plows out, her face red.

  She doesn’t notice me because she turns left without a look around. I saunter into Tim’s office, as though I have no idea what just transpired between the two of them.

  “Hey, Tim.”

  He sits down, acting unfazed about what happened with Bea, but I catch his fingers continuing to flex in and out, like he’s relieving tension.

  “What can I do for you, Dylan?” He takes his seat behind his mammoth desk.

  I grab the vacant chair. “I have some good news. Nike is willing to hear a pitch.”

  His eyes light up, and he sits a little straighter in his chair. “That’s awesome. Way to go, Dylan. You came through.”

  He’s halfway to running a victory lap even though the gun never went off. We’re still training. Hell, we’re only tying our shoes.

  “Tim, this is a tough one. We have one month, and if we don’t nail it, we can kiss them good-bye until another person takes my contact, Georgia’s place. I need to establish a team ASAP, and we need to be working solely on that.” I lean back, laying my ankle across my opposite knee.

  He steeples his hands in front of his mouth and thinks about what I’m asking.

  I’m guessing Bea’s his best. Just give me her since she can’t take a vacation.

  “Take Kevin and John.” His weight tilts his office chair, and he nods.

  “Those are your best? This is Nike we’re talking about.”

  “They are. Plus, Bea and Yasmin are on other campaigns right now.” He’s sitting across from me, straight up lying.

  Does he not want this company to succeed?

  Because I didn’t put all my eggs into a company where the execs wouldn’t want us to improve. If Deacon isn’t going to go up to bat with the major players in New York, then I might as well crawl back to AdSec and grovel.

  “That’s funny. I just heard Kevin talking about the Fraedrich’s campaign in the break room. He mentioned that he’s been working on it with Bea.”

  Two can play at this game of liars.

  “Well,” he stutters, delaying in order to think about his answer.


  Thankfully, Tim isn’t that quick with coming back on the fly.

  “Technically, you’re right. Kevin’s on that account, but Bea’s primary, so you can take him. She’ll be fine.”

  “Because she’s your best?”

  “Yeah.”

  Like taking candy from a baby. Dumb prick.

  “Bea’s your best?” I clarify again.

  “Oh, no. I mean, on the Fraedrich’s team.”

  Don’t try to backpedal now. I have you, and I choose to demolish you.

  I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, steepling my own fingers together, much like Tim. “Give me Bea, Tim.”

  Our eyes hold. He’s testing me, but I’m persuasive. We both know I am, so he should give up the fight.

  But he doesn’t. His eyes dig into mine, searching for an out, but he’s not smart enough to come up with one, so I play his game.

  Eventually, he sits back again. “You can have her after Monday. She’s presenting to Fraedrich’s.”

  “I can’t do that. See, Nike wants something by the end of the month. Thirty days. We need to come up with the campaign and then bring in graphics and a slogan. We’re already in deadline mode, and we haven’t started. So, let me pitch you an idea, and if you like it, you’ll look like a damn hero to your boss. If you don’t like it, I think you should trust me.”

  “Trust you? You’re a fresh-out-of-college twenty-three-year-old baby face. You know how long I’ve been in this business?”

  “Let’s see, Tim. You were hired out of Michigan State as a junior exec where you stayed for over ten years when most are out in two. When you finally got to senior exec, you single-handedly sabotaged a campaign for the highest client—whom you had been schmoozing for over six months—because you fell in love with his wife. Not knowing what to do with you, they developed some new job where you were a paper-pusher, for the most part.”

  His tongue sticks in his cheek. He’s not happy that I know his whole story here at Deacon.

  “Unable to get a job anywhere else, you somehow kept yours here, but I think that’s only because you’re friends with someone higher up. But, as time went by, people who knew your past began to leave, and you somehow got up to management level. You’re here, and you’re still dicking around. I’d ask the question as to why Bea is still a junior exec, but my guess is, you don’t promote women. That you’re one of those old-school guys who thinks she should be at home, making a nice happy life for her husband. Your wife does that even though you probably fuck around on her every time you’re let off your leash.”