“Slay!” I hooted, earning a shocked look of respect from him at my correct use of current slang—thanks to Frankie’s tutelage. “So, you play sports or just dress like you do?”
He huffed out a chuckle. “I play. I’m good, too.”
“Basketball?”
He nodded. “Lacrosse, too.”
“Ever considered football?”
He shot me an annoyed look from the corner of his eye. “Of course, but my mom thinks it’s too dangerous.”
“What does your—er—what does Dad say?”
“He’s all for it—said you were really good, too.”
That punched feeling returned to my diaphragm. “So he really talks about me, huh?”
I knew the question was inappropriate as soon as I asked, but I didn’t care that much.
Danny nodded. “Talia and Grace, my—our—whatever—sisters, say you’re a jerk who wants nothing to do with us.”
The truth—or a variation of it, anyway—stung. “How old are they?”
“Talia’s twenty and Grace is fifteen.”
I swallowed hard. Talia was born two years after my dad left. It seemed he wasted no time …
“Is that true?” Danny asked, stopping my train of thought.
“What? That I’m a jerk?” I tried for the joke, but neither of us laughed. I sighed instead.
I stopped a little ways back from the crowds ahead of us and leaned against a worn split-rail fence. Danny put his hands in the pockets of his shorts and hung his head a little. He looked so sad with his downcast eyes and slight frown that I could hardly bear it.
“Hey,” I started, “listen. Families are really complicated, okay? I don’t even know what I’m doing right now. I haven’t seen Dad in forever, and, yeah, I never thought I’d talk to him again—”
“Why?” Danny chewed the inside of his cheek as he waited for my answer, a habit I was known to exhibit under emotional stress.
“I don’t really know what to say, Danny. I mean … he left me and my mom when I was five. I was mad. Then I got pissed. And stayed that way. Jesus …” I ran my hand over my face, leaving it across my mouth for a second before I spoke again. “You’re ten. I don’t even know what the hell I’m supposed to say or not say.”
Danny grinned. “I’ve got older sisters. I’ve heard a lot.”
He seemed like an emotionally put-together kid—especially for a ten year old. I had to give him that.
“Why do they think I’m a jerk? Did Dad tell them that?” I resumed our walk forward. Fried food would fix this, somehow.
He shook his head. “No. I think they just figured since we never heard from you or see you, or whatever … and Dad always said he invited you to Christmas—”
“He said that?”
Danny nodded. “Didn’t he?”
I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He had. Every year by phone or card. Then I stopped answering his calls and opening his mail.
“He did. I was just—”
“Pissed,” Danny cut in.
“You probably shouldn’t use that word,” I half-heartedly cautioned. “I’d hate to bring you back to your—our—dad with a filthy mouth.”
Danny laughed. “My sisters swear all the time.”
“But, yeah. I was pissed. I guess … I don’t know … I guess I’m trying to kind of fix that, or something, now.”
Danny looked up at me, wide-eyed. “So can you come to Christmas this year, then?”
I winced, then bit the inside of my cheek. “I’ll think about it, okay?”
“Okay,” he answered, growing quiet.
He didn’t believe me. There was no reason for him to.
Instinctively, I put my arm around his shoulders. To my surprise, he didn’t pull back, and we walked for a few steps like that, until we were in front of my favorite P-town food truck. Fried Everything. That’s really what it was called, because they fried everything from potatoes and chicken to pickles and Oreos. It was a grand thing.
“Fried Everything?” Danny questioned, laughing. “Awesome. I want everything!”
I laughed, pulling out my wallet. “Let’s do our best, then …”
***
An hour later, I’d learned that Danny was as passionate about sports as I was about music, and his interest in music was close behind. I promised I’d let him try his hand behind my drum set before our evening show. He was beaming.
I learned his oldest sister, Talia, was a junior at UConn, studying political science, while Grace was just starting her sophomore year in high school.
“She’s so loud,” Danny said, shaking his head. “And she and my mom yell at each other all the time. Dad says it’s just hormones, or something.”
I chuckled. “That sounds about right.”
“Did you and your mom fight a lot when you were a teenager?”
I shoved the last deep-fried Oreo into my mouth. “Not a ton, but not never. It was just the two of us, you know? But teenagers are teenagers, so I gave her a hard time when she wouldn’t let me do whatever I wanted.”
“You spent a lot of time with Dad’s brother, too, right? Uncle Ronan?”
To avoid choking, I washed the Oreo down with what was left of my soda. “You know Uncle Ronan?”
Danny shrugged. “I met him a couple times—he’s come over before. Dad told me that he’s the one who took good care of you when he moved to Long Island.”
I sighed. What a picture must have been painted for Danny. I didn’t want to ask the details, because I knew they’d just piss me off—and that wouldn’t be fair to him.
“Yeah. You’ll meet Regan, too—wait. Have you met Regan?”
He shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard of him.”
I grinned. “He’s a great guy.”
Just as we were about to get up from the picnic table and walk back down the beach, I spotted Frankie and Dad walking toward us.
“Look who found us.” I motioned ahead.
Frankie grinned as she approached. “I knew we’d find you here at the health food stand.”
Danny laughed, and so did I. “Pretend you don’t love it,” I teased.
“Oh no, I do,” she said with wide eyes, placing her hands on her hips. “Can’t keep this figure without a deep-fried pickle once or twice a week.”
Dad sat across from me and Danny at the table, gesturing to Danny’s half-eaten plate of fried clams and scallops, and French fries. “Save any for me?”
Danny pulled his plate closer. “Get your own.”
The seriousness in his tone made the rest of us laugh.
“Dad, guess what?” Danny’s tone suddenly shifted to excitement. “CJ says I can play on his drums tonight before his show. Can we stay? Please? Please?”
I’d assumed their plan was to stay for the show, so his question took me off guard. My dad shifted in his seat before shooting me a quick glance.
“If it’s all right with CJ, I don’t have a problem with it.”
I waved my hand. “No, it’s good. I’d like that.” Then, I kept talking. “Dad, uh, can we talk for a second, like … alone?”
I eyed Frankie for assistance, and she understood, ushering in to ask Danny to walk her through the Fried Everything menu while my dad and I slipped away.
I led us around the backside of the food truck and down the grassy sand a few yards so we were out of view from Danny and most everyone else.
“He’s a great kid,” I started, not wanting to simmer in awkward silence. “Smart and, I gotta say, kind of a smart ass.”
Dad laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I think we’ll keep him.” He stopped in his tracks and went grey. “CJ, that’s not what I meant, I—”
I held up my hands, sparing him from what, admittedly, would have been an interesting backpedal to watch. “It’s fine. I know what you meant. Look, um …” I looked down, kicking the sand. “I stopped opening your mail years ago.”
His face fell, but knowingly. “I’m not all that
surprised. Why bring that up?”
I sighed, heavy, and looked to the sky. “Danny wants to know if I want to come for Christmas. But I know your girls don’t think very much of me—”
“They’re just hurt. In ways Danny doesn’t understand yet because he’s still young enough not to read between all the tense lines.”
I tilted my head. “I think he picks up on more than you think he does.”
Dad sighed and grinned simultaneously. “I was afraid of that.”
“Your wife … what’s she like?” I’d avoided asking Danny any questions of his mom, and, thankfully, the conversation never forced us there.
He swallowed hard. “Patient. Lovely.”
“Sounds like Mom,” I mumbled.
“CJ …” he trailed off, looking out onto the water.
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. I am. That was … Jesus … I’m actually sorry.”
Because this time, I was talking to Danny’s dad. A man he clearly adored. It wasn’t just about me anymore.
“God,” I continued. “What the fuck do we do now?”
He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Take it from here? Do you … do you want to come for Christmas? Thanksgiving, maybe?”
I worked on swallowing what felt like a boulder while I thought. “Do you guys do anything for Halloween? I feel like that’s a low-pressure, no-expectations kind of holiday.”
He laughed, sniffing like he’d been holding back tears. “We could start something … together.”
I growled, looking down to hide my own traitorous tears. “Why’d you keep coming after me?” I asked, unable to meet his eyes. “Even after I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with you.”
There was a long pause. Long enough for me to look up and find my dad staring at me with confusion. “Because I love you, CJ. And when you love someone the way I love you … you keep trying.”
“Ugh …” I wiped under my eyes. “I’m still so pissed at you.”
“I’m angry with myself, too. I should have tried harder when you were younger, maybe … I don’t know.” He looked down. This was all too much.
I cleared my throat, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. “Maybe we just needed Danny,” I offered.
As his eyes met mine, he was smiling. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Can we be done now?” I asked, laughing.
“Yep,” he answered, then seemed to hesitate, chewing on something to say, maybe.
“What?” I asked, taking a step toward him as I started my way back to Frankie and Danny.
He stared at me in intense silence for a few seconds more, his eyes working over my face like he was being tortured from the inside.
“Wh—”I started to ask again what he wanted, but I didn’t get to finish my question.
My dad took one large step forward and wrapped his arms around me, squeezing as tight as I bet he could. It nearly knocked the wind out of me—emotionally more than physically. My first reaction was to push him away, but I couldn’t—not without hurting him anyway. And, for the first time in years, I didn’t want to hurt him. I kept seeing Danny when I closed my eyes and, eventually, inexplicably, I hugged him back.
My voice cracked and a muffled cry clawed its way out of my throat as I gripped the back of his shirt, holding on for what felt like dear life. He made a similar noise, holding me just as tightly.
I didn’t know what it meant or what it would mean for the future. All I knew was I was hugging my dad for the first time since I was younger than Danny. And maybe, if I got out of my own way long enough, something good could come of all this.
Epilogue
Regan.
It took me a good couple of years to get used to spending Christmas on the West Coast. Growing up in Massachusetts allowed me to enjoy the delightful stereotypes of the holiday season and take them for granted. Here in La Jolla there were no snow-capped evergreens, no risk of frostbite, and the only snow gear was found in stores filled with people traveling to ski resorts in other states. We had an inflatable snowman in front of the bakery, but that was as close to Frosty as we’d get living out here. But what we lacked in icy precipitation, we made up for in sunshine, and Christmas on the ocean without the risk of pneumonia looming over our heads.
The tour was over, ending with an incredible show at Red Rocks in Colorado. Yardley worked for well over a year to make that show happen, and I’m sure it will go down as one of the greatest experiences of my career, just behind the Grammy win.
Immediately following the conclusion of the six-month tour, CJ flew back to Massachusetts and was settling in with Frankie on a more permanent basis. I think he still had his apartment in Barnstable, but was slowly emptying it and his old life.
Sitting in my favorite oversized armchair in our home, I stared at a lit Christmas tree in the corner of our living room, and the Pacific Ocean out the window. All in the same frame. I breathed in a chest full of gratitude at the hope springing up around me.
“Here you go.” Georgia handed me a mug of steaming hot chocolate with a borderline-obscene amount of whipped cream on top.
“Thanks, babe. I talked to CJ today.”
“Yeah? How is he? You know …”
I sipped the sinfully delicious drink. Georgia once told me what kind of fancy, shaved chocolate she used to make the drink, but I forgot it all as the heavenly ribbons of rich cocoa swirled over my tongue.
“He says he’s going to his dad’s,” I answered, my voice sounding as encouraged as it was surprised.
“For Christmas Day?” Georgia looked nervous.
I shook my head. “Day after. Halloween went well, but this is much more …”
“Real,” she filled in.
“Yeah.”
Georgia curled up next to me on the arm of the chair. I shifted to the side enough for her to slide into the corner while I wrapped my free arm around her.
“I think they’ll do okay,” I continued. “He talks and texts with Danny a lot. He met his dad’s wife—”
“His stepmom,” Georgia corrected.
I chuckled. “Yeah, that. Old habits … Anyway, I guess things went well with her and the girls. The older one is still a little weird around him, but I’m sure CJ’s just as awkward.”
“Can you even believe we’re having this conversation?” Georgia’s voice carried the awed weight of history. One she and I knew all too well. All the anger CJ had. The pain, the frustration, all of it.
“He’s really turned himself around. And inside out. I mean … It’s really incredible.”
Georgia kissed my temple. “Things have certainly changed, haven’t they?”
I looked down at my wife, and a glow came from deep within her that was brighter than the tree in front of us.
“Yeah,” I grinned, “they certainly have.”
During the last three months I was on tour, Georgia and I did a lot of research on adoption. A lot. We tracked down information sessions in La Jolla for her, and in cities where I’d be traveling. If she happened to be with me at a certain stop, we’d go together. Either way, we talked, texted, and emailed constantly about the sessions we’d been to—comparing notes and thoughts and fears. We Skyped a few therapy sessions with Dr. Weeber, and resumed seeing her once a week once the tour ended.
As Georgia and I gazed at the white glow of the Christmas tree, we were in a state of hopeful limbo. We’d filled out the official—and incredibly lengthy—adoption application, and had completed the first of a few interviews earlier in the week. Up next would be more interviews, letters of recommendation, and home visits from a social worker.
We were planning our family.
From what we’d been told at information sessions and from families we met who had been through adoption, the whole application-interview-home visit process would take roughly six months. If everything went through and we were approved for adoption, the agency told us it could take a year or two before we received our child.
We were ready to see it through. To be patient. We did hear a story of a family who received their six-month-old daughter three weeks after they were approved, and while we didn’t anticipate this would be the case for us, it did remind us of the uncertainty that can come with adoption. With parenting. Building a family was going to be full of trials, joys, and surprises no matter how we went about it.
“I love you,” I said to Georgia. I’d been watching the soft glow of Christmas and impending motherhood radiate from her face for a couple of minutes. She was stunning. And mine.
She gazed up at me softly, and from the white-painted brick fireplace in the living room, an old clock chimed with the notice of midnight.
“Merry Christmas, Regan.” Georgia kissed me with a chocolate and whipped cream-flavored kiss. “I love you, too.”
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered back. “You have no idea how happy I am to be home.”
She grinned. “I’m happier to have you home.” Georgia nuzzled into my side as we sat in the quiet of the first minutes of Christmas Day. A new beginning.
As of January first, I was slated to draw up a new contract with Grounded Sound. One that would keep me at home for more than ninety percent of the year, and focusing on local outreach. Dates and responsibilities would shift when our child arrived. I’d still be writing and recording, of course, but I’d be doing it from La Jolla, and not all over the continental U.S.
Whether we received the next piece of our family puzzle in the next several months or the next couple of years, it didn’t matter. Life was good when I slowed down long enough to realize what had been right in front of me the whole time. And it was only from that point that Georgia and I could focus on the future. Together. As we always had been, and always would be.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank Marla from Proofing Style for helping make this book as polished as possible, given we’re all humans on this boat, Randall’s Bitchin Betas for bearing with me during the sometimes stop-and-go process that is my writing, Randall’s Readers for supporting every project I undertake, and, of course, Charles—you make this life easy, even in the hard days.
Chasing Kane Page 31
