“Hey, Dad, I’m going to have to borrow the car this morning,” I say, passing through to the kitchen without stopping to hear his reply. I grab my travel coffee mug, a snack bar from the box on the counter, and head back to the living room.
“I didn’t hear you, sorry,” I say around a mouthful of the breakfast bar.
“You said you were staying out last night,” says Dad. He’s frowning, harder than usual.
“Yeah, I changed my mind and came back instead.” I really don’t have time for this but Dad’s clearly got something on his mind.
“Sleep well?”
“Well enough,” I say.
“I should hope so, since the day’s half gone. I had to make my own breakfast,” he gripes. That explains the smell near the microwave, I think, but my head’s really not in this conversation, so I apologize just to get my ass out the door.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say, pulling on my coat.
“I don’t believe you,” he says. I stop what I’m doing and turn to look at him.
He’s angry. He’s actually angry about this.
“Okay. Look, I really am sorry,” I say, pressing my fingers to my eyes. I’m insanely late, but he’s my dad so I summon patience from some corner of my brain and take a deep breath. “I’ll work out a menu and get some things prepped for you for this week, okay? That way you won’t have to worry about fixing anything.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he gripes. “You’re hardly ever here, and when you are, you’re in your room.”
“I’m working, Dad,” I say, then stop. Raising my voice won’t get me out the door any faster.
A knock on the door covers up whatever reply he was about to make. I check the peephole and pull open the door.
“It’s colder than a witch’s tit in February out there,” says Connie, shaking rain off her coat before she steps inside.
Good. Reinforcements. Maybe she’ll distract Dad and we can sort this out when I’m not an hour late to work.
Connie looks at Dad who doesn’t say anything, then looks at me.
“Okay,” she says, hanging up her coat on the hall tree by the door. “What’s going on here?”
“What’s going on is that I’m very late and I have to get going,” I say, giving her a quick hug.
“Don’t you walk out of here yet, young lady,” says Dad from his chair. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
“Dad, I have to go to work,” I say, my voice rising again. “I have a job, remember?”
“Maybe you ought to try remembering that yourself next time you want to stay out playing all night long.”
It’s the wrong card to play, mainly because I know he’s right.
“I’m an adult, in case you’ve forgotten,” I tell him. Dad’s still sitting in that damn chair. I’m going to chop that stupid recliner to bits one of these days. He can’t even get out of it to yell at me properly.
“Then act like it,” he says, yelling now for real. “I raised you to take care of your responsibilities. If you can’t handle it—”
“I am handling it fine.”
Connie’s made herself comfortable on the sofa, watching us argue with mild interest.
“Joelle’s right, you know,” she says to Dad. “She handles herself beautifully. You should see her in the kitchen.”
“I see her in the kitchen all the damn time,” says Dad. “It’s all she does anymore, unless she’s out partying all night.”
This scores me a smirk from Connie.
“Out all night, huh?”
“Don’t encourage her,” snarls Dad. “She slept half the day away because of it and now she’s late to the only job she could get.”
“It’s not the only job I could get!”
“Sure looks that way to me,” says Dad.
“And anyway, at least I have a job. When’s the last time you went to work, huh, Dad?”
I regret the words even as they’re coming out of my mouth. Connie holds up a hand. Unbelievably, Dad stops whatever he was about to say.
“She’s got a point, Hank,” says Connie in a calm, reasonable tone. Like we’re just debating local politics or something. How does she do that?
Dad’s face goes red and for a moment, I wonder where we stored the blood pressure cuff. Mad as I am right now, getting this worked up can’t be good for him. “What the hell are you getting at?” he asks.
“I’m just saying that I know it’s been a while since you were in the workforce,” says Connie. “You ever think about getting back to it?”
The room goes quiet and I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction. Because I couldn’t be the one to say it to him, even if my sixteen-year-old self has been asking this silent question since Mom bailed on us and left me in charge of keeping us afloat.
I’ve spent so much time trying to keep our heads above water, and now I’m so close—so goddamned close—to moving on to a part of life that’s just for me. I want to be a good daughter to him, but… sometimes I just want to be a daughter.
Not the head of the household.
I’ve buried that thought so many times that letting it play out in my own mind feels foreign, like it’s not supposed to be there.
Guess this is just the season for having thoughts I shouldn’t. Suddenly my mind is filled with Elliot and Alex, and of the three of us together, and how nothing in my whole world outside of my work in the kitchen has ever felt so precisely right. Like the universe struck a tuning fork just for us and it’s the most perfect sound I can imagine. That’s what it felt like, being with them last night. It feels that way when I get in that zone in the kitchen.
And that’s what the thought of being a daughter to my father, and only a daughter, feels like. Not being a caretaker, or a manager, or sole breadwinner.
The sense of rightness, that resonance, it gives me the courage to say something I’ve been holding back for years.
“Maybe it’s time you start doing some of these things for yourself, Dad,” I say softly, the urge to yell gone.
Dad still hasn’t answered Connie, and now I’m wishing I’d waited until he had.
“Explain yourself,” he says, damn near apoplectic. I can see the vein at his temple throbbing as he pulls himself up out of that stupid recliner. My pulse is pounding so loud in my ears it’s hard to hear.
“I only meant that—”
“You think I’m freeloading? Is that it? Just lounging around on the back of my only child.” He’s shouting at Connie now. I’ve never seen him this angry, literally shaking with rage.
Hell, now I’m shaking. I twist my hands together and try to talk him down.
“Dad, I’m just saying—”
“I think you’ve said quite enough, young lady,” he says. “I want you out of the house by the end of the week.”
The room goes silent.
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t stutter. And you might as well go, too,” he says to Connie. “I got no use for people who think I’m some sort of mooch, not in my own goddamned house.”
“Nobody thinks you’re a mooch, Hank,” says Connie, trying to soothe him.
“That’s obviously not true, if the two of you are—what? Staging some kind of intervention.” Dad laughs, and it’s a bitter, ugly sound. “Is that what this is? Some kind of get-your-dumbass-back-to-work intervention. Like what Bill and Marsha Myers had to do with their lazy sumbitch grandson when he dropped out of college.” He laughs again and drops back into the chair.
I’m still frozen where I stand, on the verge of tears for the second time in twelve hours.
“Dad, I—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You have to go to work.” He picks up the remote, jacking the volume up too high. “So go already.”
I pull my coat on, dazed. Connie follows me out to the front step.
“He didn’t mean it, honey,” she says, rubbing my arms. “He’s just in a mood.”
“He did,” I say, moving now but frozen inside.
“He meant every word of it. And he’s not wrong.”
“About what?”
“That I resent having to take care of him. That I’ve been thinking he needs to get back to work.”
“There’s nothing wrong with either of those things, child,” she says, too kindly. That gentle tone starts the tears falling. “You were just a kid when he got hurt. And then when your fool mama left—” Connie huffs out a breath. “Since I got nothing nice to say, I’ll stop there.”
“What am I going to do, Connie?”
“For starters, you get your butt to work. After that, you come back here, get you a bag packed and you come stay with me for a few days. Let that old coot cool off a bit.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’ll do him some good to have a couple of days to himself, anyway. Let him get a taste of what it feels like.”
“But what if—”
“I’ll still be here checking on him, don’t you worry. Even if he tries to fire me again.” Connie laughs at that. “Can you believe it? I’ve told him a thousand times you can’t fire somebody who don’t work for you, but he keeps trying anyway. Plus, those therapists will be around every so often. And Lord knows, the man can operate a cell phone.”
She sees my frown at that and pulls out her smartphone, flicking the screen open. It’s a text thread from my dad.
Memes. So many memes.
“When did that start?”
“I showed him a couple of funny ones that first day. Guess he got hooked,” says Connie. “I swear to God, he sends me ten a day.”
Dad’s sending memes. To Connie.
The world’s gone mad, but I don’t have time to sort it out. I have to go face my boss, who is now also my lover, and find out whether I still have a job after sleeping with him and then showing up over an hour late to work the next day.
I hug Connie, thanking her and promising to text her later. I back out of the driveway as fast as I dare. Now that the bridge between me and my father is burning, time to go find out whether the one between me and Elliot is still standing.
19
Elliot
It’s supposed to snow today. Thank God. Bring it on. I’m due for a run after work and the snow might finally, finally cool me down. After last night, I need all the help I can get.
I inhale, measuring the beats as I hold my breath and exhale slowly, focusing on keeping my mind from hitting replay for the four hundredth time in the last twelve hours.
Joelle is late. As distractions go, it’s a motherfucker. I called her three times, but she hasn’t answered. I know it’s probably something mundane, but I can’t help but suspect her absence has something to do with last night.
Last night…
Don’t go there, jackass. You already almost lost a finger today by not paying attention.
The noisy kitchen is usually a comfort to me. I love the camaraderie, the heat, the bustle of it. It’s mine, all of it. I built it. Yet today all I want is to lock myself away somewhere and relive every second of last night.
Okay, maybe that’s not all I want. Round two would be nice. And three. And four.
My dick stirs and I shift over to the sink, turning the cold water on full blast to rinse my hands off. It’s cool enough to make me pay attention and I tell myself it helps.
Fact is, there will be no round two, not after the way I fucked things up last night. Fucking Alex and his fucking ex. When the hell did he start talking to Diana again anyway?
And why the bleeding fuck does it bother me so damn much?
Because I know—I know—he hasn’t really been talking to her. For one thing, I saw that text. It was the only message in the thread, so I know he hadn’t responded. That means the problem is the possibility that he might want to talk to her again.
If Alex wants to start things back up with that… woman, why should I care?
Whatever the reason, it had hit a big red button in me and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. At least Joelle left, too. I’m not proud of watching her climb into the Uber from the window, but if she’d stayed…
If she’d stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to keep myself from going back downstairs and joining them. And then I would have had to explain why I left, but how the hell am I supposed to tell them why when I don’t even understand it myself?
It was one text message.
I’m still stewing over that damned text when Anna stops by to pass on a message from Joelle, saying she overslept and will be here soon.
Thank God. Something innocuous. I certainly can’t blame her for oversleeping; I was exhausted this morning, too. Though I doubt she was up tossing and turning like I was.
Or maybe she was.
Shit.
* * *
An hour later, I’m elbow deep in a slower-than-usual lunch rush, doing my best not to stare at Joelle every time I walk by her station in the kitchen. She came in, apologized to me and Anna for being late, then dove straight into work, all without making eye contact with me once.
I swear I keep hearing the faintest sniffle coming from her direction, and it’s all I can do not to order her into my office to tell me what the hell is wrong. Only I can’t do that because the instant I get her alone, those pants are coming off.
If she’ll let me. There’s a chance she might not be thrilled with me flaking out last night.
Seriously, Elliot, what the hell were you thinking?
“Hey, boss,” Jimmy calls out the next time I pass through the kitchen. “Any way you can grab an extra set of sheet pans on your way back up here?”
I give him a thumbs up and head to the storeroom. It’s little more than an open closet, but it’s a lot quieter back here, which is the only reason I hear it.
Crying.
I peer around the corner. Joelle is sitting on an overturned plastic crate, surrounded by cans of tomato sauce and piles of plastic storage bins, hands covering her gorgeous face.
“Oh, sunshine,” I say. My voice cracks, and before I can even clear my throat, Joelle’s wiping her eyes and standing up. “What’s wrong? Please, please tell me… please tell me this isn’t about last night. Whatever it is, I’ll make it right. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”
Joelle sniffs, wiping her nose delicately with a tissue that comes from nowhere.
“I’m sorry, Elliot,” she says, her voice rough from her crying. It guts me to hear it. Joelle should never sound like that. “Let me go wash my hands and I’ll get back to work.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Her laugh sounds watery and it makes my own eyes go suspiciously hot.
If it’s something we did, I’m going to go find Alex and beat the crap out of him. Then I’ll let him beat the crap out of me for good measure.
“Please, Joelle. Did we do something wrong?” I don’t say his name, but the blush creeping up her neck tells me she knows what I’m asking.
“It’s… not about last night,” she whispers. “Last night was…” She rolls her lips together and blows out a shaky breath, blushing harder. “Ah, it was…”
“It was fucking amazing,” I say, looking her straight in the eyes, willing her to agree with me.
She nods, saving me from having to throw myself in front of a bus somewhere in despair.
“It was amazing,” she whispers.
“Good, glad we got that part settled,” I say, like I’m not about to collapse under a wave relief now that I know I didn’t completely fuck things up for us. “So what’s with the tears? Tell me who made you cry so I can go beat the shit out of them for you.”
“You first,” she says, keeping her voice low. “Why did you leave like that last night?”
I swallow, then swallow again before I can get the words out in any kind of reasonable order.
“Alex got a message from his ex last night.”
“Oh.” She’s watching my face carefully, but what she sees there I have no idea. “And that’s a problem.”
“Not that ki
nd of a problem,” I tell her. “At least, not that I know of.” I run my hands through my hair. “You didn’t see him last year, after they broke up.”
“I take it she left him?”
“That stone cold bi—that person, she left him wrecked.”
“What happened? Did she meet someone else?”
I shake my head. I can’t elaborate, not until he’s had a chance to talk to her himself.
“Poor Alex.” Joelle’s sad again, which is the absolute opposite of what I want for her. She should always be smiling.
Now you’ve done it, jackass. Gone and fallen in love with a woman who’s not going to be around past her six-month mark. Genius.
I bury the thought, praying to God it doesn’t show on my face. Fortunately, she’s not looking right at me just now.
“But that still doesn’t explain why you left last night,” says Joelle bringing her gaze back to mine. “What did the message say? I mean, it’s none of my business, of course, but—”
“It is your business, sunshine.” I pin her in place with a look. Her eyes go wide and she nods, the hint of a smile curling one side of her mouth.
“It just asked if they could talk. She said she missed him.”
“Did he write her back?”
“No.” Her silence is pointed, and I shrug.
“What?”
“Oh, Elliot,” she says, stepping toward me to lay her hand against my cheek. She starts to pull her hand back but I grab it and press my lips to her palm. I feel rather than hear the soft gasp she makes.
“Tell me something,” she says.
“Anything.”
“Why do you think that text upset you so much you had to leave?”
“Hell if I know. It doesn’t make any sense.” I answer too quickly.
She smiles.
“He’s my best friend, you know? Has been for years. I’d hate to see him get run through like that again.” All of this is true, but it doesn’t explain the sickening burn simmering in my gut ever since I saw that vile message.
Joelle’s smiling for real now, so much tenderness in her eyes that it grips my heart and won’t let go. I don’t know what I’ve done to make her look at me like that, but I wish I did. I’d do it again every day for the rest of my life to make sure she never stops.
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