Doc (Bodhi Beach Book 2)

by S. M. Lumetta

  Once I do, I see his tall, slim frame step out onto the porch, waving an arm as I get out of the cab. I drag my suitcase toward his steps and grin at his goofy smile.

  “There’s my Tink,” he says.

  Though hearing that name sparks the safety I felt as a little girl, I also hear Doc’s voice echo in my ears. A sharp pain in my rib trips me, but I manage to cover it.

  Da slips down the steps and grabs my luggage from me. “I got these.”

  I smile. “Hiya, Da,” I say quietly. “I missed ya.” For the first time since I ran, I feel a modicum of comfort. He offers me his cheek, so I kiss it.

  “Ah, you’re very good. Glad to have ya.” He ushers me in. “Cuppa tea?”

  “Oh, that’d be grand,” I say with a sigh and set down my carry-on next to my suitcase in the hall. I’ll deal with them later. “Can we sit out in the garden?”

  “Of course. No standin’ upon ceremony here, Tinker Bell. You know that,” he says happily. “Go get comfortable. I’ll get the tea.”

  I do as I’m told, pushing through the sliding door to see the last of the sunset. The warm glow is nearly gone, but the quiet of fading light amidst a cool breeze feels so refreshing. I’m relieved to be here, and to be so far from home. Even at the thought, I know the look of hurt on Doc’s face will forever tarnish my memory of him—no matter how much good he had to give me. I ruined that for both of us.

  Collapsing in the first chair I bump in to is everything I want right now. It’s a chair swing with big, fluffy pads, and its movement adds to the gentle wind that spins through the yard. The groan I produce sounds pitiful. Da follows soon after with two of his best teacups—Ireland’s finest china, of course—because guest.

  “I thought we didn’t stand upon ceremony?” I tease.

  “When my best girl is here, I use my best stuff,” he retorts. “Now drink up, and let it fix yer ails.”

  I smile and lift the cup, blowing a little at the steam. A testing sip reveals it to be everything I need.

  Like the boyfriend you just threw away.

  The errant thought startles me enough that I temporarily lose my grip on the cup, but it doesn’t fall. I do, however, get hot tea all down my arm.

  “He wasn’t perfect.” My whisper is wobbly, tears preceding my pathetic declaration. Shakily, I set the cup down on the table in front of us.

  Da jumps to life, retrieving some kitchen roll. I can’t hear what he says exactly; I’m too caught up in being angry with myself. Then he starts swatting at the air around us.

  “What?” I say, looking up. “What are you doing?”

  “I asked if it was a bee!” he almost shouts, but as he’s still swatting and waving his arms about, he looks far too ridiculous to be angry.

  I shake my head. “No, no. Just me.”

  After we’ve cleaned up my clumsiness and he’s forced a bag of frozen peas on my arm for the burn, he sits down across from me again and sighs heavily.

  He knows something’s up.

  “I know something’s up,” he says. “You comin’ to visit all last-minute-like is very unusual for you.”

  “I can’t want to see me da?” Weak. Weak answer. He will sense this and attack.

  “What’s his name?”

  Playing stupid never worked with my father, so denial is out. I don’t know what to say without completely breaking down. If I say Doc’s name out loud, I will certainly lose it.

  Da leans forward on his knees. “Ya done come in here with a broken heart written all over your face and arms,” he says. “I may not see you much, but I know my Tink.”

  A minute smile perks on my face as I hear my nickname again. I very nearly danced professionally—until I met Stephen. Once he had his hooks in me, I let him talk me out of going to my hard-won audition for the American Ballet Company. My stomach drops, and any semblance of a smile fades.

  “I’ll wait,” Da says simply, sweet as pie.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s over. I just have to move on.”

  “Quite the opposite. Love matters the most.”

  I take a deep breath, exhale, and let go of the tears I was trying to hold back.

  “Declan and I were just fooling around at first,” I say. “Casual, no-strings sex—”

  “Jesus wept, girl, I do not need details,” he interrupts. “Just give me the story. You can go to confession t’morrow.”

  “Shit. Sorry, Da.” I feel my face flame and blink hard. Who tells their dad something like that? “I just mean, the dating was not serious. I-I didn’t think so, and then…then it was. And I didn’t want it. I didn’t mean to.”

  Words become unintelligible as guilt and heartbreak crumble my façade into pieces.

  “Ahh, love,” I hear him say as he stands. Next thing I know, his arm is around my shoulders, and he’s sitting next to me on the chair swing. He pushes us back and forth, just a little rocking like you would do to put an infant to sleep. “People say fallin’ in love is a gift. Well, they’re wrong. It’s not a gift.”

  “That’s for sure.” I sniffle and wipe my now-snotty nose on my arm. Da makes a sound of disgust and hands me his handkerchief. I thank him. “It’s more like a curse.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he chides me. “I’m sayin’ love is a responsibility, and it’s not for the faint of heart.”

  “So, I’m faint of heart?”

  “I didn’t say that. It can scare the bejeezus out of the strongest of us.”

  “So, what then? It’s an obligation? I should just go along with it whether I like it or not?”

  Da sits back roughly and crosses his arms. “Jesus Christ, girl. Of course not! But if you have it, you feel it, you better respect it. You have to allow it to breathe or you’ll asphyxiate it and yerself.”

  “I’m tired, Da,” I say, standing. “It was a long flight in a bloody cramped seat, and I’m thinking I might just go to bed.” In truth, I don’t want to hear any more, because I’m not sure I can hurt any worse and not die.

  “You’ll sit down here and listen to your old man wax poetic about love lost and shite like that, all right?” He eyeballs me something good for several tense seconds before I decide to sit back down. “There now. If ya fall asleep, I promise I won’t be offended. I’m used to beautiful women not listenin’ to me.”

  I laugh as I tuck myself in under his arm, my cheek on his shoulder. My eyes close as he continues. Behind his voice, the city is quiet—Manhattan is far enough from his neighborhood that the only sounds are above-ground subway trains and the distant freeways. Not far enough, however, to see any stars.

  “I loved your mum,” he says, and I frown to myself. “I know she wasn’t much of one—a mum, that is—but she wasn’t so bitter when we first met. Maybe your da’s not the most romantic or sensitive kind of guy, but I tried to show I cared. In the end, I wanted a life she didn’t.”

  “You wanted a rugby team, and all you got was me,” I mumble, already halfway to dreamland.

  He chuckles. “The point I’m making is that I took so long to realize I was trying to make someone love me, I was practically wasting away.”

  My eyes pop open, and I sit up straight. “I wasn’t… It was my fault,” I whisper, afraid to say it louder. He says nothing, just waiting. “Oh my God. For all the ways I’ve tried to not be my mother, I am.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “I wasn’t trying to make someone love me, Da,” I said. “I was trying to block myself from loving someone else.”

  “Please to be tellin’ me why ya don’t want to love someone? What’s his name, anyway?”

  I’m tired. And by now it all weighs on me to the point that I couldn’t even sit up straight if I wanted to. I slump into his side and sigh. “Declan.”

  “Irish?”

  “Australian, though his mother is originally from Scotland.”

  “I guess that’s not too bad, then.” He grunts, then laughs, almost childlike as he nudges me with his
elbow. “You know I don’t really care where he’s from, right?”

  “I do,” I murmur. The turmoil has dragged me back under, and I struggle under the weight of everything. I lean into Da and sigh. “I just don’t think I can talk any more about it right now.”

  “Why don’t you sleep, love? Affairs of the heart take the life out of you three times as fast as anything else.”

  It’s the last thing I hear before I wake up in the guest bedroom at sunrise.

  27

  THE UN-ESCAPE

  NORA

  I SPEND THE NEXT week pretending I live in New York. I pick up bagels for me and Da, toasting us each one every morning. In my mind, I’ve quit The Fly Trap—though I did let them know I had a “family emergency” out east. I also avoid Sophie’s texts and calls, because I’m enjoying my temporary fake life. Her most recent text is simply, I know what you’re doing.

  At least she doesn’t tell me it’s stupid, even though I know she desperately wants to.

  Despite the guilt I feel, or perhaps thanks to it, I sleep late every day. When I am awake, I visit old friends from Ireland who’ve moved to the city. Together we get very, very drunk on just about a nightly basis. I have a fair share of men approach, but every time one propositions me, I get irrationally angry. This most recent time, I’m liquored up enough that he actually gets through introductions without a boot. The guy is good looking, but I’ve already forgotten what he said by the time I respond. The smell of his cologne burns my eyes almost as much as the sight of his popped collar.

  “Ah, come on, beauty,” I hear him say, “I just want to have some fun with you.”

  Then it all goes fuzzy for me. My hands grab at his neck, but I think I’m kicking or something. My entire body feels like it’s moving, but it’s out of my control. My ears thrum with a chaotic mashup of pulse and static and voices I can’t understand. It’s like the aural version of one’s vision going red. The next thing I know, I’m being dragged out of the pub by a bouncer who seems three times my size.

  My friend Louise runs out after us, chattering to the guy that she’ll take care of me, and how sorry she is.

  “Don’t polly-gize for me,” I say, sounding even sloppier than I must look right now. “Jesus fuck, I’m drunk.”

  Louise ducks under my arm and holds me up. “Yeah, I caught that. The fuck is wrong wit ye?”

  “I thought we answered this question,” I say, looking at her as she blends from three to one. “I’m drunk.”

  “Nah,” she groans as we walk to an intersection to snare a cab. “For days you’ve been near a fist fight with anyone who dares approach you for a ride. Y’said you’re single. And that last one was beautiful. Tall, dark, and handsome. Nice trim beard—none of that huge and bushy, hippie shite. And forget that I can see his cock through his jeans. You practically tried to stab it with yer boots.”

  “Lou,” I groan, the effort of trying to keep it all straight doing my head in. Wait, did she say beard? “I’m… I don’t know. I’m wrecked. I’m just going to go home, okay?”

  “Fuck no! Your drunk ass is going to tell me why I had to leave my potential ride hanging—literally—to escort my unusually violent friend home without injury to herself or anyone else.”

  My skin feels numb, my muscles like rubber. Louise shoves me into a cab, and though I hit my head on the opposite door, I don’t feel it. This is not good.

  I nearly pass out when the car starts moving, but Louise slaps me none-too-lightly to wake me up. “Nora Diane Bennett! It may have escaped your whiskey-fueled attention, but I’m raging!”

  I smile through the sludge of too-much-drink, her accent particularly thick right now. She’d only moved from Dublin five years ago, but it doesn’t take long for an ex-pat to find their native sound getting sanded away… until they’re either drunk or really fucking angry. Two things the Irish are stereotypically good at. Hashtag Irish pride!

  “I’m sorry,” I plead, my head already starting to pound with the forthcoming hangover. “I am single. But I’m… broken.”

  “Feck’s sake,” she says with a groan and slaps at the top of my head. “No more feckin’ Jameson’s for you, ya bleedin’ drama queen.”

  From somewhere within me, the entire story of Doc erupts, save the part about how abusive Stephen was. Drunk or not, I can still manage to hold shit back. I’m sure I sound insane. The cab driver swerves two lanes over when I manage to throw in an anecdote about how I clamped my legs shut on Doc’s head every time his beard tickled my inner thighs.

  “Jesus Christ!” Louise barks at him. “There goes yer tip.”

  I try to giggle, but it comes out more like a gurgle and follow up with the just-intelligible-enough quip, “Just the tip.”

  Louise laughs, as well she should, but as soon as she does, I begin to cry. And cry. And I finally dissolve into a blob of whiskey stench and snot. My friend’s arms wrap around me, her hand patting my back as we continue to her apartment.

  As promised, she doesn’t tip the driver and hustles me through the door and into her elevator.

  “Thank fuck you don’t live in a walk-up,” I tell her, leaning against the wall.

  Louise chuckles before dragging me out when we reach her floor. Minutes later, I am face down on the sofa as she takes off my shoes. “Sober up so you can be properly interrogated in the morning.”

  I can’t respond thanks to absolute lack of energy. Not to mention, I’m barely conscious anymore. Odds are I won’t even remember getting here.

  In the morning, I wake to the smell of a particularly strong coffee under my nose. It doesn’t nauseate me, like it might some at this point, but rather, it smells like salvation. My head does feel like it might crack in half with the slightest movement.

  “Up and at ’em, love,” Louise says.

  I roll around to find the least painful way to sit up and drink the coffee, eventually giving up and just groaning a lot and loudly. I peer through my lashes to see her look of concern.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice sounding like Darth Vader after he’s gargled shards of glass.

  “Drink the coffee. Then you can apologize in the form of explaining what the fuck you were on about. Okay?”

  I manage a weak smile before savoring my cup of liquid life. It’s a good ten minutes before I’m ready to speak, but when I do, I find I don’t have much to say.

  “I’m only single because I just broke up with someone.” The words force Doc’s face to the forefront of my mind, and I want to weep, but the pressure that causes on the inside of my face and skull cranks my headache up to full power. Holding back is even worse. A deep breath and full exhale isn’t enough to purge him from my veins. There’s an anvil on my chest, and despite my record for rare barfage post-drinking, I’m guessing that streak is about to end.

  “Jaysus, are you gonna toss? Do I need to get a bucket?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, heaving. “Okay, yes.”

  The entire scene becomes a horrible mess—and I don’t mean because I yack everywhere. I manage to make it to the proper head-in-a-toilet position, but I also set off into hysterical sobbing while vomiting. I can only be thankful that I don’t aspirate my own sick.

  It takes another half hour, a shower, and a two-hour nap to get me to the physical possibility of talking. I wake to Louise holding my cell phone in my face.

  To my quizzical brow she responds, “I got the story from our girl Sophie. Talk to her.”

  After staring at the phone in Lou’s outstretched arm for far too long, I startle when it drops in my lap.

  “Hi.” I sound shamed and exhausted, but one sigh from Sophie, and I feel relieved.

  “Babe.”

  “I know. I’m sorry—”

  “I’m not calling to make you feel bad for freezing me out,” she says, and though I try to correct her, she cuts me off. “I understand why you’re not talking; I’m just worried. You’re free to deal with this however you need to, but that doesn’t mean I’m go
ing to give up on you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You flew your ass last minute to London to support me,” she says. “I’d be a shitty friend if I was anything less than stellar.”

  I laugh at her teasing tone. And the laugh feels surprisingly good. Surprising because I haven’t laughed un-aided (without being drunk) in a solid week. Good, because, well… doesn’t it always feel good to laugh?

  “I don’t know,” I hedge. “You did text some snarky things a couple days ago. It’s put a slight tarnish on your stellar status.”

  She hoots, a single-note laugh that sounds exactly like her grandma Jean—who I also adopted along with Mama Margaret. “Well, shit. There goes my Nobel Peace Prize.”

  The giggles grab us for a brief moment before reality returns.

  “So how are you really?” she asks.

  “Hungover.”

  “That part I get—I can hear your hangover from here.”

  I sigh, loud and full. It’s so forceful, I wonder if I’m going to hurl again. After a few deep breaths, I regain the most minimal chunk of composure. “Not good. I haven’t been dealing all that well.”

  “Because you’re in love with Doc, and that means bad things.”

  Ouch. I felt that in my spleen. Am I bleeding?

  She reads my silence all too well. “Look, I’ve been thinking about the whole Stephen thing, and though it is completely legit to be averse to… loving someone again, I hope you don’t give up entirely.”

  “I can’t do it, Sophie.” My voice is a whisper. I shift my body, curling into the fetal position on Louise’s sofa. “I—”

  “Honest to God?” She sounds pissed. “Nora, I love you. You’re my sister, so I’m not going to bullshit you. Doc will forgive you. Do you know how I know? Because I forgave Fox for the awful things he said to me before we officially got together. And that’s why you’re going to suck it up and get back to California.”

  “Soph, I’m not—”

  “Are you feeling better than you did when you left?”

  I can’t answer that. “I’ll call you when I do feel better.”