Losing Seven (Falling for Seven Book 2)

by T. A Richards Neville

  “What is it?” I said. Worry impersonated my voice, and I couldn’t help but be cynical when it came to issues involving my dad.

  “It’s too soon,” my dad said to Elena. Either it was my imagination, or he was avoiding looking at me. He was flustered, the surge of blood darkening his skin. “Should I make us all lunch? This cold front gives me a beast of an appetite.”

  Elena dispersed a tsk and an eyeroll, swatting away my dad with the flip of her hand. “Lunch can wait. Michael, get in here. I’d like for both us to make the announcement.”

  Announcement? So they were getting married? I’d guessed what Elena was keen to say, but I kept it to myself so she could deliver her news. I might be tormented, set for the world to just slow down and carve out a blank space personally for me, but I was happy for her—even sharing her excitement. Elena was good to my dad, and she loved him like nothing I’d seen before. To say he didn’t deserve her would be putting it mildly.

  “Tell me,” I said. I was old enough not to flip out at my dad remarrying. He’d married and divorced Pamela, and there hadn’t been a squeak from me about it. My mom hadn’t been worthy of a diamond and long-term commitment, but I’d forgiven him for that. Those two should never have been in a relationship, they weren’t designed to last.

  “Michael,” Elena encouraged with the nudge of her head and curl of her lips. “Go on.”

  My dad’s blue eyes hesitantly centered on my own amused ones. Was he really worried he’d upset me? I lifted my eyebrows, urging and waiting. He hadn’t spoken after an uncomfortably long length of time and I slid Elena an inquiring glance. “You’re weirding me out,” I said to my dad. “Just say it.”

  The off-white button-down swelled with his chest, hands dipping into the front pockets of his gray slacks. “Elena’s pregnant.”

  An inner buzzing dug into my ears, like I’d been plunged underwater suddenly, without warning.

  “We’re having a baby,” Elena picked up where my dad left off. “You’re going to be a big sister!”

  The buzzing rang louder, more deafening. Impulsively, I shook Elena’s hand from mine. On afterthought, grasping how belligerent the snappish reaction was, I stretched my body across the couch to hug her in a contrived manifestation of joy. Quelling the burn in my chest with a full breath of air.

  “That’s…” A plethora of lies circled me. “It’s… wow. Elena, congratulations. You’re going to be a great mom.”

  I couldn’t look at my dad and hold onto my cool. Not in front of Elena. Because, if I looked at him, I was going to strangle him. The urge to scream ripped through my throat, unwelcome tears pressing behind my eyes and denied an exit. I’d pound into his chest if Elena wasn’t sitting right beside me, her concerned voice piercing the buzzing that continued to stuff my ears.

  “Angel, hello? Are you okay? You went somewhere else there, sweetie.”

  My gaze reunited with Elena’s, and I plastered a shaky smile to my face for her benefit. “Just surprised,” I said. “Big sister’s a huge responsibility.” It was huge, but I didn’t mean it. “I, uh, could you excuse me for a minute? My phone’s ringing.”

  In the spacious hallway, heeled with the excuse of a sham phone call, I booked it up the stairs and shut myself in my room, paying extra attention not to slam the door. Not to rip it clean off its hinges and stamp all over its surface. I hated this house as much as I hated him, and I couldn’t stand to be in it a minute longer.

  Pulling a bag from the closet, I dragged it across the carpet with me as I picked up my phone from the nightstand, frantically and erratically searching for Marilyn’s number through an incredible anger too powerful to gain control over. I sent the text littered with undetected autocorrections. Marilyn would understand my misspelled rage.

  I pulled a hoodie over my head and my pajama shirt. Switching clothes would slow me down, and I could do that later. When I was free from this house.

  My bedroom door swung open, the tapping irrelevant since my dad had already made himself at home inside. The skin on his forehead wrinkled as he evaluated my open bag on the bed, my stuffing of unfolded clothes into the limited space. I’d be lucky if I could get the zipper all the way up without it popping off.

  He crept farther into the room and warm fingers touched my shoulder. “You’re leaving? I didn’t mean to upset you.” His voice was soft, unsteady.

  “Didn’t mean to upset me? You got her pregnant.” My dad’s mouth opened, and I took over speaking for him. “How could you do this to me?”

  His unsteady nerves shifted to insolence. That immediate switch in his eyes and pattern constructing his jaw. The unpleasant characteristics that made my dad, my dad. “Angel, I didn’t do this to you.”

  I snatched my shoulder from his fingers. “You hypocrite!”

  “My situation is not the same as yours.”

  How was he being so calm? How could he not feel this pain that was grinding away at me. Bruising me to a pulp. His dispassion blurred in my periphery, and the awareness that Elena was pregnant downstairs clenched my gut into a sickening ball. Stress was bad. The way I was acting was bad for her.

  My bag overflowed, but I carried on pressing clothes inside.

  “Where are you going with all those clothes?”

  “Doesn’t matter—away from here.” I stopped, a pair of jeans half-folded in my hands. “Don’t tell Elena what I did. It’d only upset her, and it’s not good for the baby. I am happy for her.” My voice and tattered breathing betrayed what was actually the truth. I gathered the handles of my overnight bag, lifting it off the bed with the zipper open. “It’s true what I said. She’s going to be a great mom. Nothing like mine.”

  My dad stood in front of the closed door, pressing his back to my only way out. Desperate for me not to go, and utterly helpless in succeeding. It just made me want to escape faster.

  “You’re angry with me because I didn’t tell you sooner? I would have, but the first three months are crucial, precious, and Elena—”

  Precious? How dare he.

  I stopped listening—correctly functioning. Those months were crucial, and I’d fled to my dad for his help and advice in the most crucial and stupidest decision of all. And now this is what I had to show for it. He’d told me what to do, but I’d chosen to obey. For that—for this—his taking from me and gaining for himself, I couldn’t see a way back.

  I clenched the handles of my bag, fingernails depressing the valley of my hands.

  “I’m marrying her, Angel. In the spring.”

  And the show goes on…

  “What? And there was no chance of Julian marrying me?”

  “You’re holding my not wanting you to ruin your life against me?”

  So he did know why I was leaving. He understood with crystal clearness why I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.

  “Like I ruined yours?”

  “You asked for my help. You came to me.”

  “Because like the dumbass I am, I thought that maybe—just fucking maybe—you’d be there for me.”

  His frail intervention splintered to a stubborn stare, both condemning and releasing me, pathetically incapable of fixing what he’d contributed in breaking. He pressed on the door handle until the latch clicked, stepping out of my way and watching me walk out of his house.

  An aching heart was a real phenomenon. Mine ached more now than it ever did with Jordan. I’d allowed myself to get too comfortable and too happy. Too much of bloody everything. The what-ifs were crippling. What if Nellie hadn’t died? What if Julian hadn’t come to Boston to be with me? What if I hadn’t listened to my dad? Most importantly—the what-if I dominantly stressed myself over—what if I’d gone to Julian? He’d said he wouldn’t have wanted me to have the abortion, but I couldn’t trust that. Without the choices there in front of him, he couldn’t know what he would’ve done or wanted.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Rewinding back to that day in my head was ulcer-inducing. I hadn’t thought enough about the what
-ifs when they mattered. I’d panicked and I’d reacted. Trusted my dad for what would be the last time.

  Strangely, I’d been too numb to overreact to Julian’s ambush in Boston. Caught off guard, undoubtedly, but what had I really expected? For our relationship to mend itself? For Julian to eventually thank me for taking myself into the women’s clinic and then crudely hiding it from him? I’d thought I was doing right. Now, I felt like a monster. The reasons for my decision were one-sided, for sure. Cons trumping pros in a lopsided debate helped along by the man who was now getting ready for his own baby. Who had been speaking up for my baby?

  No one. And mine had been the quietest voice of all.

  My second private lesson of the afternoon was over, and I skated around the rink with my earbuds in. Kids from morning hockey practice, jacked up from overflowing adrenaline, hung around for extra time on the ice on a discounted rate. Any other day, I’d have skated with them. Helped improve their technique and edgework. Anything to be productive while I was here. But just making it through twelve hours of daylight was an arduous task in itself. And I missed Julian. Missed him every second of every minute of every hour. He was all I gave any thorough attention to. My body moved forward with the days, but my mind stayed back, dubious to discover another focus.

  It was simple, really. I wasn’t ready for us to be over. So intent on keeping Julian’s career and reputation intact, I was late in catching the signs I was doing more damage than good. His timing at first seemed intentionally harmful. Before his big event, in the nicest, backless French gown with pearls for straps. But once the throbbing pain began to settle, I understood why it had to be that way—the ripping of the Band-Aid.

  We’d had his entire off-season ahead of us. Days and weeks to spend with each other. Julian couldn’t move on investing in me, and that meant neither could we. It was either tie up loose ends on that night or drag the waning process out and cause even more distress. Because the end was on the horizon, no matter how long it took us to reach it.

  I just hadn’t banked on my dad loitering on the fringes with a sledgehammer to deliver the pulverizing blow.

  Back at home, and not tired enough for bed, I scrolled through my Twitter feed. It was unsafe domain, but I was the only person who had to know I was walking this slippery line. If I happened to stumble upon a Tweet or football piece on Julian, didn’t mean I’d read it. A picture would suffice. Unless the picture had other women in it. He’d broken up with me, not turned celibate, so it wasn’t that unlikely. But I was nowhere near ready to look at him and another woman.

  My finger dawdling to tap out of the app, a red dot over my message envelope kept me from closing. I opened the folder, to delete whatever junk had been sent to me. Self-promotion or a follow back request.

  It wasn’t either of those. And the sender was verified.

  @Kessler13 What’s the chances of you reading this? If there’s ANY chance, I’ve just landed in LAX from a road game. Would really like to see you if you aren’t busy. No funny business. Just friends.

  I must have read the private message ten times. Once should have been the decision maker, but seeing Beau wasn’t turning me off like it should or has in the past. Reaching out to me when he had his choice of anyone in the city, I couldn’t find it in me to just delete and ignore. Beau was a friend. Somehow, it had just happened. Naturally, on its own. So I replied to his message.

  It’s late. What were you thinking?

  The time was an issue. What was there to do at five after ten? Putting on clothes and leaving the house didn’t appeal to me. I was hungry, though. The spicy and sweet corn muffin hadn’t touched the sides, even if I had been eating less lately. My appetite suppressed by an uneasy stomach that would heal when I did. Eating less meant less trips to the store. More time alone…

  All I needed now was a bunch of cats, and my sorry life would be complete.

  A notification brightened my phone screen.

  @Kessler13 What about my place? I could pick you up and then dinner. I’m starving. Plane food hasn’t been kind to my stomach.

  My place I watched my fingers type out. Like I’d ever even had another man in here. Not even my dad had gotten through my door. Then I was giving out my address when he hadn’t asked for it. I’d given Beau Kessler my door number, street name, zip code. And I was lying on my messy couch in a pair of bleach spattered sweatpants and a holey sweater. My hair had been washed, that was one vanity to be grateful for.

  No more messages from Beau came through, so I was left to guess whether he’d be traveling from the airport or his home. Would he need a change of clothes or just drag all his stuff here with him? Either possibility saw him turning up in a fitter state than me.

  Fluffing the couch cushions and straightening the throw blanket, I decided I’d have to change. I wouldn’t even sit here in front of Hayden looking this sloppy. She wouldn’t let me. I’d stooped to new lows, and this small bit of effort would hardly knock me out of my slob rituals. I could look presentable for a couple of hours.

  The sweats landed half in my laundry hamper, a ribbed shorts and tank top set making its debut from my bulging loungewear drawer that wouldn’t close without brute force. I flipped my head upside down and brushed out my tangle of hair. I left the makeup bag and perfumes on my dressing table untouched. I’d achieved looking presentable, I wasn’t looking to replace Julian.

  Beau held up a paper takeout bag, a plastic shopping bag in his other hand. He fit snugly under my porch roof, rose vines and chipped wooden posts offering enough room to breathe and that was it.

  “I brought you food and wine in exchange for shelter.”

  “Well, in that case.” I reached out and took the food, driven by hunger to look inside the bag. “What are we having?”

  “Chicken and wild rice with asparagus.”

  I hooked the bag over my wrist while locked the door. “Beau, that isn’t real takeout. Did you miss the turnoff for Wingstop?”

  He patted down his iron stomach and grinned at me. “I’ve got a temple to look after. Should I take these off, eh?” Pointing to his sneaker that was whiter than my wainscoting, Beau hovered between pulling it off and waiting for instruction.

  “Since your shoes look cleaner than my house, I’d say you’re good.” I waved him into the kitchen while I reheated the food. “What else you got there?”

  Placing the bag on the wooden counter, Beau unloaded two bottles of red wine. He spun one bottle in his hand, cradling it with the other do display the regal label. “Do you like this kind?”

  I skimmed the lettering, lifting the cartons from the takeout bag. “Probably. I know nothing about wine.”

  He rubbed the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “Me neither. The store assistant said this was one of the best on sale.”

  I opened the cupboard above our heads. “Glasses are in the there. Are you having some?”

  “Sure. Wine isn’t my usual tipple, but a first for everything, eh?”

  “I have beer in the fridge.”

  “No. You keep that. If the wine sucks, then… yeah.”

  We ate our food on the couch. Defeated after half of the chicken breast and a good amount of the rice and vegetables, I took my plate and Beau’s empty one into the kitchen and scraped the scraps into the trash bin. Leaving the dishes to soak in the sink until later, I brought the opened bottle of wine into the living room and topped off our glasses.

  “Where did you fly in from?” I asked Beau, settling back into my seat.

  “New York. It’s been a long one for sure.”

  “How many games?”

  “Five.”

  Ouch. “Don’t you like being on the road?”

  “Traveling has its ups and downs. You bond more with your teammates, and without that home advantage you push yourself to work harder. But one day off—if it’s even in the schedule—between a string of games wears on you, mind and body, especially when you’re bunking in hotels and sharing with other guys.”

>   I fake shivered. “Sounds terrifying.”

  Beau grinned. “Which part?”

  “All of it. I’m a cranky bitch if I don’t get my sleep. What about your family, where are they?”

  “British Columbia.”

  “Where you were born?” Sometimes, Beau’s accent didn’t carry that strongly. But I’d heard him on TV having a phone conversation with his dad, and the Canuck in him had exploded free.

  “And bred. B.C’s a lot different from California, let me tell you. You ever been up to Canada?”

  “Never,” I said. “Do you go home often?”

  “Every summer. Being with family keeps me sane—grounded. I don’t have too many friends out here on the west coast. But you’re from LA?”

  I propped the stem of my glass on my thigh with a shallow sigh. “Santa Monica.”

  An unwitting smile faded around the edges. “What is it? You’re in the market for a change of scenery?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? I love Los Angeles. But all I have left here is this house.”

  “It’s a pretty cute house.”

  “Yeah…” This house, the size of a tin can, had more character than LA houses four times its size.

  Beau stood, placing his empty wine glass on the coffee table. “You don’t see music centers like this nowadays. She’s a classic.”

  I’d bought the retro HiFi along Venice Boulevard when I’d first moved into this house. Fifty bucks and the guy even carried it to my car for me. “I bought it here in Venice, from someone on the beach. Do you ever get down there? It’s mostly tourist traps, but you can pick up the odd bargain if you stop by during the week.”

  “Nah, hardly ever. I’m too busy and it’s too hot.”

  The languid harmonies of a remastered Fleetwood Mac song played from the old stereo and Beau turned it up. “Nice music collection. I miss CDs.”