Of Happiness

by Olivia Luck

  Of Happiness

  Copyright © 2014 Olivia Luck

  Published by Olivia Luck

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Olivia Luck 2014

  Publishing assisted by Black Firefly: http://www.blackfirefly.com/

  (Shedding light on your self-publishing journey)

  Cover Design: by Ari at Cover it! Designs: http://salon.io/#coveritdesigns

  Formatting by: http://www.blackfirefly.com/

  To Edith and Clara for their sacrifices and endless love

  Numb.

  For a few moments, I am blissfully so.

  If it weren’t for the pressure of my dad’s arm around my shoulder, guiding me down the street, I’d be stuck on the spot of sidewalk where Harris attempted to speak with me. Maybe I would have even listened to what he had to say, but then his sister, Claire, interrupted the moment. I’ve got to give the girl her exquisite timing. She knew exactly when my resolve was crumbling and swooped in to crush our reconciliation.

  Only a few hours earlier I thought Harris and I were impenetrable. Bit by bit I found the cracks in our pairing when he refused to tell me about the death of his younger brother, Cooper. What was left of our relationship crumbled when Claire accused me of having an affair with her husband’s best friend.

  My relationship with Harris was meant for two people, not three. I can’t be with him while evading Claire at the same time. That’s why I left him on the middle of that patch of concrete. That and he shredded my heart into a thousand tiny ribbons when he merely gaped silently as Claire maligned my character.

  Not a great night overall.

  The walk is surprisingly brief. Dad steers me inside a towering structure. It’s not until we’re in the hotel lobby that I notice the grandiose decor.

  “Dad,” I hiss, grasping at his elbow. He’s wearing a T-shirt, so my hand comes in contact with his skin. That sturdy reliability I admired before vibrates underneath my fingers. How had I never noticed this steadiness before? My grip gains urgency and I clutch him tightly.

  Thank goodness you’re here, I tell him silently.

  “This is a very expensive hotel!”

  Without pause, he leads me toward the elevator bank, still maintaining the weight of my weekend travel bag like it’s nothing more than a kitten. “I know where we are, Ed, and it’s not a problem.”

  “But I helped manage our finances all those years,” I tell him as we slip into the half-full elevator box. Dad presses the button for the tenth floor. I keep my voice low so the other hotel guests don’t hear me as I continue. “We weren’t exactly rolling in the Benjamins.”

  He rewards my feeble attempt at light heartedness with a grim smile. “That’s something we need to talk about while I’m here.”

  What the hell is going on?

  We walk through a maze of corridors and arrive at his room. I nearly wince when I see the number—1001—just like my old apartment with Claire. Dad hovers the key over the electronic lock and holds the door open for me, so I can enter ahead of him. Seeing the two plush queen beds makes me want to collapse underneath the covers and hide.

  “What now?” I ask, turning to face him. He’s set my heavy bag down at the foot of the closer bed. I drop my purse onto a low dresser.

  Dad runs a hand through his short brown hair, a telltale sign of nerves. Is he wary because we’ve hardly had a close-knit relationship? I’m in a similar shock that my emotionally-stilted father is now my top ally.

  “You look… tired.”

  Gee, thanks. As much as it stings, he’s probably right. Even though I’m physically well-rested, it feels like I’ve been awake for two straight days.

  “Let’s talk in the morning after you’ve gotten some sleep,” he says firmly.

  “Okay,” I mumble, lacking the energy to argue with him. It’s after midnight anyway.

  Dad clears his throat, then mutters something about brushing his teeth. He grabs some clothing from a drawer and heads into the bathroom, giving me some privacy. In his absence, I rifle through my bag and retrieve a pair of sleep shorts and a T-shirt.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I glance toward the windows, but they’re covered by shades, and we’re on the tenth floor, so it’s not like someone could be throwing stones up here.

  The tapping sounds again. I realize with a start the noise stems from the bathroom.

  “Dad?” I venture toward the door.

  “Um, is it all right for me to come out?”

  This bulky, gun-wielding man is concerned with disturbing his own daughter?

  For half a beat I’m too surprised to say anything. “Yes, of course.”

  He opens the door with an almost sheepish smile. We trade places, so I can change into pajamas, scrub my face, and brush my teeth. Once I’m clean, I study my expression in the mirror. Skin a few shades paler than normal for the summer, eyes rimmed-red with unshed tears, and a general air of dejectedness. With a snort of annoyance, I glance away from my reflection. I’ll deal with that tomorrow, too.

  The only light illuminating the bedroom when I return is the bedside lamp. Before I crawl under the sheets, I grab my cell phone from my purse.

  A punch of disappointment hits me when I find no messages.

  With a heavy sigh that makes my heart—or what’s left of it—ache, I place the phone next to the bed and crawl under the sheets.

  “Good night, Dad,” I murmur softly.

  The light goes out with a click and then, “Good night, Ed.”

  A knot clogs my throat, but I manage to make out the words, “Thanks for coming.”

  He doesn’t respond. The steady sound of his breathing probably means he’s already fallen asleep. I shut my eyes and start to count in a feeble attempt to calm the lingering pain.

  One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand.

  Ten minutes crawl by, and the usually soothing tactic has no such effect this time. My heart thuds in my chest as I travel back to memories of Harris.

  You are mine and I am yours. He said that. He meant that; I saw his sincerity. I don’t believe our commitment was so fleeting.

  The whole night was one big mess, starting with his inability to talk about Cooper to the argument with Claire. Admittedly, he must have felt overwhelmed. But does Claire dictate his every action?

  He let me go.

  It was only yesterday Harris held me while we both revealed some of our secrets. I felt close enough to him to confess the painful detachment from my father, and he lowered the walls that guarded his own relationship with Claire and his family. There was never anyone in my life, not even my closest friend, Sarah, that I allowed in so intimately. I trusted him implicitly, and it seemed that he slowly began trusting me back.

  And now?

  I’m alone.

  Again.

  Tears build up behind my eyes. Liquid tracks down my cheeks, sou
ndlessly at first, then my well-practiced art of silent crying fails me. Hiccupping sobs erupt.

  I wrap my arms around myself defensively. My knees scrunch toward my chest. The pain surrounds me, settling around me heavily like the blanket tucked underneath my chin. I wish so badly Harris was here, cradling me to his chest and comforting me.

  But he’s not here. Dad’s next to me, and—

  A tentative hand brushes on my shoulder and my eyes shoot open.

  “Ed?”

  The crying jag makes it difficult for me to respond, so I just shake my head.

  He lingers there for a moment, then he’s gone. I think he’s back in bed, but then I feel the weight of the bed shift. I roll over, the tears momentarily pausing as I watch the scene before me in confusion. Dad’s now sitting with his back against the pillows. It’s too dark to make out his expression. It wouldn’t matter if the lights were on; I’m trembling with exhaustion and emotion, eyes hardly cracked open.

  Gingerly, he lifts the top part of my body, propping me up against the pillows next to him. He anchors me to his side. I’m halfway under the covers, half cocooned next to him. Like before, when he led me to the hotel, Dad’s arm curls around me protectively. This is the first moment of emotional support that I can remember him offering. If it wasn’t for the hole in my chest, I might have commented.

  Added to the pile of overwhelming experiences from the last four weeks in Chicago, this unexpected sign of affection causes the tears to fall harder. Now I don’t know if I’m crying because I lost Harris, or if I’m gaining the father I always wanted.

  Thirty seconds of peace pass and then it floods back. Harris, Claire, Amanda, every painful memory. Jerking upward, I look around the luxurious hotel room.

  Groggily, I glance at the clock. Quite early, and Dad is nowhere to be seen. He’s probably out running, his steadfast hobby. My phone’s where I left it, next to the bed. When I tap it awake, my stomach clenches. Like last night, there aren’t any messages, and it causes an impressive ache.

  Is it too early to call Sean?

  My thumb flies across my phone and finds his number before I decide that it’s a bad idea. Shuffling upward, I prop myself up against the headboard and listen to the ring.

  “No good phone call comes before eight in the morning,” he answers, sounding surprisingly alert for this time on a Sunday.

  “It’s too early to call you, and it’s only for selfish reasons,” I croak.

  “Never mind that. Tell me what happened.” His voice rings of sincerity, and my uneasiness of reaching out to him this way fades.

  Where do I begin? The story seems fake to me like a soap opera I watched on TV.

  I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “My dad randomly showed up because he was concerned about my wellbeing.”

  Sean gasps audibly.

  A waterfall of words spills out. “Claire convinced Amanda that I’ve been having an affair with Peter.”

  He gasps again. “No. She. Did. Not.”

  “They both confronted me at Harris’ place and…”

  “Let me guess, the brute didn’t take your side?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you’re on the phone with me, sounding like you just got smashed with a sledgehammer. By the way, where are you?”

  “Hm.” I quickly look at the notepad on the table next to the bed. “Apparently the Four Seasons. Don’t ask me how my dad can afford a room at this place.”

  “Fine, but I will ask, where is your dad?”

  “Probably out running.”

  “Did he say why he’s here?”

  I clear my throat noisily. “On the day I saw Harris and his friend Jane together and wrongly assumed they were dating, I called my dad. He said he was worried because of the way I sounded. That was the only time we’ve talked since I’ve moved here.” I mumble the last part, embarrassed.

  “This conversation should be conducted face to face,” Sean decides. “I think you and your dad should join Luke and me for breakfast.”

  “Yes, that would be good.” I’m immediately relieved because now I know how to keep busy for the short term.

  “Okay, we’ll pick you up at nine. Text me if your dad doesn’t get back soon enough.”

  Almost soundlessly, the hotel room door opens and shuts. “He’s back. We’ll see you soon,” I tell Sean and we disconnect.

  My dad enters the hotel room wearing his running shorts and Arlington County Police Department T-shirt.

  “Morning,” he says tentatively.

  “Hi,” I reply, equally as hesitant. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I’m worried the tenderness he showed last night will dissolve into the air conditioning.

  We’re both silent, observing each other.

  Finally, I break. There are too many questions that need answering. “What are you really doing in this super-expensive hotel room in Chicago?”

  He crosses his arms over his chest, almost angrily. “I’m here because it was well past time that I tried to fix our relationship. When you called me for my advice, it gave me the swift kick in the ass I’ve needed for the last twenty-six years.”

  What?

  I can’t come up with any logical answers. “What are you talking about?”

  His brows furrow with a frown as he walks toward the edge of the bed. “May I?”

  “Of course.” With a weary sigh, he lowers himself.

  “Ed, I don’t know where to start. There’s so much I want to tell you, and a lot of trust that needs to be built. I know I’ve made an endless amount of mistakes, but I won’t let that stop me from trying. You’re my daughter for God’s sake.” He stops talking abruptly, gazing at me imploringly.

  “Is this really happening?” I murmur. Many times I dreamed that my dad would reach out to me this way. And now that he’s saying what I always wanted to hear, I can’t help my skepticism. I return my father’s eye contact. In the deep brown depths, I find fierce determination.

  His eagerness makes my decision simple. I’m not going to hold anything back. If this reconciliation is real, then he’ll accept what I have to offer.

  “Dad, everything’s a big mess here, and I could really use help straightening things out. But I don’t know how to suddenly change from keeping everything inside to sharing my life with you. My whole life”—my voice gets thick—“I wanted us to be close. And I’m admittedly vulnerable because of… last night. If we are going to work on our relationship, I need to know you mean for the rest of our lives, and not just today.”

  Dad studies me intently. “You know me as a man of my word?”

  “Of course.” That’s one of my father’s most admirable traits; he keeps his promises. If Dad said he’d pick me up at a certain time, he’d be not a moment late. If he said that he would be home for dinner, he’d help me set the table and do the dishes afterward.

  “My world relies on black and white; you commit a crime, you pay the consequences. Fixing this”—he waves a hand between us—“means unchartered gray territories. But you are my daughter, and my only living relative. I’ll be damned if I don’t spend the rest of my days trying to fix what I broke.” In his voice, I hear an unfamiliar desperation.

  Why would he seek me out if he didn’t mean these words wholeheartedly?

  “Okay, Dad. Let’s give it a shot.”

  His eyes soften, nodding in agreement. Then he does something he’s never done before. Tenderly, he kisses the top of my head like I’ve seen other fathers do regularly. It’s never a gesture I’ve received. My breath hitches with that kiss, lessening the wall of mistrust.

  It would be easy to scream at him, tell him to screw off after all those years apart. Forgive me, but I’m too weak to turn him away. A lifetime of longing isn’t fixed with just a few words, but he took the first step to fixing things. There’s credit for that, right?

  The moment ends and he gently releases me.

  “I called my friend, Sean,
earlier and he suggested we get breakfast. He and his boyfriend, Luke, are coming here at nine. Would you want to come with us?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Did you not hear a word I just said? Yes. Let’s go to breakfast. Will you”—he clears his throat—“be discussing that man from yesterday?” I notice that he doesn’t mention how I cried myself to sleep. Neither do I.

  “That was Harris.” I practically stutter out his name as my chest squeezes. “He’s my former roommate’s brother.”

  “Okay.” He doesn’t press further, just nods. Then it’s quiet again.

  “We were dating,” I admit.

  Yikes. It hurts to use past tense.

  “Hm,” is all he says.

  “Is this the way you interrogate bad guys?” I wonder drily.

  He chuckles briefly. “No, this is the way I try to listen to my daughter.”

  Taking a deep breath, I try to let out some of the building pressure surrounding my bruised heart. “All right.” I climb out of the bed. “I’m going to shower.”

  “Let me get this straight. Claire accused you of messing around with Amanda’s husband?” Sean squawks a few hours later as we wait for our omelets (me, Sean, and Dad) and pancakes (Luke). I’ve just told them the whole sad story, including the part when Harris chased after me.

  A cup of tea warms my hands which are still jittery from retelling last night’s dramatics. “That wasn’t the worst part. Something’s not right with Claire, but Harris—his mouth was glued shut. He stood there and watched passively. The same guy who represents Fortune 500 companies didn’t have one word available? It’s not like him.”

  “Don’t get mad at me for saying this,” Luke interjects, “but you said he followed after you frantically? Blocked traffic and ran across the street to try and talk to you?”

  Sean scowls. “If Mr. Grant wants you back, he’s going to have to do more than that.”

  The waitress returns with a large smile, settling plates in front of us. The wafting scent of the eggs makes my stomach turn. Suddenly I’m not hungry, but I pick up my fork and begin idly playing with my food, cutting off pieces I don’t intend to eat.