“Who are you?”
Clarissa follows his line of sight over to me, the smile disappearing from her face as the bag slips from her hands.
“MOM! You broke my sunny-sides!” Dante says in a huff, before bending over to gawk at the open carton of eggs.
“Dante,” she chokes out. “G-g-get in the house.”
She grips his shoulders in protective mode, eyes widening when I begin to cross the lawn. I need to play it cool, but years of pent-up longing pound against my chest as I make my way toward my son.
“Hey, little man. I’m your new neighbor,” I introduce myself as I slowly approach the house. Dante moves to greet me stopped short by the iron grip of his mother. “I said, get in the house now.”
“Mom, he’s not a bad guy. He doesn’t even have tattoos.”
“Now, Dante!”
“Fine.” He turns back to look at me with his hand on the doorknob. “What’s your name?”
Dad. Daddy? What would he call me if given a choice? I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, emotions are running rampant inside me. It’s all I can do to even my voice when I answer.
“Troy.”
“See ya, Troy.” I look after him as he shuts the door, aching to bridge the distance and study him up close. A gnawing in my gut keeps me from taking a single step because I know I’ll be denied that privilege as I have been for the whole of his life.
When I’m sure he’s at a safe distance away from the door, I take the few steps up the porch toward Clarissa, who’s glaring at me with tears in her eyes.
“What are you doing?”
I hold my hands up with a, ‘please, just hear me out.’ I bend down and start gathering her scattered groceries. The acid in her voice above me is exactly what I expected.
“I told you never to come near us. I meant it. You know I meant it.”
I lift the tattered sack once I’ve gathered everything salvageable. “I just want him to know me. I just want to know him.”
She gapes at the box I left on the steps behind me at the neighboring house. “You moved in next door?”
“I just want to keep an eye on him. He’s my—”
“Don’t,” she hisses, “don’t you dare say it. You can’t just show up and claim parental rights.”
“That’s not the truth of it, though, is it? I know you’ve seen me. I’ve seen you see me. I’m done pretending, Clarissa. If you move again, I’ll follow. You move then, I’ll do the same. I’m not going anywhere. It’s time we met. Past time. And I have to know him,” I choke on my words because it’s hard enough looking at her knowing she hates me and my chances of making this work are slim to none, but I have to try. “For him, please,” I ask, looking up, my eyes pleading with hers.
She crosses her arms and shakes her head. “He’s missed nothing.”
“You don’t know that.”
She rips the bag from my grip. “No.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and toe a loose wood board on the porch. “I’ve been doing more than watching, and you know it. You won’t take my money, why?” I look up to see she’s still got tears in her eyes and hate the sight of it. It’s understandable she’s scared. At the moment, I feel every part the villain her stare accuses me of being.
“I don’t need your money.”
“You have needed it, plenty.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with you, Troy. Dante doesn’t need an adolescent and conniving liar for a father.”
“I’m almost twenty-four, Clarissa. I’m not that kid anymore.”
Her eyes rake me up and down, and I can’t help my smirk when they pause at my crotch before lifting back to mine. She’s nowhere near as amused.
“Move out.”
“No.”
“You can’t just do this.”
“Then tell me how. Tell me how to get through to him. Because I want to be a part of his life. You can’t keep me from him forever.”
“The hell I can’t.”
“I have rights.”
Her face visibly pales. “You lost any rights you had when you lied and put both of us in jeopardy, and when I say us, I mean him and me, not you.”
“Legally, that’s not true. I have rights.”
Panic flits over her features before her back straightens. I’ve triggered mama bear, and all I can do is admire her for it. I shake my head. “Don’t even think it. I would never dream of pulling you into something messy like that. First of all, neither of us can afford it, and I don’t want to do that to you, but I need you to let this happen. I’m not making excuses for what I did. I just want to do right by him. I know where you stand and how you feel about me. I just want to know him. Please, just let me know him.”
Strangled by emotion, I think back to the night I spent listening outside her living room window when he had colic, and they both cried. Watching as she decorated a Christmas tree alone that she could barely afford. And the next morning when she celebrated alone, no family to ever come around, just a friend that pops up every so often who never fails to put smiles on both their faces. I caught Clarissa mid-breakdown once when I’d pulled up. She sat in her SUV and just cried because life had stressed her to that point, and all I could do was helplessly watch. I might not know the particular ins and outs of all that’s gone on, but just by observation alone, I know it hasn’t been easy and that she’s done it all on her own. That guilt I’ll never overcome.
“I’ve watched you struggle all this time just to be able to take care of him. I know what you’re going through.”
“You have no idea what it’s been like.”
“But I do. My mother’s name is Pamela.”
She draws her brows. “Okay, so?”
“My father’s name is also Pamela.”
Her tears fall, but she lifts her chin, her expression stern as she tries not to show the weakness, the vulnerability I’ve seen glimpses of over the years. Years she thinks I’ve spent carefree, but my frustration in the knowledge that my son exists without a father has far outweighed any adolescent highlights. Even when I’d selfishly tried to turn a blind eye, tried to move on, since the day she showed up to my school, I’ve never been free.
It’s been crazy just how much I’ve wanted to know him since the announcement of his arrival. While everyone in school was scrambling around for a way to pay for a limo at prom, I was trying to figure out a way to chip in with Mom to keep the lights on and stalk my son’s Easter egg hunt.
“I can’t change what I did, but maybe I can change your opinion of me in the responsible sense. Please. I am his father, and I can be a father to him. Please just let me try.”
She chews her full bottom lip as I patiently wait for her to mull it over. I don’t think this woman has an impulsive bone in her body. Matter of fact, the words “I never do this,” poured from her the night we hooked up. She sighs heavily as she scrutinizes me.
“There is no trying, Troy. If it doesn’t work out, you don’t get to go on your merry way. That’s not how this works.”
I nod. “I know. It…just, fuck,” I sigh, palming the back of my neck, “came out the wrong way.”
“Yeah, but you have a penchant for twisting words when it suits you, don’t you now, Mr. Jenner?”
“There’s no way to tell you how much I regret lying to you in that way.”
I can’t even bring myself to regret the rest of it. Often, I wonder if at times, she remembers just how fucking spectacular that night was. Instead, I’m browbeaten by just how much she wishes it had never happened. I want to regret it, but no real part of me ever has. Not even when I felt at my lowest.
“Why are you doing this? You have football and college. You’re telling me you can handle this now?”
“You been keeping tabs on me?” My playful grin is met by a scowl. I clear my throat. “Look, all those things considered, I’ve been in your parking lot every spare minute for almost six fucking years, Clarissa. I think I’ve proven he’s a priority withou
t even having met him, despite the ways you’ve thrown my offerings away. You want more proof? I’m offering it, right here, right now. You make the rules, I’ll follow. I’m just asking for a chance.”
Studying me carefully, I see the war waging in her mind, in her clear-blue eyes. I can still remember the jolt I felt when I got my first glimpse of her up close. Fiery dark hair, bee-stung lips, and perfect features. At twenty-three, she was a stunner when we met. At twenty-nine, she’s a fucking knock out. She seems to read my mind and her eyes narrow. “Don’t ever let what you’re thinking past those lips.”
“You’re even more beautiful than you were the night I met you.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “If you’re that bad at following simple directions, how do I know this will work?”
“Sorry, couldn’t be helped. It’s just…good to see you from less than ten feet away.”
“You’re not helping your case at all.”
Sinking where I stand, the idea of being so close, coming this far just to get the door shut again is too much to handle. I reach in deep and speak straight from the heart.
“I can’t stop myself from being here anymore. This is tearing me apart and has been for years. I need to know him. I have to know him. I can’t live with myself any longer, and I can’t live another minute without him knowing me. All I’m asking for is a chance to prove myself a worthy father. I’m not discrediting anything you’ve done. I just…” I close my eyes, willing myself to stay strong, my words coming out in a ragged plea. “Please, just give me a chance.” Opening my eyes, I take a step forward, my hands covering my chest, imploring her. “I’m not here to hurt you. And I would end myself before hurting him. Please.”
After the longest minute of my life, she sets the bag down on the porch and holds out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
Heart singing, I hand it over as she programs her number in and slaps it back in my hand. “You are the neighbor. You can start that way, and we’ll see how it goes from there. Don’t you dare come around unannounced. You have no say in his life until I decide otherwise. All decisions concerning him are up to me.”
“You’ve done an amazing job with him.”
“I had no choice.”
Anger flaring, I push that to the side and try to reason with her. “I’m telling you now that you do. I want this job more than I want to play pro ball. But I’ll respect your wishes. You call the shots, neighbor.”
“Neighbor first,” she props open the screen door with her hip, and I hold it for her while she palms the door handle. “Then we’ll see.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I don’t want to give this to you, but you’ve given me no choice.”
“And you’ve done the same. Does I’m sorry matter?”
“No.”
I exhale a heavy breath. “Didn’t think so.”
The pulse point at her neck jumps as I crowd her a little at the door. “Eventually, maybe, we could be friends? It wouldn’t hurt to try.”
She snorts out her disgust. “You can’t be serious.”
“Right,” I nod and take a step back. “I’ll go.”
With the door open an inch, she pauses, seeming to run through her thoughts. Hopeful, I step back into her space as she leans over in a whisper. “He could use some new shoes. Boys size seven and a half.”
I chuckle. “Big feet, huh?”
She glares at me.
“Sorry. Okay, what else?”
She bites her lips, and I know it’s her pride keeping her silent. “Nothing.”
“Clarissa, please.”
Her shoulders drop. “I wasn’t able to get him many new school clothes. I’ll text you his sizes.”
“Thank you.”
“I should have known better.” She seems lost in her thoughts. “Speak, or even think of the devil, and he shows up at your door.”
“So, you’ve been thinking about me?”
My comment snaps her back into the present. “Get over yourself, Troy. This is for him.”
“I know.”
I have no fucking idea how I’m going to dress my son because I just gave the last few hundreds I had to my new roommate. Her voice cuts through my rambling thoughts.
“I’ll never forgive you.”
Lifting my eyes to hers, I see the hurt there. It’s residual. And it’s then I know she does remember that night, and exactly how good it was, and it strikes me hard just how badly I fumbled with her.
“I don’t expect you to.”
She hesitates briefly before she opens the door and shuts it soundly behind her.
The ball lodged in my throat as I cross the grass is nothing compared to the voice screaming inside my head.
Don’t fuck this up.
Erica’s Crockpot Fiesta Chicken
Forensic Scientist, Indiana
Makes 6 servings
45 minutes
4 Boneless, Skinless Chicken Breasts
1 Packet Fiesta Ranch Mix
1 Can Black or Pinto Beans
1 Can Rotel
1 Can Corn (not drained)
1 8 oz. Block Cream Cheese
Place chicken in crockpot and pour Fiesta Ranch Mix evenly over chicken. Pour beans, Rotel, and corn into the crockpot but do not stir them together. Lay block of cream cheese on top of mixture.
Cover and cook on low for 4 to 5 hours or until chicken is tender. Remove and shred chicken. Add chicken back into the crockpot and stir well to mix all other ingredients together.
Great served over rice or may be eaten with tortillas.
Clarissa
Toweling Dante off, I peek out the bathroom window for the umpteenth time as he tells me about his day. The first day of kindergarten is a breeze, according to my little man.
“Jase is not as smart as me. Neither is ugly Carly.”
“Not nice,” I remind him as he puts his hands on my shoulders, and I pull up his underwear, studying his profile. After seeing Troy up close a few days ago, I realized just how much he favored his father. It had been so long that I’d almost forgotten how striking, fuck that, how ridiculously hot Troy is. Even more so now. My baby’s wet lashes are as thick and long as his. His eyes the same brilliant blue.
“Mommmmy,” Dante draws out, “did you hear me?”
“No, buddy, what did you say?”
“I said that Carly is ugly.”
“Even if that’s your opinion, you keep it to yourself. Do you hear me? She could turn out to be a good friend one day.” He shakes his head beneath the towel in protest as I scrub off the excess moisture. Once he’s dry, I study Dante carefully to try and distinguish which of his features are mine.
Noticing my scrutiny, he widens his eyes and leans in with his nose pressed to mine, drawing out my laugh.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Just looking, Peanut.”
“I’m not a peanut. I’m getting bigger.” He flexes, and I end up on my butt in hysterics as he exaggeratedly shows off his muscles while pinching his hands making twin beaks and animatedly moving them back and forth. “These swans are legit.”
I agree through my laugh. “So big.”
“Don’t say it like that. I know you’re just playing when you say it like that.”
“You may be getting big, but you’ll always be my baby,” I say, gathering his dirty clothes as he struggles with his shirt before poking his head through the hole. “I’m going to be as big as Troy one day.”
I bite my lip, doing my best to hide my reaction. Hearing Troy’s name from his lips is earth-shattering. “There’s a really good chance you will be.”
“I’ll be so big. You’ll see. Then I can tell Carly she’s ugly.”
“No, son. You can never ever tell Carly she’s ugly. Ever. Being bigger doesn’t mean you can pop off at the mouth and hurt people’s feelings.”
“I heard you tell Parker that Mr. Brown was destined for shit city.”
“BOY!” I turn him
to face me, eyes bulging.
“Sorry, just saying it the way you said it.”
“Do as I say, not as I do. I wasn’t insulting him, and I said he was destined to float shit creek. If you’re going to quote someone, do it correctly.”
“K.” He looks up at me, confused. “Mommy, what’s a shit creek?”
“Dante, let’s breathe for a second here. It’s been a long day. Let’s save the rest of the Spanish Inquisition for later. Don’t you have a video to make?”
His face lights up. “Yes! I’m doing a review today!”
“Awesome. Go ahead and make it while I get your dinner ready, and I’ll approve it after.”
“K.” He runs off just after I get his sock on. In the kitchen, I unwrap some leftover Fiesta Chicken and slide it in the oven. Moving to the living room, I take my syllabus out from my leather brief and grab my red pen before getting cozy in my recliner. Teaching high school is challenging. Finding a way to keep kids interested in more than Instagram or Snapchat these days is damn near impossible.
Last year was by far the hardest of my career, and I’m determined to turn things around this year and find new and creative ways to get them to interact during class. I’m a few days into my lesson plans when voices outside my window grab my attention. At the blinds, I curse my curiosity. Troy admitted he watched, and that he saw me watch. I did know he was watching. Of course I knew. I’d been aware of him since he left the present on my porch along with the envelope full of cash. Truth be told, I’d spotted him before that but refused to acknowledge it. When he left the gift, he gave me no choice but to recognize his lingering presence. But, no matter how many times our eyes met over the crown of his son’s head while I walked him into my apartment, or how remorseful or pitiful his expression, especially in my weakest moments, I’d always slammed the door behind us. And still, he’d refused to stay away. His truck parked facing my apartment, on guard.
The Underdogs: The Complete Series Page 30
