Baby, Be My Last: The Fairfields | Book Three

by Lennox, Piper

  “What do you want me to tell you, Silas?” Her voice rises with mine. “That I was wrong? Fine: I made the wrong decision. There. I should have let him be some blur in your life, where you knew his bank account better than him. I should have given you my last name, so we could hide the affair that everyone in town already knew about, anyway. I should have let you and me become his stupid little side family.”

  I curse and pace into the living room, snatching my coat from the sofa. Mom follows. She stops in front of me—standing in the exact spot where the Acre employment catalogue lands, flung off the sofa’s armrest in my hurry.

  “What’s this?” She picks it up before I can get it.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “‘Hotel General Manager,’” she reads, when she finds the earmarked page and highlighted section. “Tim offered you a job?”

  A headache crawls from my sinuses to the back of my brain. “Uh...yeah, kind of. I was going to tell you after—after we had a chance to talk, but I don’t—”

  “‘Starting Salary: $197,000.’” She covers her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  The pain doubles. I wince and reach for the catalogue. “I don’t know if I’m taking it.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” She dodges me and looks at the listing again. “You have to take it! This is an amazing opportunity.”

  “I know that, Mom, but...what if this is just another—another gift? Him buying his way off the hook?”

  Finally, she stops moving and looks back at me. The magazine crinkles when she shuts it, holding it to her chest as she sits.

  I take the end of the couch closest to her. Her grandfather clock, inherited from Grandpa McIntyre, fills the silence.

  “It isn’t like he’s just giving you the money,” she says. “He’s giving you the opportunity to earn it.”

  “An opportunity I’m only getting because I’m his son.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?” The excitement edges back into her voice, laced with anger. “The man didn’t give you anything else, growing up. He didn’t give you a father. A job is just a drop in the bucket. Why shouldn’t you take it? This is—this is what I was talking about, Silas—this, right here, it...it’s what I always told you. Remember?”

  “Think of it as one of those doors that your mom talked about.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, letting my head fall back against the cushion. “How could I forget?”

  “And,” she goes on, “you can do this job. It’s not like he’s handing you a company and some CEO title on a platter—this is something you could have gotten on your own, if the chance had come up.”

  “But it didn’t. It wouldn’t even be an option, or anything I’d consider going after, if I wasn’t a Fairfield.”

  “So?” Mom flings the catalogue onto my lap. “Everyone is given advantages in life. Some more than others—actually, some people get a lot more than others—but everyone has at least one thing that puts them ahead, somehow. But only if they choose to use it.” She pauses, watching me roll the catalogue up and stuff it back in my coat pocket. “Why not use this one?”

  A hundred more excuses and questions spin through my head, only increasing the headache. Loudest of all are the points Camille made, a few hours ago.

  Maybe it is just a ploy to get me to forgive him. That doesn’t mean I have to, if I’m not ready.

  Maybe the opportunity is only in front of me because I’m a Fairfield—but does that really matter? Haven’t I suffered for this last name enough in my life to deserve a few benefits?

  “I’m thinking about it,” I tell Mom, as I get to my feet. The dry heat of the house and smell of grease stings my throat; all I want now is to get out of here. I need the drive to Hillford to pick apart everything in my head. Between her and Tim’s stories, there has to be some version that makes sense. One I can understand.

  And maybe, if I understand how my life ended up here, I’ll be able to open this door in front of me and not think twice.

  Mom hugs me goodbye. I hug her back, but it’s strained. My throat’s painfully dry when I convince her I don’t need any leftovers to take home.

  At the only stoplight in Filigree, I fumble on the floorboards until I find something to drink. It’s a soda Camille left in here days ago, completely flat. I chug until my throat stops hurting.

  When I throw the empty bottle down and lick my lips, I swear I can taste her lip balm from the rim.

  The light changes. No one’s around, every winding road asleep from every direction, so I pull up my parking brake and let the light cycle back to red while I pull my phone from my pocket.

  “Hey,” I text. “I’m sorry for earlier. You made good points. I just don’t know what I should do.” I send it, pause, and write another: “I talked to my mom.”

  She sees it, but doesn’t answer for a long time. I’m already in my apartment in Hillford when the phone chimes.

  “What did she say?”

  I sum up the conversation as succinctly as possible, ending with, “I still don’t get it. Why give me one advantage - his name - but not his money and visits? Still would’ve been better than nothing.”

  “Sounds like she was hoping he’d come back,” Camille texts, following quickly with, “Break over - gtg” and a heart emoji. I send one back and let my phone fall out of my hand onto the floor, when I lie back on my bed.

  The headache isn’t gone. Camille’s words turn into a chisel, carving into everything my mom said tonight, trying so hard to make it somehow fit with what Tim has told me. All I want is a clean enough edge to match these two halves and finally have a whole picture. Something I can point to and say, “This is where I came from. This is why my life is the way it is. Now it makes sense.”

  But the more I hack away at the pieces, the more I realize the halves can’t match. Ever. They’re similar—but they aren’t the same picture. Tim and my mom are too stubborn, maybe the only quality they’ve ever had in common, to admit what they really wanted.

  Maybe the reasons they’ve given are true: Mom probably did believe I’d be better off without him, even if that meant living without his money, the stuff. Tim probably did want to save his marriage, not just his reputation.

  But the other reasons, the ones nagging at me, are true too.

  Mom wanted him back. He wanted to save his business.

  And somewhere in the middle of it all, the bargaining chip was me.

  I start to text Camille again. “Do you think I should take the job?”

  Instead of sending it, I stare at it. My screen darkens twice, threatening to time out, before I delete the whole thing.

  23

  “An RV.” I pace around the back end of the monster Mom just climbed out of, filling the entirety of our driveway and crushing the dormant flowerbed on the left. “You guys are going to live in this?”

  “Why not?” Mom slaps the side like she’s some seasoned truck driver. Her face is makeup-free, but instead of looking washed-out and tired, she looks invigorated. She hasn’t stopped smiling since she pulled in. “It’s just like one of those tiny houses you see on television. But instead of hauling it with a truck, it is the truck.”

  “Something you’ve never driven in your life,” I remind her. My face will probably get stuck like this, I can’t hide how totally floored I am. I walk around to the door and peek inside. “God, Mom, it stinks.”

  “It’s a little musty,” she concedes, stepping up behind me so I have no choice but to get inside, “but it’ll air out. We might have to replace the carpeting, change the curtains, shampoo some seats—”

  “Burn the thing to the ground?”

  Mom plants her hand on her hip while I pull my shirt over my nose and explore. Mildew smell aside, it’s not in bad shape, much as I hate admitting that to myself. The bedroom in the back is bigger than I expected, and the kitchen and eating area is pretty sufficient. In the front, two stained but sturdy captain’s chairs sit in front of a broad windshield. Over that is a
loft, deep enough for a twin mattress.

  “You could sleep up here,” Mom says, pointing to it, “if you haven’t found a place before we close.”

  “I’m not living in an RV with you guys,” I laugh, relaxing a little as she laughs, too. Slowly, I lower my shirt. The smell isn’t as bad as I thought. “Brynn already said I can stay with her as long as I want.”

  Mom sits in the driver’s seat and motions for me to take the other. I do. “And what about Silas? He told me about that job offer. It sounds nice.”

  “Yeah. It is.” I pick at a matted stain on the armrest. “Does Dad know you bought this thing?”

  “Of course he does, Cami. Honestly.” She flips down the visor to fix her hair. “It was his idea.”

  “Again? Where is Dad getting all these crazy, totally-not-like-him ideas, all the sudden?”

  “You know he’s always wanted to travel whenever he retires. Might as well get used to RV life, in the meantime.”

  I ignore the retirement aspect of this; it’s actually possible now, with the house gone and bankruptcy underway, but I still can’t imagine everything suddenly working out. For us, or for them. For me. That’s never how our lives have gone.

  “Where can you even park this thing?” I lean on the dash and look around. “It’s huge.”

  “It’s actually one of the smaller RVs out there,” she says, “but it is going to be a challenge. There’s a campground not too far from here, though—you can rent space by the week or month. We’ll figure it out.”

  I nod, not at all comforted by this information. I thought I’d be relieved when my own plans were made: I’ll get to live with Brynn, like we used to dream about when we were little, and my parents’ plans won’t have to affect me at all.

  Except, I realize now, they will. I’ll never stop worrying about them, no matter where they are or what they’re doing. No matter how separate my life is from theirs.

  “I’m really excited about this,” Mom says suddenly, as though I’ve spoken aloud. “Your dad is, too. We’re going to be okay. This feels like...like we’re finally getting out of the cycle, you know? Work, pay bills, sleep. That’s all the three of us have done for so long. And that’s not what life is about.” She pivots her chair to face mine and reaches for me, fixing my windswept hair. The weather isn’t that cold today, but there’s supposed to be snow early in the weekend.

  “Can’t believe somebody else owns this place.” Together, we look out the windshield at our home. The brick is a clean, rusted red and granite blue now, instead of the muted shades they were before, courtesy of a good pressure washing by Dad. Next up on his list is the gutter that’s been sagging since I left for Somerset.

  “Good neighborhood, good schools,” she says. “Someone was bound to love it so much, even the contract provision couldn’t scare them away.”

  I nod, but I wasn’t talking about how fast the sale happened, so much as the fact it finally feels real. It isn’t surprising someone else loves this place. I just hope they’ll love it as much as we did.

  Mom starts some cleanup in the camper, so I go inside and ask Dad if he needs help with anything. He shoos me away.

  “You should be packing, we’re out of here in a week. Maybe two, if the snow sticks around long enough to make the Douglas family postpone the move.”

  I lean on the doorframe, watching him struggle with the kitchen’s dome light until he lets me help, anyway. While he wipes the fixture in the ceiling, I take the dome to the sink and wash the dead moths and dust down the drain. “Speaking of which,” I say, “when’s the big yard sale you’ve been planning? Your furniture can’t fit in your new bedroom.”

  “You saw the RV, huh?”

  “Smelled it, more than anything. But yeah.”

  Dad laughs. “Yeah, it needs a good cleaning, that’s for sure. Your mom loved it so much, I couldn’t tell her no.”

  “She says it was your idea.”

  “My idea,” he says, taking the cleaned dome from my hands and screwing it back into place, “was to get a new RV. After we got a condo, or some cheap apartment. But the woman’s very persuasive.” He wipes his hands on his jeans and climbs down the stepladder. “So. When’s Silas coming by?”

  “Already here.”

  Both of us turn. Silas is in the doorway, Arrow running ecstatic mini-laps around him. He smiles and shakes Dad’s hand, then kisses me, keeping it PG.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “He’s taking those extra radios off my hands,” Dad explains, waving Silas through the kitchen to the garage door. “Thanks again, I’m glad someone can get use out of them.”

  “No, thank you. Between these and the ones my roommate found, we’ll have enough to make ten working ones. It’ll turn a decent profit on eBay.” He takes the box from Dad and backs up into the kitchen again. I slide out of their way, clearly not part of this transaction, and watch him heft the box to the counter. “You sure I can’t give you anything for them?”

  Dad waves his hand. “They’d be in a landfill if you weren’t taking them. All yours.” His watch beeps. “I’d better go. Your mom and I have a meeting with the bank at two, then we’re going to her sister’s for dinner.” He gives me a side-hug, then shakes Silas’s hand again. We wave them off at the door.

  When I shut it and turn back, Silas has his thumbs hooked into his pockets, with a face like he’s waiting.

  “Glad to see me?”

  I hesitate. He catches it. “Yeah. Of course. I just...didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Didn’t know you would be here,” he quips. The smile he gives is small and tense. “Why’d you tell me you had to work all weekend?”

  “Misread my schedule,” I shrug, after a moment.

  Silas nods, petting Arrow when he whines. “Or,” he says, “you wanted to avoid me.” When I don’t answer, busying myself with finding the edge on a roll of packing tape, he steps closer. “Camille, what’s wrong? You’ve been acting weird ever since I told you about the job.”

  “Weird, how? We haven’t seen each other.”

  “Exactly. Like when I asked if you wanted to get dinner tonight, and you said you were working. But here you are. If you really did misread your schedule, why didn’t you tell me when you found out?”

  “It’s not like I’m suddenly free tonight, you know. I have to pack my room. I told you I’m moving into Brynn’s soon.”

  Silas follows me upstairs. “Yeah,” he counters, “and I offered to help.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  He stops at the threshold of my bedroom, as though he’s not allowed inside. As though he hasn’t been in here several times before. As though my bed sheets don’t smell like him for days after he leaves, making me hate the empty half of a bed, of a room, I never minded or even noticed before.

  “I’m taking the job.”

  I look up from the box I pretended to assemble, just to steady my hands. “What?”

  “The job.” He fixes his tie, then his watch, both new ones I’ve never seen before. “That’s the main reason I came into the city today. I, uh...I told Tim yes.”

  I stand and sit on my bed, all the while nodding. Like this is fine. Like I didn’t know, from the moment he told me about his father’s offer, that he would accept.

  “So you’re my boss, now?” I ask, the laugh that follows twisted into sharp corners and peaks.

  “Not…directly. I oversee the assistant managers, who oversee the directors, who oversee the leads, who...oversee you. And the other custodians, bellhops, kitchen staff. But I don’t control things that closely. There’s a chain of command involved.” He sits on the other side of the bed, his back to me. “I’m thinking about an apartment, in that building across from the Acre. The one with the old bank underneath.”

  “Madison Lofts? Those are almost two grand a month.”

  “Yeah, but Tim says they’re really nice, I’d be close to work.... We both would.” I hear the springs creak as he twists to look at
me. “Would you move in, if I got one?”

  “Arrow needs a yard,” I mutter. I undo the knot in the center of some squares on my quilt, then retie it. “I mean, Brynn’s yard isn’t huge, but it’s better than the city would be.”

  “There’s a park right down the street from there.”

  “So, what, we have to walk a block and a half, every time he needs to go out?”

  “Of course not. We’d take him to the street for all the in-between times.”

  “And when we’re at work? I’m putting in a dog-door at Brynn’s, so he can go out whenever he wants, just like he does here. He’s old, Silas. He can’t wait eight hours—or more—until one of us finally comes home.”

  He gives me an impatient look. “I know that. We’d hire a dog walker.”

  Madison Lofts. Dog walkers. Two grand a month. He says it all like it’s nothing.

  Well, I think, it is nothing to him, now.

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell him, finally.

  “You’ll think about it?” His laugh hits my ear like sand. “What’s there to think about? A penthouse in the city, or your friend’s couch: no contest, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  I see a piece of his reflection in the darkening window, the flood of hurt and disappointment that hits him like a slap as he slouches, then turns to face the door again.

  I think it’s over with. The charge weighing down the air is gone, nothing but light tension and a buzzing silence in its wake. We’ve pressed Pause, now free to move on to something else. Something easy.

  Which is why I’m so sure, when I lie down on my bed and he lies down beside me, that Silas will kiss me. He’ll show me hasn’t changed—that no job can take the boy I know and turn him into one of Those Fairfields. He can still relate to someone like me, more than he can ever relate to someone like his father. A nice apartment and hefty paycheck won’t change that.

  He’ll destroy this building pressure in my chest, the panic I haven’t been able to shake all week. With one kiss, he’ll prove me wrong. He’ll make me breathless.