Another knock sounds on the door and Marlowe pokes her head in. “Can I come in?”
I sniffle and nod.
She sits on the side of my bed. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She frowns. “It’s obvious that something has changed between you two. Do you want to talk about it?”
“What did Keane say before he left? When you told him I said goodbye?” I can’t resist asking. The temptation to know his reaction is too great.
She hesitates. “He said, ‘I guess it is.’”
I squeeze my eyes shut and another set of tears slides down my cheeks. Why couldn’t I just muster the courage to go out there and apologize? Because he might reject you.
“What happened with you guys?” she asks.
Everything pours out. The call with my father, the fight between us and the hurtful things we each said. I leave out anything about Annabelle because I have no idea whether or not he’s told his sister.
When I’m finished spilling my guts, she looks at me, her lips pinched in the corners. “Don’t get mad at me, but he might have a point.”
I sit up on the bed, eyes wide. “What are you talking about? How could he ask me not to fight for something I believe in?”
“I mean the part about you being on a mission since everything went down with your father.” I narrow my eyes at her, but she continues. “I’m sorry, Fi, but there’s some truth to it. You’ve always been empathetic and cared about other people, but after your dad went to jail, it’s like you became obsessed with always doing the right thing, no matter what.”
I pick at my comforter, staring at it instead of looking at her. “I just want to make a difference in this world, is that so bad?”
“Of course not.” She takes my hand. “But most people don’t dedicate one day a week to a letter-writing campaign to government leaders or spend their time away from work visiting homeless people to help them or look nonstop for weeks to find a lost dog’s owner. I’m just saying that you leave no space in your life for your own happiness. You’re always more concerned about the collective happiness.”
I allow her words to sink in, poking around the edges to see how they feel. They’re sharp and do some damage, but they also bear the weight of truth. “I’m not sure it matters anymore anyway. I think we broke up.”
“It’s okay. This is just like the part of the book where you’re both going to retreat to your separate corners but eventually you’ll come back together.”
I shake my head. “You are such a romantic. This isn’t a romance novel, Marlowe.”
She chuckles. “I know it’s not. But wouldn’t it be great if life were like that?” She squeezes my hand.
“I’m meeting my dad for lunch today.” Just saying the words makes me feel shaken.
“Keane mentioned that.”
“He did?”
She nods. “He told me to make sure I was home later because you might need a friend after your meeting. Told me to be there for you.”
I suck back the new set of tears that wants to fall, shaking my head. “I don’t know what to do about him.”
Marlowe gives me a sad smile. “You’ll figure it out. Right now, let’s worry about your meeting with your dad. The rest you can figure out later.”
She’s right. I need to get ready—both physically and mentally—for this meeting.
As I get up off the mattress, I wonder if somehow these two problems in my life are like intertwined roots and once I untangle one, the other will fall into place.
Forty-Two
Fiona
I arrive at the small family restaurant early so that I’m there before my dad. My stomach flip-flops like a Slinky down stairs as I nurse the water the waitress brought me.
Though I’ve gone over and over this meeting all week in my head, trying to imagine what it will be like, I still have no idea what I’m going to say to him. What, if anything, will make me feel better and allow me to move on. But I do know that as scared as I am sitting here, this feels like a necessary step.
The door of the restaurant swings open and I glance over, my lungs seizing.
My dad walks in, looking so much older than I remember. The last time I saw him, his brown hair was thick, and now it’s streaked with grey and thinning on top. His face bears more wrinkles, and there’s a weary quality about the grey-on-grey slacks and shirt he’s wearing.
He spots me and gives me a small wave that I don’t return. I notice as he makes his way over that he no longer moves with the fluidity I was used to.
“Hey, Pumpkin,” he says when he sits down. Thankfully, he didn’t try to hug or touch me. I might just break if he did.
I’m too busy taking in all the physical changes that I don’t bother to react to the nickname. “Hey.” My voice comes out rough.
The waitress makes her way over immediately, asking him what he’d like to drink and whether we’re ready to order. He orders a coffee and asks for some more time with the menu.
I’m happy for the interruption—it gives me a moment to gather my bearings and study him more deliberately. No wedding ring. I guess he hasn’t remarried.
Though he looks older, his voice is the same. It causes an ache in my chest. It’s the same voice that used to read me books at night or tell me I did a good job when I’d bring home a report card with all A’s. The same one that called “I’m sorry” when he was led away in handcuffs.
When the waitress leaves, he turns his attention back to me. “You been here long?”
I shake my head.
“That’s good.” He glances around the restaurant. “Cute place.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Do you live around here?” I don’t know whether he still lives in the city we grew up in.
He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m closer to the city now. Makes getting to work easier.”
“What do you do?” I fiddle with the cutlery that’s rolled up in a napkin in front of me, spinning it around and around.
“Work as a cleaner at a high-rise downtown.”
The image of my dad in custodian’s garb is such a juxtaposition to the five-piece suits he used to wear to work when I was younger.
“Oh… that’s good.” I imagine that even finding that job wasn’t easy as an ex-felon.
“What do you do?” he asks.
The waitress places his coffee on the table, and he thanks her and brings the steaming cup to his mouth. I explain about my work at the homeless shelter and watch as his face lights up with pride.
“That’s wonderful. Sounds like you’re really helping a lot of people.”
Again, I nod because this moment just feels surreal.
“Pumpkin, you don’t need to be nervous. It’s just me, your old man.” He pats my hand.
Our eyes meet and hold for a moment before I slide my hand out from under his. The old familiar anger where my dad is concerned rises to the surface. “I feel like I don’t even know who that is.”
He nods solemnly. “That’s fair.”
“Didn’t you care how many people you hurt? How could you steal their money like that? Not to mention what it did to Mom and me.”
A heavy sigh leaves his lips, shame and sadness filling his aqua eyes that match my own. “There’s no excuse for what I did. None at all. But the reason why comes down to my gambling addiction. It was something I couldn’t control and I just kept getting deeper and deeper until I couldn’t breathe and any form of relief felt like a better option—even stealing from others.”
“Why didn’t you reach out for help or tell Mom what was going on? Anything other than what you did?”
“I wish I had.” His face is laced with regret as he makes his confession on a rough whisper. “It cost me my marriage, my daughter, my freedom, and my future. But I was mired in shame, coated with it as thick as tar, and I couldn’t imagine ever confessing to anyone the situation I’d put myself in.”
For the first time, I realize that the compassion I bestow
on a daily basis with the people I come into contact with through my work has never been reserved for my dad. While I don’t judge anyone in the shelter for the decisions they made that brought them to that place in their lives, all I’ve done is judge my dad.
I sit for a moment as my father quietly sips his coffee, watching. He’s so much calmer than I remember. “I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you.”
This is a crossroads in my life. I have a choice to make. Do I continue using all my energy to pretend that he and the things he did don’t exist? Or do I show him some of the compassion I offer others and see where our relationship can go?
I’m not sure how long we sit there. A minute, two, three? He doesn’t try to fill the silence but waits patiently for me.
Eventually I meet his gaze. “I accept your apology.”
The layer of pain that’s coated him since he walked through the door lifts, revealing a man who more closely resembles the man who taught me how to ride a bike without training wheels and would help me make breakfast for Mom on Mother’s Day.
And the best part is that some of the weight I’ve been carrying around lifts off my shoulders too.
Forty-Three
Keane
What should be a happy time in my life—I’m finally going to own part of a restaurant—turns out to be miserable.
Since our fight, Fiona won’t speak to me. Me and my fucking mouth. I knew as soon as I made the comment about her dad there was no coming back from it. I was angry with her for not choosing me, but what felt worse was the hurt on her face after the words left my mouth.
Sitting in my anger the rest of the week was easier than examining how I was at fault, but I wish I could go back and do it differently. Because when she didn’t come to say goodbye to me, I knew that was it for us. I’d hurt her too badly for her to get past it.
Almost a couple of weeks have passed and she hasn’t reached out to me. If I was holding out any hope that things could be different, I was mistaken.
Who have I had to deal with nonstop though? Annabelle. She’s become increasingly needy and clingy, taking full advantage of my offer to help however I can.
Today I have to accompany her to her doctor’s appointment. She wants me to hear the baby’s heartbeat because she thinks that will make the baby more real and spur my excitement about becoming a father.
It’s not the father part I’m not excited about. It’s having to deal with Annabelle for the rest of my life. That feels like a daunting, soul-sucking task. Besides, I don’t want to grow attached to the baby until I know for sure it’s mine. I can go through the motions, provide support, money, and whatever else, but I don’t want to fall in love with a child who may not be mine. In fact, I plan to ask the doctor today about the new prenatal paternity tests I’ve read about online.
Annabelle is sometimes vague when I ask for specifics about the pregnancy. I don’t know if she feels as if I’m attacking her and saying the child isn’t mine when I ask questions or what, but I can’t deny my guard is up.
At Annabelle’s insistence, I’m picking her up today, then I have to race across town to meet Jacques at the city council meeting. We have to state our side on why the building shouldn’t be named of historical significance.
Annabelle’s chatty in my Jeep, and all I think about is whether or not Fiona will be at city hall. And I honestly can’t decide whether I want her to be or not. Seeing her will soothe the gaping wound she left behind but being reminded of what I lost might also send me into a tailspin.
“What do you think?”
I give my head a shake. “Sorry what?” I glance over at Annabelle, who’s looking at me as if she’s losing patience. I have no idea how long she’s been talking or trying to get my attention.
“Do you think we could go shopping this weekend to pick up a few things for the baby?”
My hands squeeze the steering wheel tighter. “Isn’t it a little early for that sort of thing?”
“It’s never too early to start getting prepared.”
“We’ll see,” I say.
I pull into the clinic parking lot and hit the dispenser to get a parking ticket. The parking arm rises and I pull through, taking the first spot I see just to get her out of my Jeep. We get out of the car and I shove the parking ticket in my back pocket, following Annabelle to her doctor’s office.
She checks in and I take a seat, scanning the magazines on the table in front of me to see if there’s anything that will get my mind off of Fiona.
What will I say if she’s there? Should I try to talk to her? Would she even want to talk to me?
Annabelle sits next to me and rambles on about baby names. It makes my stomach sour and I do my best not to have an opinion as she goes on and on and on.
After what feels like a decade, I take my phone out of my pocket to check the time. We’ve been sitting here for a half hour. “How much longer will this take?”
Annabelle shrugs. “Sometimes they’re running behind. Should be soon.”
“It better be or I’m going to have to leave.” I push my phone back in my pocket.
Her head whips in my direction. “You can’t leave.”
“I told you I have to meet Jacques at city hall. I can’t be late.”
“You have plenty of time for that.” She turns back around, dismissing me.
My knee bounces up and down. I just want to get this over with. My nerves about how things will go at city hall regarding the building and about the possibility of seeing Fiona again make me agitated. Thankfully, a couple of minutes later, the nurse calls Annabelle in and leads us to an exam room.
“This must be the father,” the nurse, whose name tag reads Alice, says. She has a big smile as if this must be the happiest moment in my life. If she only knew.
“This is him.” Annabelle sticks her arms out toward me as though she’s a model on the Price is Right.
Rather than embarrass her by explaining the situation, I just stick my hand out toward Alice. “Hi, I’m Keane.”
“Good to meet you, Keane.” She turns around to the computer and presses a few buttons then directs her attention to Annabelle. “I’m just going to take a few vitals, then Dr. Cortez will be in to see you.”
“Do you want me to leave?” I thumb toward the door. I have no idea what Alice means and the last thing I want is to be in here if Annabelle has to get naked.
“No, you stay,” Annabelle says, so I sit in the chair at the end of the desk with the computer.
I say a prayer of thanks to the big man above when all Alice does is weigh Annabelle, take her blood pressure, and ask her a bunch of questions about how she’s feeling. Alice heads back to the computer and punches in a bunch of stuff, then she turns to both of us.
“Are you guys planning on finding out the sex of the baby?” The woman seems practically giddy at the idea. At least she loves her job.
I motion for Annabelle to answer.
“Definitely. I want to be able to do the nursery before he or she arrives. Plus, I can start buying all those cute baby clothes.” She smiles at Alice.
Alice pats Annabelle’s shoulder. “Well, in a few weeks, you’ll have your answer. What are you hoping for?”
“I’d love a little girl, but as long as the baby is healthy, that’s all that matters.”
“Absolutely.” Alice smiles. “Okay, everything looks good so far, but Dr. Cortez will be in to see you guys soon. Good to meet you, Keane.”
“Yeah, you too.” I plaster on a smile for her before she leaves and closes the door.
We sit in silence for a moment, and I ponder whether this is what I’m in store for, for the foreseeable future. As I calculate how much longer until the baby comes, something Alice said tweaks my mind.
I remember when one of my cousins was pregnant last year. She had one of those stupid gender reveal parties that I was forced to go to out of familial obligation. But I remember her saying that they waited to schedule it until she was past twenty weeks because s
he wanted to be sure the doctor would be able to tell for sure what they were having.
I’m still rolling that over in my head, a sick feeling swimming in my gut, when the doctor comes in and introduces himself. I say hello and sit back quietly while he and Annabelle talk. He’s typing something into the computer, getting ready to make his exit, when he asks if either of us has any questions.
“What’s the earliest you can tell what the sex of the baby is?” I ask.
He turns to face me. “Usually about eighteen to twenty weeks is the earliest we can tell for sure.”
I nod. “Great, thanks.”
The nurse said Annabelle had a few weeks to wait until she’d be able to find out the sex of the baby. But Annabelle told me she was five months pregnant, which would have lined up to when we slept together. But that was weeks ago and would mean she’d already be able to find out the baby’s sex. Which means… she’s lying about how far along she is.
Forty-Four
Keane
The doctor closes the door and I face Annabelle. “You lied.”
Panic flashes on her face, but she covers it quickly. “What are you talking about?” She hops down off the exam table.
“You’re lying about how pregnant you are. This baby isn’t mine.” I’m seething, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She walks past me, but I rush over and place my hand against the door so she can’t escape.
She startles.
“Bullshit. Tell me the truth. Is this baby mine?” My breath burns in my lungs as I wait for her to say the words, say I’m not the one who got her pregnant.
“I already told you you’re the father.”
“I know what you told me. Now I want the truth.”
Three's A Crowd: A Best Friend's Older Brother Rom Com (Love in Apartment #3B Book 2) Page 21
