Baby, Be My Last (The Fairfields Book 3)

by Piper Lennox

  “Both, actually.” He flips through my file and adjusts his glasses. “He wants to discuss adding you to his will.”

  “His will?” I think again of his drawn, pale face. “Shit, is he dying?”

  Graham laughs and sits back in his chair. “Not that I know of. No, this is actually what I expected to happen. It’s like a settlement, so to speak.”

  My stomach knots. I blame the coffee. “So you think he’s only adding me so I’ll drop the lawsuit,” I mumble.

  He hesitates, watching me. “Not necessarily.”

  I nod, but I can’t stop the bile at the back of my throat. Of course he just wants to stop the lawsuit, and all the bad press already coming with it. This isn’t reconnection. This is damage control.

  “When does he want to meet?” I ask, finally. It’s the only thing I can think to say.

  Graham temples his fingers on top of my file. “How’s tomorrow work for you?”

  8

  Silas arrives at my house at eleven sharp, as promised in our text exchange this morning. The conversation was short and simple, hardly worth classifying as flirting, but left my brain in a jumbled haze just the same. By the time he pulls up to the curb in front of my house, I’ve already had to go back inside twice for two leashes I forgot and the bag of treats I use to bribe runaways.

  Arrow trots in an excited circle at the end of the sidewalk when Silas approaches. Mom and I call it his Tap Dance. Dad calls it The Number One Reason Arrow Will Never Be a Guard Dog: he gets excited for every person who steps foot on our property.

  Never before, though, have I seen him do this for a stranger.

  “He’s bowing to you,” I call, confusion warping my voice as I move closer and clip the leash onto Arrow’s collar. “He usually only does that for me.”

  “Dogs sense good people,” Silas smiles, glancing at me through the hair over his forehead. He flicks it away and adds, “But I also just ate a bunch of beef jerky, so.”

  I laugh quietly and will my nerves to settle. This isn’t a date: Silas even said so himself. We’re just hanging out, getting to know each other, while I do my job.

  “It’s these four houses up here,” I tell him, “then the one at the end of the block. Seven dogs total, if you count Arrow. I walk them for a few miles one way, then go back when they seem tired. Sometimes I take them to the dog park on North Auburn, too.”

  “Never been to a dog park,” he says. “That could be cool.”

  I look up: clear blue sky, no clouds in sight. We’ll have plenty of time to walk and enjoy the dog park. “Okay,” I smile, wondering why I woke up half-wishing it would rain.

  At the first house, Silas loses his mind over Diesel and Daisy, the Mercier family’s dachshunds.

  “No way!” he shouts, stooping to gather both in his arms when I let them out of the gate. “My grandma had one of these when I was growing up. I love them.”

  I smile and pass him the leashes. “You’ll be on wiener patrol, then.”

  “I can tell you’re trying to insult me, but it won’t work. I’ll happily take wiener patrol.” He clips the leashes to their collars and follows me to each house. Soon we’re armed not only with Arrow and two dachshunds, but a mutt, whippet, and beagle-mix. Last but not least is Thor, a German Shepherd.

  “What happened to his eye?” Silas asks, when I come back with the dog, locking the door behind us. He kneels right in front of Thor, no fear, and the dog happily licks his face.

  “He’s a retired military dog,” I explain. “I think the owners said a piece of shrapnel cut him up pretty bad. The vet couldn’t save his eye.”

  “Wow.” Silas is quiet, scratching Thor behind his ears while the dachshunds crowd him. “You’re a really good boy,” he whispers, and Thor licks him again.

  We trek at least a quarter-mile before coming to a retaining wall. Silas sits, drooping back onto the grass, and looks at me when I join him.

  “You do this every week, all by yourself?”

  I chuckle. He’s winded, but our pace today is slower than I usually go. “Yep. Sometimes I convince my friend to help. But by ‘convince,’ I mean blackmail or bribe.”

  “I’m exhausted. I don’t know how you do it.” He sits up and helps me fill the collapsible water bowls from my backpack. The dogs shove each other aside like pigs at a trough, spilling most of it on the sidewalk. “When you said you don’t have time for dating, did you really mean to say ‘energy?’”

  “Both, I guess,” I mutter. My smile’s a blister on my face. I’m suddenly wishing I did have time for it, and energy. I’m suddenly wondering if I could.

  Silas stretches his legs out in front of him, then his arms over his head, the leashes slipping down his wrists. “I never did tell you how I ended up at the Acre, did I?”

  “I don’t think so.” I pick up a piece of loose brick. The edges crumble under my fingertips. “I guess I figured you were there...because you’re a Fairfield.”

  “Much as I would love to have the Acre as my personal playground,” he says, elbowing me, “we’ve already established I’m not one of ‘those’ Fairfields.”

  I swat him away. “Okay, then—why were you there?”

  Bit by bit, he grows serious. I hear him clear his throat softly, the noise stuck somewhere in his chest. “I filed a lawsuit against Tim.”

  “Whoa.” Of all the possible explanations, I didn’t expect this. “What for?”

  “Legally,” he says, and lies back again, “abandonment. It’s pretty much guaranteed I won’t win if it goes to court. My mom is the only person with any solid ground to sue him for anything. But that’s not why I did it.” He turns and watches me loop the leash handles around my ankles before I lie beside him. “The real reason is just...to get him to talk to me.”

  He shuts his eyes. I find his hand on the grass and put my fingers between his, like he did last night.

  “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “He wants to meet with me tomorrow morning.” Behind his shirt collar, I see his throat tighten when he swallows. “I don’t know how to feel about it. There’s so much I want to say to him, I—I don’t even know where to start.”

  “You could write him a letter.”

  “I have, when I was a kid. He never wrote back.”

  “No, I mean one to give him in-person. And he can either read it right there, in front of you, or you can tell him to read it later. It all depends on what you have to say.” I pause. “Whether you need him to answer, or you just need him to know how you feel.”

  Silas looks at me. “Is your third job counseling, by chance?”

  “Might as well be.” I sit and brush the grass off my arms. “I’m always helping Brynn out of one crisis or another. And I have plenty of experience with therapists.”

  “Because of your mom being sick?”

  I nod and stand. He follows, then helps me pack up the water bowls. “They sent me to at least four that I remember. To ‘help me cope.’ I don’t know why, I was doing fine.”

  “Given the fact you work God only knows how many hours a week and see no problem with it, I’m betting you weren’t doing as fine as you think.”

  If I weren’t impressed with his ability to read me so easily, I’d cringe at the truth in his statement. “As fine as a kid whose mom has cancer can do, then.” The wind pushes my hair over my face. I take my time removing it.

  “I had trouble making friends,” I confess, after a moment. “Every time Mom got sick I would just...stop talking to people. Not completely, but a noticeable amount. And that scared my parents enough as it was, how quiet I suddenly got. Then they started getting notes home from my teacher about how I didn’t talk to other kids, not even Brynn, how I ate alone at lunchtime....”

  “Sounds like therapy wasn’t the worst idea, then.”

  “I guess not. Except that I hated every doctor they sent me to, so none of the sessions worked.”

  Silas spins to untangle himself from the leashes; the dachshunds have run
two laps around him while we’ve been standing here. “What did work, then?” he asks.

  This time, he’s the one who starts walking, and I’m the one who follows.

  “Arrow, actually.”

  At the mention of his name, Arrow twists to look back at me. He’s panting, the white fur on his chest matted from his fight over the water bowl. I reach forward to scratch his back.

  “Dad gave him to me when I was nine. Best birthday present I ever got.”

  Silas smiles, then stumbles when Thor tries to pull him to a mailbox. “He’s a good dog,” he says, after he rights himself. “Very chill, compared to these guys.”

  “That’s just his age showing. He used to be as wild as Diesel over there. He had to go to obedience school twice.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Silas scratches Arrow’s head. “Your mom’s lying about you, bud. Defend yourself.”

  Arrow just pants, tail wagging against my leg as he twists to keep Silas petting him.

  “He killed at least four birds after his first stint in obedience school. Dragged them all over the house, then left each one on my dad’s pillow.”

  “That’s not naughty,” Silas counters, still using his dog-voice, “that’s a gift.”

  I try to hide my laugh and fail. “Dad sure didn’t think so.”

  We keep walking. I show him which corner to turn at, then point out the wrought-iron gate several yards ahead. “That’s the dog park.”

  “That?” He squints, waiting until we’re at the gate to add, “It’s so small. I thought dog parks were...you know. Parks.”

  “Best we’ve got.” I open the gate slowly; each dog is already sniffing and whining to be let inside. “Brace yourself,” I warn him.

  “Brace myse—” His sentence gets cut short when, all at once, Diesel, Daisy, and Thor pull him into the park, straining against their leashes so hard that Silas trips and takes a baggie dispenser pole—also wrought-iron—right to the stomach.

  “You okay?” I laugh, while he coughs and pushes himself back up.

  “Fantastic.” His breath wheezes out into a groan. “Thanks, guys,” he tells the dogs, as we kneel to unhook each one. “Really. That felt great.”

  One by one, the dogs bolt down the strip of AstroTurf. Arrow follows slowly, limping after them with his tail wagging. They’ve all but forgotten us within two seconds, so we hang the leashes on a fence spike and sit in some plastic Adirondacks by the gate.

  “Water?” I pass him one of the bottles from my backpack and open another for myself. We toast in silence, then drink.

  “About that letter idea,” he starts, but the sentence trails.

  “What about it?”

  He takes another drink, then wipes his mouth. “Did you ever write one? I mean...what do I even say?”

  “I did write one. Yeah.”

  “To who? To your mom?”

  I feel my stomach twist on itself again, but surprisingly, it’s not a bad feeling. It’s a weird relief, telling Silas these things. Maybe because I’ve never had anyone ask, so I’ve never revealed them.

  “Actually,” I say slowly, “I wrote it to my mom’s cancer.”

  Silas tilts his head. He waits. I find it strange he doesn’t pipe up with his own suggestions, helping me explain myself, bridging the gaps in the conversation. He simply waits for me to speak again.

  “I had a lot of anger about it, I guess,” I go on, capping and uncapping my water. “So I wrote this long letter to it, about how much I hated it, and how I just wanted it to go away forever. I told it I wasn’t going to let it take my mom away. And that—that I wasn’t going to be scared of it anymore.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Sort of. I liked pretending it was a person I could actually confront, instead of this...vague, terrible thing that just happened. But no, the letter didn’t get rid of all the anger. And I was still scared of it, obviously.” I pause. “But it did help. Getting everything out, even though it didn’t change anything about the situation...it felt like this big weight off my chest.”

  Silas nods, considering this. I see his eyes shift into a long-distance stare as he sits back.

  “Just tell your dad how you feel,” I say quietly. “That’s all you can do.”

  “Like I said, I don’t even know how I feel. I’m angry, sad, numb...I don’t know where to start.”

  “Like this,” I blurt, blushing when he looks at me again, both of us surprised.

  “This,” he repeats. He motions between us. “What I just told you, how I don’t know where to start—that’s how I should start the letter?”

  My face is burning, but I nod. “Admit you feel so much, you don’t even know where the letter’s going to end up. Then...see where it goes on its own, with all those feelings leading the way.”

  Silas draws a breath, like he isn’t entirely happy about my answer. I guess I can’t blame him. It’s too simple and complicated, at the exact same time.

  “I could do that,” he says suddenly. He bounces his leg, stare distant again, and tongues his cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, actually, that—that makes sense.” He glances at me. “Thank you.”

  I feel my blush spread to my chest. “You’re welcome.”

  We watch the dogs play a while and make small talk about them, the weather, work.

  “Oh, hey,” he says, snapping his fingers, “you’re supposed to help me with those ice cream names.”

  “Guess I have to,” I pretend to sigh. “You’ve done a pretty good job wrangling dogs for me, so far. Okay: go.”

  “Strawberry base,” he says, and pulls his phone from his pocket to open an email, “and...chocolate chunks. With a chocolate shell around the whole thing—you have to crack it to get to the ice cream. The working name is ‘Chocolate-Covered Strawberries.’”

  “Wow.”

  “I saw that—don’t roll your eyes.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s exactly what I was talking about,” I explain, cracking up. “Somebody’s trying to be clever, and it’s so not coming across.”

  “Then, please,” he says, waving his hand at me, “work your magic. Preferably not too punny—save those for the really complicated flavors. This one will be our mini-pints, and they want something short and sweet.”

  “Was that a pun?” I challenge.

  Silas smirks, but waits in silence. I take a breath.

  “Okay, um...smash, break...berry....”

  He sits up and points. “That. ‘Break berry,’ it’s perfect.”

  My laugh is pinched and skeptical while he types it into a note app on his phone. “I was just thinking out loud. That wasn’t my suggestion.”

  “Brainstorming is when some of the best stuff comes out,” he says, and shows me the note in his phone. He’s spelled it as one word, BreakBerry. I have to admit, it does sound good. Seeing it written and capitalized makes it feel official.

  “You could see that on a container, right?”

  I nod. “Totally.”

  “Nicely done. Maybe I should give you a hard one.” He opens the email again and reads to himself. When his eyes slide back to me, I brace myself. “Blue raspberry ice cream with a green apple icing stripe”–dramatically, he pauses and looks up at me from under his brow—“and sour candies stirred in.”

  “Easy. You just play off the word ‘sour,’ since that’ll be the main flavor.”

  He moves his hand in an “I’m waiting” motion.

  “I can use a pun for this one, yes?”

  “Yes. They really love the idea of puns for the weird, novelty flavors.”

  “Good.” I, too, take a dramatic pause, close my eyes, and wait a beat. When I open them again, I say, “‘Mighty Morphin’ Sour Rangers.’”

  Silas bursts out laughing. He throws his head back first, then doubles over in his chair. “Oh, my God. You are the corniest person I’ve ever met.”

  I laugh, too, and knock his phone out of his hand into my own. “Corny or not, it’ll be a hit. Next.”

 
; “Much as I love it,” he says, calming himself with some water, “we can’t use trademarked stuff like that. They don’t feel like arranging it.”

  My shoulders droop. “Fine, uh...Nuclear Sour, or something. ‘I’ve Got the Sour.’ ‘More Sour to You.’ Those aren’t nearly as cool—in fact, I resent you for making me limit my creativity like this—but they’ll probably like them.”

  “They will,” he nods, opening the note app so I can add it to the list. “They won’t cost any licensing fees. And they’re still better than anything our teams come up with.”

  Just when I finish typing, Silas closes his hands around mine, pushes the phone down to my lap, and waits for me to look at him. It takes me a second to build up the bravery to do it.

  He’s going to kiss me again. I can tell from the heavy heat of his stare, the way he wets his lips, how the distance between us shrinks like magic.

  I tilt my chin and feel his thumb against my pulse point.

  His lips part. I part mine and shut my eyes, but I still feel the air shift as he bypasses my mouth...and puts his by my ear, instead.

  “Your dog needs you.”

  “What?” My eyes fly open, now greeted by the sight of Silas smirking. Then I feel, in addition to his thumb on my wrist, a cold, wet blob against the back of my hand.

  I look down. Arrow’s tail starts whirring as soon as I spot him.

  “Maybe he’s jealous.” Silas reaches out to pet him. “I’m interrupting his time with you.”

  “Yeah,” I breathe, wondering why I’m suddenly shaky, knees weak even while sitting. I pet the other side of Arrow’s head. “He probably just wants to go home. He doesn’t play or run much, now that he’s old.”

  “Oh, he’s not old,” Silas says, even as he scratches the crop of gray fur under Arrow’s chin. “At least, not in spirit. You can see it in his eyes.”

  “I’m telling you, he’s a lazy old man. Every time we come here, he gets excited for about five minutes, then rests his head on my leg looking pathetic until I take all the dogs back and we go home. Then he burrows into my bed and stays like that until dinnertime.”