Felicity Found (Rogue Series Book 6)

by Lara Ward Cosio

  “I—”

  “I know that lack of control drives you crazy. That was clear enough with the way you were trying to insert yourself with Amelia. That kind of pressure doesn’t help me, so it’s just better to leave you out of it.”

  The words have flown out of her mouth faster than she can control and she looks like she wants to retract them. But it’s too late.

  I nod. “Good to know.”

  “Wait—”

  “No, really. It’s good to know my place. Thanks for helping me to understand that. I’ll stay out of your way, shall I?” I say and stand.

  “Conor, I don’t mean it in the way it sounded.”

  I laugh and it’s a bitter sound, even to my own ears. “My father is okay, by the way.” I’ve said it as a parting shot, ready to walk away, but she speaks and stops me.

  “I know. I spoke to your mother this morning.”

  I turn back to her.

  “She told me about his diagnosis,” she continues. “She also told me she’s worried about you.”

  “Me?” I ask with surprise. “Why is she worried about me?”

  “Because you always bottle things up. You’re always so busy being the strong one that you never let yourself feel—”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Conor, she’s right. You always take things on by yourself. You never lean on me. You never share your thoughts and feelings with me.”

  “You don’t know what I feel? You don’t know that I’m terrified right now? You don’t know that it fucking scares me that my father is going to deteriorate? That it scares me that I’ll have to watch my mother experience that? Well, it does. And if you want me to share it all, you should know I also worry that, for all I know, I’ll end up the same way as him down the line. Oh, and here’s another fun thing—it’s that I feel profound sadness over the fact that our children will never know him the way I have.”

  There are tears in her eyes as she watches me.

  “Yeah, I was really supposed to share all that, huh?” I ask. “I was supposed to put that on you when you were having your own difficulties? Sorry, but I just didn’t think that was the best way to help you.”

  “I can handle it—”

  “Really? You can handle it? When? Like when you were cowering at my goddamn feet that night?”

  That was a step too far and now I want to retract my words. But it’s too late.

  “Will you forever judge me by my worst moment?” she asks. “Is that it? Because, I’m sorry I’m not perfect.”

  “Fee—”

  “I . . . fell down, for lack of a better description,” she continues. “I had a really bad patch, I’ll admit. But I’m only human. Can’t you allow me that?”

  “That’s all I want from you. I don’t want this nonsense idea of perfection you have. How can I convince you of this? You seem to relentlessly assign me these notions and it’s just not true. I fucking love you. I think you’re an amazing mother. I love our life. I love the family we’ve made. What will it take for you to believe that and stop pushing me away?”

  The tears fall from her eyes and down her cheeks now. “You really won’t walk away?” she asks in a whisper.

  My heart cracks a bit at that. I can feel a tear in my chest as I see quite clearly the fears that have been stirred up in her. It’s her father having walked out on her. It’s her first husband having walked out on her. It’s me not being as available as she needs.

  “Oh, honey,” I say softly. We had been standing with some distance between us, but now I close the gap, pulling her by the waist to me and sliding my fingers into her hair at the nape of her neck. I kiss her, pressing my lips to hers for a long moment, wanting her to feel in my touch what I’m going to say with words. Breaking away only slightly, I fix her in my gaze. “I really won’t walk away. This is it. You’re it for me. You’re stuck with me.” I take a deep breath, close my eyes for a second, and then look at her again. “Will you believe me?”

  As an answer, she takes one of my hands and draws it to her lips, kissing my palm. It’s tender and sweet, but I need more.

  “Tell me, Fee. Tell me what I can do to convince you that no matter what happens, I’m staying.” I think better of adding, I won’t be like those other men who disappointed you.

  “Just keep staying,” she says. “And give me time to sort it all out.”

  “I can do both of those things. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d do anything for you.”

  She smiles and touches my cheek before raising herself on tiptoe, so she can kiss me. When she pulls away, she leans her forehead into my shoulder.

  “I love you so much. I honestly do,” she says.

  I wrap an arm around her shoulders and press her to me. “We’re going to be okay, honey. I promise you.”

  With a shaky inhalation of breath, she nods. And then she says something that further sets my mind at ease, because it indicates she’s returning to herself.

  “You were right before. It’s ridiculous to make my own baby food when we can buy the same thing.”

  I laugh. “Definitely. I mean, let’s be rational people, here.”

  I take comfort in the way she smiles up at me. Nothing has really been fixed. But we’re on a better path.

  29

  Felicity

  Conor doesn’t go to the studio today. Instead, we spend a quiet day at home with the babies, talking mostly about his father. He tells me stories I hadn’t heard before, tells me about other concerns he has for the future, tells me this is part of why he’s in favor of an abbreviated tour for the new album.

  He also takes out an acoustic guitar, playing and singing for me the song he wrote about memory, the song about his father. It’s both a beautiful tribute and melancholy exploration of loss. I understand why he felt compelled to write it and urge him to include it on the album, but he’s not yet convinced it should be.

  It’s late in the afternoon when I get a call on my mobile. Before I can shield the screen, Conor sees who’s calling.

  “Your father?” he asks, surprised.

  I haven’t told him about my father’s renewed interest in being a part of my life. Of wanting to be a part of Ella’s life—but not Romeo’s. He does know that we’ve had the odd communication over the years and that I usually hesitate to engage with him, so he doesn’t find it unusual when I tell him I’m in no state to talk to him today and decline the call.

  I don’t know why I haven’t told him about that upsetting call from my father. I know Conor would feel the same as I do: outraged. It occurs to me that I should see what Amelia makes of this. She’s obviously got a keen insight into all that I’ve been going through.

  When a tone sounds, I assume it’s a voicemail notification, but a text shows instead. It’s Amelia, as though her ears were burning. I smile before I’m able to absorb the words, and when I do, I feel all the emotion leave my face. She’s canceling our coffee date for the next day.

  “What is it?” Conor asks.

  He must have seen my disappointment. I shake my head, trying to cast off the outsized reaction I feel. It feels like some kind of rejection, especially given the odd evening she spent here just the night before when Conor interrogated her.

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “Just—Amelia has to cancel our plans for tomorrow. Something came up, I guess.”

  He watches me for a moment and it feels too much like he’s assessing my response to this. I look away from him.

  “It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll catch up with her another time.”

  “Sure, you will.”

  “I think I’ll lie down, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not. I’ll take the kids with me while I get a run in on the treadmill,” he says.

  I almost laugh. Not because I don’t think this could work, but because of how easy it is for him to assume that it will. I seem to default into focusing on the hardships with the kids, thinking first and foremo
st of why something won’t work or how difficult it will be. It means that even little things like taking the kids with me to the store seem like an insurmountable task. Whereas I start in negativity, he begins with the idea that everything is possible. This thought process has only ever dragged me down and I know I need to figure out a way to change it.

  After he comes with me to the bedroom and changes into workout gear, he tucks me into bed and kisses me tenderly.

  “Sleep well,” he tells me. “I’ll figure out bringing dinner in later. Maybe we can watch a movie, too?”

  “Sweetheart,” I protest, “I should be taking care of you right now.” It’s been an emotionally draining day, not to mention the night before when he had to hunt for his wayward father. He has to be exhausted, but yet again, he’s either better at managing it or better at concealing it.

  “We take care of each other,” he says simply. “And this run will do me good. Now, get some rest.”

  Once alone, I curl up on my side and close my eyes. I try to relax, but thoughts of Amelia preoccupy me. I fear she’s choosing to abandon our friendship, that my unanswered question to her last night about whether it was okay that we even be friends given how we met is to blame. Trying to talk myself out of getting too worked up, I reason that there’s no need to be this emotionally invested in her. I enjoy her company, of course, but this isn’t the end of the world. I should probably take this as a sign to tend to my friendship with Sophie. After all, she and I have so much in common, what with each of us having two kids and rockstar husbands.

  I laugh out loud at myself, just as a tear escapes my eye and is absorbed by the pillowcase.

  * * *

  Waking an hour later, I feel better. Sleeping has cleared my mind of the intense emotions I was feeling about Amelia. That sense of abandonment is gone.

  I grab my phone and see another text from Amelia. She says her conflict has been resolved and she hopes we can still meet tomorrow.

  An involuntary smile spreads across my face.

  30

  “Fancy a walk? We can take our order to go,” I say when Amelia joins me at the donut shop the next day.

  She looks back out the window. “It is a lovely day. Let’s do it.

  Once we have coffee and sweet treats in hand, we walk along Westland Row. I don’t have any particular destination in mind. It just seemed a shame to miss out on the clear skies and sunshine.

  “I’m so glad you were able to make it, after all,” I say. “To be honest, I thought Conor might have scared you away from being friends with me.” I laugh, but it comes out hollow. I’d rather allude to her possible skittishness as being Conor’s fault than suggest that our possibly inappropriate friendship is to blame.

  “Ah, no,” she says dismissively. “He just seemed like he was looking for a debate.”

  “It’s just—he’s not usually like that. He’s not a contrarian. It was out of character, so I’m glad he apologized the way he did.”

  “Really, don’t think another minute about it.”

  I nod and smile, happy to have put this blip behind us. “So, how was the rest of your weekend? Get any more calls from your Phone Fella?”

  “About that,” she says. “I’ve been thinking that I probably should stop telling you about him.”

  “Why is that?”

  We’ve come to the end of the street and we both naturally turn right.

  “For confidentiality. It’s not right that I share those details.”

  “Oh, come on. You can trust me. I’d never betray your confidence.” The minute I say that, I realize that I have already done so by telling Conor. And it’s clear by the side-eye glance she gives me that she suspects as much, though she’s doesn’t actually say so.

  “At any rate, I still think it would be wise to hold off.”

  “If you think so,” I say. “But I promise I won’t say anything more than I already have to Conor about it.”

  She looks at me quickly, her long brown hair flying a bit at the sharp motion.

  I try to give her a sheepish smile. “I’ll be honest. I did mention you have this former client who seems to be holding a torch for you.”

  Her expression is hard to read, but her mind is clearly at work.

  “I’m so sorry. He was teasing me about how I’ve confided so much in you, that you probably know these intimate things about him and so, I told him about that just to make him feel more comfortable. But it was only in those broad strokes. I mean, even if I did know more about the situation, I’d never say anything to him.”

  We keep walking but it’s in silence now. I drink my coffee and wish I’d gotten an iced version. The sun feels warm on my face and makes my long sleeve blouse feel too heavy.

  “How was the rest of your weekend?” Amelia asks at length and I nearly sigh at the way she’s moving on.

  “Well, it was . . . eventful,” I say with a laugh.

  As I launch into a rundown of all that happened after she left our home on Saturday night, we turn left onto Kildare and I realize we’ve been gravitating toward St. Stephen’s Green, the city center public park. I keep talking as we stroll through the grounds, past the people lounging where ever they can soak up the sun. There are men with their shirts off, exposing blindingly white chests, and women with their pants or skirts pulled up, their skin just as pale. This kind of clarity and warmth is so rare that Dubliners take advantage any time they can.

  Amelia is sympathetic when I tell her about Conor’s father, even suggesting she can refer us to an occupational therapist who would offer recommendations for how to prepare for the issues to come. Then, I tell her about the fight Conor and I had where we both accused the other of not communicating. She’s encouraged by the way we got to some resolution, that I admitted to my fear that he would walk away and his promise that he wouldn’t.

  “And then,” I say, “I got a phone call from my father.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Was this the first time since he called that day and said he only considers Ella his family?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did that conversation go?”

  “I didn’t answer.”

  “Did you ever tell Conor about that?”

  “No. I know how he’d react.”

  “Angrily?”

  “Yes.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “And you don’t want to risk that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you tell him your father is eager to be a part of your daughter’s life but not your son’s, he’ll reject him out of hand. He won’t stand for the discrimination.”

  “Right,” I agree. “And neither will I.”

  “And so, why haven’t you told him?”

  “Because. Because . . .” I drift off, trying to sort it out and failing.

  “He’s your only living parent,” Amelia offers. “Your only immediate family.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “If you tell Conor about this, you will either have to completely cut off your father for good, or you’ll have to go against your husband’s wishes—maybe your own wishes—in order to create some kind of relationship with your father.”

  “But, why would I do that? Why would I give my father that chance? After everything he’s done? Or not done by not being part of my life?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment and I fear she plans to keep me waiting forever. But finally, she says, “My guess would be that, imperfect as it may be, family is a very strong draw. Especially when you’ve just created your own.”

  “You’re saying I’m willing to accept a relationship with my racist father simply because we’re related, and I want some kind of family?”

  “Felicity, only you really know the answer to that. I’m just suggesting that could be a possibility.”

  I look down, disturbed by this thought. The thing is, she’s not wrong.
Should I deny Ella her grandfather out of principle? Or should I give this a chance with the hope that he’ll come around to understanding that Romeo is as much his grandchild as Ella is?

  “There’s no timetable for making your decision,” Amelia says gently.

  “And, what if,” I start and then stop. I take a deep breath and try again. “What if I did choose to have a relationship with my father. What would I do about Conor?”

  “We can work on that together, if you like.”

  “And what if I decide I don’t want anything to do with my father?”

  “Then we can work through that, too. There’s no wrong decision.”

  This sounds so reassuring. So . . . therapeutic. I hear Conor’s unanswered question from our dinner with Amelia in my head: Do you ever treat friends?

  “So, I have a confession to make,” Amelia says.

  I look at her quickly, wondering if I’ve done that thing where I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud.

  “It’s about my ex-client.”

  Relieved that she’s changing the subject of her own accord and not because of my absent musings, I say, “Oh. But you said you didn’t want to talk about him.”

  “I . . . well, what you said is correct. You are my friend.”

  I nod eagerly, happy that we are returning to a give-and-take friendship and leaving behind the feeling that her advice during this walk was her being my therapist. “Yes, of course.”

  “Let’s sit there,” she says, pointing to a bench. It’s the first one we’ve seen that hasn’t been occupied. The park is crowded with locals and tourists alike.

  Once seated, I wait impatiently for Amelia to tell me more, but she’s obviously trying to find her wording.

  “The thing is, he’s a mutual friend,” she starts.

  I have absolutely no idea who she could be referring to. I can’t think of anyone I know who would have been seeing her, let alone have fallen for her.

  “He is the ‘rough sort’ as you mentioned,” she continues. “But there’s a lot more depth to him than that.”

  “Danny Boy?” I nearly shout, causing her to look around as if the people in the park will instantly recognize how absurd this is.