by Lilly Wilde
I study him, absorbing the shock of his words. There’s a faraway look in his eyes as he travels back in time to a place that I can see causes him pain. It’s difficult not to see it.
“You have no idea—and I pray you never will—how it feels to look into the eyes of a woman you love more than your own life and know she thinks you’re less than nothing.”
My gaze flickers to Jimmy’s and he appears as confounded as I.
“And it wasn’t only that. I had it in me to fight my way back to her. And I would have, but there’s only so much a man can take.” He shakes his head and his gaze clouds with visions of the past. “The constant belittling. Day in, day out. All the arguing and yelling. And the fights. They became worse. They’d get louder and louder, and Mary would start throwing things, so I’d leave the house for a while. When it got to the point where I wanted to retaliate or where it was something I was afraid you’d see, I knew it was time to leave.” He shakes his head. “My sticking around wasn’t good for anyone, especially for you.”
I remember those days and some of the nights. I’d go to my room, put on my headphones, and drown the noise out.
“I suppose I could have fought for sole custody, and maybe I should have, but I didn’t have the heart to take you from your mama. Despite her issues, I knew how much she loved you. But once you were out of the house, I tried to reach out, to forge a relationship with you, but you wouldn’t hear of it. I guess you thought I only wanted to be in your life because you’d made it big.” Dad looks away for a moment, then directly at me. “But son, I didn’t want a dime of your money. I didn’t give a damn about the fame. I wanted my son back. I wanted to play a few rounds of catch with you like I did when you were a kid. I wanted to go on those fishing trips we’d planned.” His hand rests on my shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. “I wanted to tell you how proud I am… how proud I’ve always been of you.”
Those words hang in the air—I’m proud of you. The words I’ve always wanted to hear, that every son wants to hear from his father. And now that I’ve finally heard them—fifteen years too late—does it even matter?
He turns to Jimmy. “You were wrong about Charlene and me. Nothing was going on beyond having someone to listen. Someone to appreciate me. We’d talk and hang out a bit. But that’s all it was. You and Loretta had such a great thing going. I was maybe even a little jealous. You had what I wanted with Mary. And I was too embarrassed to tell you how messed up things were at home. That Mary didn’t see me as a man anymore. So when you—the one person who knew me better than anyone—accused me of something I would have never done, it pushed me over the edge. You kept at it and then one day, after a blowup with Mary, it struck a nerve.” His face tightens into a grimace. “Sorry for throwing that first punch. That never should have happened.”
Jimmy looks at Dad with a seemingly new understanding. “I didn’t know. I wish I could have—”
“No. That was all me. And thank you for being there for my boys when I couldn’t be.”
Jimmy nods.
“If you’re up to it, I’d like to catch up. Maybe grab a beer with ya sometime.”
“You have my number,” Jimmy says, reaching out for Dad’s hand.
Dad pulls him into a full hug and I know their friendship is on the mend. Something I never saw coming.
Curtis leaves the garage, unburdened by the load he carried all these years, but the words he aired remain, and they circle round and round my head. I’m regrouping and rethinking everything I thought I knew. I recover from his revelation only to replay it over and over, pacing across the floor of Jimmy’s office. I try to sort through truths and lies to see if there are any holes in Dad’s story, something he’s left out or even misrepresented, but I don’t see it. All I see is what he’s told me, and though I don’t want it to, it all makes sense. I’ve gone most of my life thinking he checked out on us. On me. But now I question it all.
He told me how it all started with his shoulder injury. About his rehab and how it was as much mental as it was physical, and while he had the physical part covered, the mental part was being broken down at home. Mama rode him every day about getting better. She got in his head, added pressure, and he swore that it stifled his recovery. The absence of support from a spouse can be the blow that destroys you and your career. I’ve seen it with a few players. Not only that, it was my theory that women get in your head if they hang around too long, which is why one night is all I bother with. I get in, I get out, and I’m done. Anything more is a risk I’m not willing to take.
Dad’s shoulder never returned to its preinjury state and he was eventually cut from the team. His career as a semiprofessional football player was over.
He later grew to resent Mama, even blaming her for the turn their lives took. But that resentment went both ways. Mama blamed Dad for it all, claiming she would have chosen a different life had she not been seduced by his pie-in-the-sky dreams.
I remember her telling me that Grandma warned her about Dad, saying he would end up a nobody, that she chose the wrong man. I guess Mama finally bought into it and that’s when she coined a phrase that has become as familiar to me as Nike’s Just Do It slogan—I could have been somebody. I could have married Nathanial Barnes. I don’t know who the hell Nathanial Barnes is, but after Dad’s disclosure, I have to ask the questions he undoubtedly asked himself. How many times can a man hear that he’s nothing more than a consolation prize before he removes himself from the picture altogether? And how many times can he come home to a wife who doesn’t appear to want him there at all?
He said that every day, another piece of him was nicked off, and it became increasingly difficult to step into a house that had become a battlefield. So coming in later and later was the temporary solution… until he eventually stopped coming home altogether.
After that, Dad managed to drop by to see me a few days out of the week. But the run-ins with Mama decreased those visits to a once-a-week Sunday dinner, until those stopped, too. Every dinner was awkward. There was always that something in the air that warned me to brace myself for what was coming. And it always came. There wasn’t one visit they didn’t end up at each other’s throats.
As for the handful of times Dad arranged scheduled weekends with me, Mama made it damn near impossible for me to leave. What should have been a step out of the house and into Dad’s car became an event met with yelling, foul language, and accusations just to get me out the door—giving the neighbors a front-row seat to our dysfunction. And when I was back home, Mama guilted me for abandoning her to spend time with one of the worst fathers in the world.
Everything else Dad revealed this afternoon leaves me without words. Everything I’ve grown up believing has been a lie. Some things that never added up now make sense, while other details become a source of confusion… and condescension. Every reason I had for hating him was fabricated. And when I asked about the lack of financial support, he delivered a blow that obliterated everything else. Things that can only be explained by Mary McGuire.
I’m not sure where Dad and I stand now. But for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t hate him. Maybe I never did—same as Mama. Dad may have thought she stopped loving him, but I know different.
If anything positive resulted from the conversation, it was Dad’s commitment to being present in Jace’s life. I believed him. I saw the eagerness. I saw the anticipation as he ticked off ideas of how they would spend time together. I had the feeling some of those things were from the list he’d made for him and me. And that tugged at my gut, reminding me of how much I missed out on with my dad. But this time, I’m not angry at him. That feeling is replaced with another emotion I can’t yet identify. I even gave him the hug he asked for. And then, with wet eyes, he walked away, leaving me to take the next step.
I don’t know what or if there will be a next step, but I got what I needed from this meeting. Dad promised to step up and be the father Jace will need. And I told him I’ll make sure Mama all
ows him to be there for Jace—that I’ll make sure she behaves. He was skeptical that she would. Hell, so am I.
January 17, 2017
“GUESS WHO GOT SOME LAST night?” Carrie adjusts her neckerchief, giving her cleavage the attention she feels it so richly deserves.
I cover the freshly baked cookies with a lid and slide the carousel to the far end of the counter. “So Tony did you up real good, huh?”
“He sure did. And my thoughts of a certain you-know-who helped with a second round this morning.” She winks with a wicked little grin.
I roll my eyes at her insinuation. “Oh God. Don’t tell me you were thinking of—”
“Hell yeah, I was. And it was incredible. I wonder how long he’s in town for,” she says, leaning on the counter, propping up on her elbows, and exhaling a blissful sigh.
I’ve been wondering the same. I mean, how can anyone not want more of that, even if he is a bit of an asshat. “After yesterday, I doubt he steps in here again.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Worse.”
Carrie frowns. “Like bad service, but still get a tip kinda worse or no tip at all kinda worse?”
“He dropped three twenties and told me to keep the change. Considering the check was almost sixty bucks, I’d say no tip at all kinda worse.”
Her lips curl into a sympathetic smile. It’s more on the side of pity than sympathy, but self-pity is sitting so heavy on me these days it doesn’t faze me in the least.
“You need to work on that shit, Ragan. Jim Bob fired the last girl because of that.”
“Yeah, he’s mentioned it ten or a billion times between deducting from my check.”
“Today’s a new day, and I’m here with you all afternoon, so I’ll help you out as much as I can.” She flicks her gaze over the dining area. “Let’s get this place hopping, shall we?” She sifts her retro ponytail through her fingers and heads for the jukebox. “What are you in the mood for, my friend?”
I shrug. “Surprise me.”
Seconds later, we’re laughing, dancing, and singing along to “Rock Around The Clock.”
Jim Bob steps from the back, tips his head to Carrie, but flashes a warning my way. “I don’t want any problems out of you today, Ragan.”
“Yes, sir.” I’ll be fine as long as I don’t have to serve hot-as-fuck asshats named Branch McGuire.
“I’m only keeping you on as a favor to your folks,” he continues. “Anyone else would have been long gone by now.”
I don’t reply aloud but can’t help my inward response. How will I ever repay you, Mr. Jim Bob Higgins for allowing me to stay on at this fine establishment? For giving me the opportunity to continue serving this five-star cuisine? Fucker.
I laugh aloud at my inner monologue as Jim Bob looks on, probably wondering if I’ve lost my marbles. “Thanks, Jim Bob,” I manage to say with a straight face. “I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it. I mean, how many more orders can I possibly get wrong?”
He shakes his head, opens the register, and places the cash tray into the bottom.
Guessing that’s my cue to get to work, I turn toward the dining area right as the door swings open. “Oh shit.”
“What is it?” Carrie asks.
I tip my head toward the entrance.
“Ohhh, yeah. Mr. Man on Fire is back. I guess he missed me as much as I missed him,” she whispers, holding her crossed fingers toward the heavens and offering a plea. “Please let him go to one of my tables. Please.”
I hope he does, too… but it doesn’t happen. He heads right back to the same table as yesterday. “Damn,” I curse under my breath.
“I can take that station if you take mine,” Carrie offers.
I look toward Jim Bob as he closes the register, a frown marring his chubby face as he glances between Carrie and me.
“I’d better do it myself. You know Jim Bob isn’t too happy with me right now.”
“Well, holler if you need any help. We don’t want a repeat of yesterday,” she says.
I square my shoulders and head over to Branch, thankful he’s flying solo yet still mentally preparing myself for another round of everything that happened the day before. “Welcome to Jim Bob’s. Can I start you off with something to drink?” I ask and place a menu in front of him.
“Water,” he says, without looking at me.
“Do you know what you’re having today?”
He glances up from the menu but doesn’t place his order. He does that staring thing—like before—as if he’s waiting on something. Another apology for yesterday’s service? Well, that ain’t happening.
Yesterday was yesterday. Today’s today. So his previous dining experience at Jim Bob’s wasn’t so great. In retrospect, it could’ve been much worse. So I got two of the orders wrong. No big deal. That sort of thing happens all the time. And so I mixed up steak sauce with hot sauce. Anyone in a hurry can grab the wrong bottle. Somehow I scribbled an order as well done instead of medium well. But in my defense, if they weren’t all flapping their jaws at the same time as I was writing, maybe that one wouldn’t have happened. Now, spilling the water in Matt’s lap… that one was all me. But hey, mistakes happen in busy diners every day.
And Branch’s time here couldn’t have been that bad if he’s back already. Besides, he and his childish friends taunted me the entire time. So in my book, that makes us even. Yeah, I was embarrassed, but I was also pissed. I came damn close to telling all four of them to fuck off, but that would have been my last day working for Jim Bob. And I need this job.
Somehow I made it through my previous shift without walking out and without getting fired, but here Branch is again today. Looking just as hot as he did yesterday, and judging from his demeanor, he’s ready for a repeat performance. Thing is, I don’t know if I can handle his shit two days in a row. Either he’s about to give as good as he gets or I’m walking out.
“What’s good?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I never eat here,” I lie.
“So maybe you should tell me the specials then.”
I point to the chalkboard near the entrance. “Take your pick.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you need to work on your disposition? I’m sure you’ll get more tips if you do.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?” It slipped out before I could stop myself.
He grins. “Quite a few women actually. But they like it that way.”
My mouth falls agape and my mind is pushed into a scene with my poodle skirt bunched around my waist, my panties slid to the side, and my torso bent over one of Jim Bob’s tables as Branch McGuire takes me as long and as hard as he pleases. Heat rushes my cheeks as the image centers in my brain. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Looks like I’m in for a different kind of torment today. Focus, Ragan. His comment was rude and you should respond appropriately. And you’re pissed at him, remember? Right. That’s right, I am. I tell kitty to stop purring and fall into the role of the offended waitress. “You didn’t just say that.”
He shrugs. “Well, you asked a question. I gave you an answer.” He angles his head, and his eyes narrow as if he’s trying to figure me out. “Should I have lied? Maybe you respond better to lies than you do to the truth. Most women are like that, you know.”
This guy really is an asshat. “Maybe it’s just the women you attract.”
“Maybe.” He places the menu on the table, his gaze unrelenting as he studies me. “But I’m sure you’d like it, too.”
Oh my God. What the hell is he doing? He’s fucking with me, right? Yeah, he is. Don’t respond. Don’t respond. And kitty, please oh please stop purring.
His gaze moves over me in a slow crawl, almost as if he’s undressing me with his eyes. I shift on my feet, uncomfortable by what I think he sees.
“I don’t imagine you get out much.”
“And that concerns you, how?” I ask, already slighted by his assumption.
“You’re not very friendly and you don’t
seem too concerned about your appearance.” He breaks off and glances a few tables over, Carrie’s you’d-better-leave-me-a-huge-tip laughter floating across the diner. She flashes a big, flirty smile at Branch and my eyes dart back to him in time to see him respond to her by raising his chin. “Maybe you should take some pointers from her?”
“Oh, so because I’m not pushing my boobs in your face or circling you like a dog in heat, I don’t care about my appearance? Maybe next time, you should sit in her station. Problem solved.”
A faint smile turns his lips. “Did I strike a nerve?”
“Why are you here again today anyway?” I ask, ignoring his question. “Didn’t you have enough of dealing with me yesterday?”
“Just doing my part to support the local economy. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Why don’t you just write a check? Isn’t that what your kind does?” I know I should zip my lip, but if he isn’t doing it, why should I?
“My kind?” He appears puzzled by my less-than-awestruck responses to him. “What’s your deal, sugar?”
“Excuse me? My deal?”
“Do you not know who I am?”
I know exactly who you are. I’m pretty sure everyone in this diner knows who you are. And kitty definitely knows who you are. “You’re a patron, like the others who come here. Place an order, eat, and leave. The only difference is you insist upon giving me a hard time.”
“Trust me, darlin’. When I give you a hard time, you’ll know it.”
A mix of lust and embarrassment heats my cheeks as my mind flips back to the table scene. To the hot, mind-blowing, orgasm-inducing table scene. Holy shit. Why me?
“Did I say something that bothers you or did I say something you like?”
“Neither,” I say and decide to give him what he wants. “And yes, I know you’re the Branch McGuire. Is that what you want to hear?”
“If you know who I am, then what’s your problem?”
