by Lily Kate
“What the hell, dad?” I gesture to the living room. A pigsty would be an upgrade. “What happened to Becky?”
“The bitch tried to move my shit, so I sent her packing.”
“I pay her to clean your shit,” I say. “She was supposed to do your grocery shopping, your laundry, your dishes—you know, the things that make this place liveable for a human.”
“Yeah, well, I prefer to be alone.”
“You can’t handle being alone.”
“When’s the last time you stopped by to check on me?” My dad looks up, but it’s only to gesture toward the TV. “Change the channel, will you? I’ve been watching this idiot on the Bowflex for an hour. The batteries are out on the remote.”
“If you hadn’t sent Becky away, I bet she would’ve gotten you new batteries.” I move toward the TV, turn it off with a punch of my finger. “She’s the third maid I’ve hired this year and we’re barely into spring.”
“If you helped out a little more, you wouldn’t need to hire someone.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This was a horrible idea, coming here. I’d thought, for a second, that because Annie’s giving her dad his zillionth chance tonight, I should do the same for mine. I already have regrets.
“I was here two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks.” He snorts.
“I’m an adult, dad. So are you. I’m not your babysitter. I have a career, I have a life, I have a girlfriend—”
I didn’t mean to say the last part, but it just spilled out. Somehow, without my realizing it, Annie’s worked her way into my list of top priorities. Right next to life and career.
“Girlfriend? I thought you were smarter than that,” he says. “Women.”
“Woman,” I correct him. “She’s incredible.”
“Is she nice-looking?”
My hands are balled into fists. “I shouldn’t have come here in the first place. I came here to... you know what? Never mind.”
“What did you come here for, son?” My dad’s fumbling for the remote, even though there are no batteries in it. I can see the opening where they should be from here, since he hasn’t bothered to insert the backing. “You don’t enjoy my company.”
“You know, you’re right,” I say, and it kills me to do so, but I’m fed up. My mom took off when I was little, and ever since I could, I’ve been taking care of the both of us. Meanwhile, he’s taken the opportunity to slide deeper and deeper into this mess he’s created. “But you’re my dad. My only family, and I thought you should know that I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“You don’t do girlfriends. You’re like me.”
“No, dad, I’m not.”
“‘Course you are. When’s the last time you spent more than a few weeks with one woman?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you. Annie’s different. She’s special, and—”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake—you’re in love.”
“Yeah, dad, I am!” My voice rises, and I’m practically shouting. I haven’t even bothered to admit it to myself yet, let alone Annie, but when the words tumble out, I know they’re true. “I thought you might care to know. You don’t, so I’ll see you later.”
“What about the batteries?” My dad calls as I turn to leave. “How the hell am I supposed to turn the television on from here?”
“I don’t know what to do anymore.” I stop in the doorway and turn, my shoulders sagging, the familiar ache in my stomach now a hard knot. “I’ve lived here, and I’ve moved out. I’ve hired help, and I’ve done it myself. You won’t even talk to me about what’s going on here, so I’m done.”
“When do I meet this girlfriend of yours?”
“You’re not. Not like this.”
“You going to marry her?”
I’m silent. I don’t have a good answer to this, and I’m not up for debating the point with my father of all people.
“Good,” he says, mistaking my silence as a no. “You’re not the marrying type. Me and you, kid. We know. We get it. Women will never stand by you. They take off the second things get tough.”
“It’s not your fault she left. Mom ran off. It happens.”
“I’m just warning you to be careful,” he growls. “Otherwise, the next thing you know you’ll end up with a kid, a ruined marriage, and an empty house. Is that what you want?”
“Look, dad. I’m really sorry I ruined your life.” I take a deep breath to still the frustration, the fury, the sadness at this broken man into something more manageable. “I didn’t ask for mom to run away. I didn’t ask to raise myself. I didn’t ask to be born to a dad who never wanted a son. I have a choice with Annie, and I’m not going to let her go. I’m not letting her see you like this, either. So, figure your shit out, or we’re done here.”
“Buy me some damn batteries next time, will you?”
I turn to leave and barely make it outside before I slam the front door shut and pound my fist against it. Nothing I do, nothing I say seems to get through to him. I’m beginning to think it might never.
But I’m not introducing Annie to this—not now, not ever.
The thought of Annie sends a ripple of worry through my spine. She’s supposed to meet her dad in half an hour, and if I book it home, shower quickly, and shove myself into some clothes, I’ll be there in time. Just in case. Because I know what it’s like.
Annie and I might never figure out our fathers, we might never have golden, sparkly relationships with them. But what we do have, and what we can have, is each other. For tonight, at least, and hopefully forever.
“Rosa?” I dial my phone as I fly through Minneapolis traffic. “So sorry. He’s done it again. Do you have anyone who can stop by for a cleaning at his place? You have my credit card. Tomorrow’s perfect.”
I make it home, still a smelly mess from hockey practice. My knuckles are bruised, but that’s from my father’s door. I haul myself into the shower and make quick work of cleaning up, but I can’t stop the words rumbling through my head. My dad’s words.
Are you going to marry this girl?
I chew on it, picture what that might look like. Up until now, I’d never believed in marriage. It hadn’t worked for my parents, nor Annie’s, nor plenty of others. To me, it didn’t seem like a ring and a sheet of paper proved a whole lot of love between two people.
But, as the shower cascades over my shoulders and down my back, I picture Annie. I picture the two of us, together, years down the road. A house, a family, kids.
And suddenly, it’s not so damn scary anymore.
For once, I like the looks of my future.
Our future.
Chapter 40
ANNIE
“Another glass of tea, ma’am?”
I look up from where I’ve been staring into a piping hot mug. “Sure,” I say with half a smile. I don’t bother to correct him on the use ma’am this time. “Thank you.”
“Can I get anything started for you, or...”
I sigh, frustrated for the waiter, for myself. Look, I get it. The server wants his table back because he needs to make tips for the night, but him asking me ten times isn’t going to help anything. It’s been almost thirty minutes, and I need a few more. Just in case.
Reaching into my purse, I pull out a twenty dollar bill and slip it under the centerpiece, a gently flickering candle that has been my main source of entertainment this evening.
“Give me a few more minutes, please,” I say. “And I’ll be out of your hair.”
He has the grace to look a bit flushed, but it doesn’t mask the pity in his eyes. I wonder how often this happens; a girl like me sitting alone at a restaurant, waiting for a man that’ll never come.
I wonder if he’s guessing that I’m on a first date, or maybe that my boyfriend has broken up with me and left me out to dry. I wonder if it’ll ever cross his mind that maybe, the person I’m waiting for is the person who’s supposed to love me the most.
I shake my head and set back to wor
k on the sketch I’ve doodled on my napkin. Hearts, lightning bolts, a stormy sea. I let my hand draw whatever it wants. I’m hardly thinking about it, which is why I’m surprised to find myself drawing the name Annie James there. I’ve drawn it three times and just now noticed.
The image makes me smile and cringe all in one. For all I know, Cohen’s idea of a relationship is a two-week fling. He never talks about marriage, or the future, or anything beyond the now. I suppose like Andi said, I have to ask him. At the same time, I’m scared to ask because I’m terrified I won’t like his answers.
Another waitress stops by to refill my water glass. I’ve been so nervous, I’ve inhaled the liquid as if it’s my lifeblood—my courage—and because of this, I’ve used the restroom twice already. Another ten minutes, and I’ll leave. I’ll have been here nearly an hour, and that’s long enough. He could’ve called. He has a freaking phone.
I’m not sure if he’s forgotten, or if he’s busy. If he’s run into a problem at work, or something else. I’m not sure I care all that much.
“Sorry you’re still waiting,” the woman pouring my water says. She’s pretty and young—late twenties maybe, a bit older than me. Old enough to offer a soft smile filled with empathy. “If I were you, I’d be drinking wine.”
“Been there, done that.” I offer her a friendly smile. “It doesn’t help.”
“Well, if I can get you anything else, don’t hesitate to let me know.” She takes one step away, pauses, and then looks back. “For what it’s worth, he’s an idiot. Whoever it is.”
I nod and watch as she leaves, grateful for the ripple of understanding in a sea full of onlookers. And in the sea full of prying eyes and hushed voices wondering who I am, there’s sympathy for the girl who waits for the man who’ll never show.
I want to tell these people that I’m hopeful. That this will be the time he’ll show up, but I can’t. In my heart, I doubt it’s true; I’ve learned the hard way. I know he’s not coming, yet here I sit, and here I wait.
“Excuse me, ma’am, can I please take your order?” It’s the waiter again, and though his eyes are filled with sympathy, there’s a brusqueness to his tone that’s begging me to give up my spot. It’s a high-end restaurant—my dad’s choice—and there’s a line waiting to be seated out the door.
“Oh, yes, um...” I look down at the menu, a sheepish blush blooming on my cheeks. “I haven’t looked yet. Please, give me one second, and—”
“I recommend the salmon. The sweet potato fries are also excellent.” It’s clear that he’s not moving until I order something. “If you’re looking for something lighter, the chicken salad is incredible.”
The way he says incredible, it’s with as much enthusiasm as if he’s suggesting I eat dirt. My brain’s not working, and neither are my reading muscles. I wave a hand. “Sure, fine. Whatever you said first.”
“Salmon and sweet potato fries? Excellent choice, ma’am.”
“Can I please get it to go?” I say, the blush on my cheeks spreading to the back of my neck. “And I’ll take the check with it. Thanks.”
He nods, finally having the grace to look slightly uncomfortable, as he retreats toward the kitchen. I take the moment to examine my napkins, the drawings there. The stormy seas shifting a tiny boat on waves too big to hold it. The name Annie James—foreign looking, foreign sounding to me—surrounded by squiggles and boxes and rays of sunshine.
I draw a line through one of them, my pen tearing so hard at the napkin that it rips the paper. I’m about to go to work on destroying the rest of the fantastical names when a hand clenches on my wrist and halts me in my tracks.
“Annie James?” A deep, husky male voice says from behind me. “Now, I like the sound of that.”
“Cohen?” I gasp, turning to face the sound, finding the man behind it who stops my heart. “What are you doing here?”
He stands tall, wears a gorgeous suit—the severe black and white giving his face angles that hadn’t existed before. His chin is strong, his shoulders wide, his eyes swimming with complexity as he leans forward and pulls the loose curls tumbling over my shoulders to the side. There, he presses a kiss to my exposed neck sending instant shivers down my spine.
I can feel the eyes of other patrons—those who’ve been whispering and waiting all evening—collectively inhale a breath. The waiter is back then, asking if he can get Cohen something to eat, something to drink. Apparently, Cohen looks like money, and the waiter senses a tip.
“No, thanks,” Cohen says. “In fact, you can cancel her order, too.”
“But—”
“I’m taking her home with me, and you can have your damn table back.”
“The salmon,” the server says weakly. “The fries.”
“It’s okay.” I rest a hand on Cohen’s arm. “Let’s go. I’ll just pay the check, and we can leave.”
“No, I have dinner plans for you,” Cohen says. “This isn’t the place for us, sweetheart.”
Pulling a wallet out of his pocket, Cohen retracts a fifty and hands it to the waiter, who makes an effort to look surprised.
“Keep it, cancel the order,” Cohen says. “Sound good?”
The waiter nods, but Cohen’s already directed his attention toward me. Hooking an arm through mine, he guides me to my feet and marches us toward the front door. He’s either oblivious to the stares around us, or he’s ignoring them. He’s supremely excellent at pretending we’re the only two people in the entire room, and I try to do the same.
He’s grabbed the napkin from the table and, just before we head outside, he takes one glance at it. With a boyish grin on his face, he stashes it in his pocket. “Annie James,” he murmurs to himself, almost giddy. “I like the sound of that.”
I don’t know how he does it, but even when I feel like crying, the man can make me laugh. “I was just doodling.”
“I think you’re an artist.”
Once we’re outside, Cohen approaches a valet, hands over a tip, and the man points to Cohen’s waiting vehicle. We climb into the car, and I look over, trying to find a way to thank him. I end up stuttering and mumbling some nonsense as we pull onto the street, but he merely shakes his head and rests a hand on my lap.
I’d told him the name of the restaurant at the pancake breakfast, so I understood how he’d gotten there. What I didn’t understand, however, is how he’d known my father wouldn’t show.
“Thank you for what you did back there,” I mumble, my hands trembling in my lap. “How did you know he wouldn’t be here?”
“I didn’t. I hoped he would be there when I arrived.”
“You showed up anyway?”
“Of course,” he says, giving me a quick glance before fixing his stare on the road. “I told you I’d always show up.”
“What if my dad had been there?”
“I would’ve left.” He shrugs. “I was Plan B for tonight. I only wish I’d been there sooner, but I was... taking care of something.”
“Something?”
“Nothing important. I came as soon as I could.”
“Well, I really appreciate it. It’s not your job to show up because my dad can’t be bothered to.”
“No,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s not my job.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“Because I care about you, Annie. I didn’t show up tonight because it’s my job.” His fingers tense on the wheel, his lips a flat line as he explains. “I showed up because that’s what a boyfriend does.”
“Yes, but—”
“There are no buts about it,” Cohen says, an edge to his voice now. Not at me, but at something else, something beneath the surface. “When you’re hurt, I’m hurt, and when someone breaks you, it’s my job to put you back together. I wish I could protect you from everything, but when I can’t, I want to be there to scoop up the pieces.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, move his hand into my lap and squeeze it tighter. It’s the only thing I can do. It’s the only thing I h
ave to give him now, and thankfully, it’s enough.
Chapter 41
COHEN
It took every inch of my self-control not to give the waiter a taste of my fist as he tried to usher Annie out of the stupid restaurant. I wanted so badly to knock him off the high horse he rode in on, but I didn’t because Annie wouldn’t have approved.
It takes even more self-control not to march over to Annie’s dad’s house and give him a piece of my mind. Who in their right mind leaves a woman so beautiful, so smart, so incredible, sitting alone at a restaurant for an hour? An entire frigging hour? Either that man is the most selfish bastard on the planet, or he’s clueless. I don’t know which is worse.
All I know is that walking into that restaurant and seeing Annie swirling a teabag through an empty mug, doodling on a napkin while wearing a dress fit for the red carpet, made me ache. It made me ache in a way I’ve never hurt before.
Even in my own, very un-perfect life, I’ve never hurt in a place that feels like it can’t ever be healed. The only thing that can get rid of this dullness is Annie and the smile on her face.
When she touches my skin, her fingers grasping my own, the annoying pain in my stomach lessens. This type of pain is worse than the physical sort—I’ve been whacked enough with a hockey stick to know how bruises heal. I don’t know how to handle the ones on the inside, the hurts that I can’t see.
She looks beautiful, I think for the zillionth time. I unlock the door and watch her move into my apartment. Her dress is red, short enough to show off her gorgeous legs, long enough to leave mystery as to what’s underneath, and with just enough of a dip in the neckline to give a hint of cleavage.
Over her shoulders is a black furry coat, and I feel underdressed in my suit and tie. She belongs among the sophisticated, the movie stars, and I’m just some hockey-playing oaf that someone shoved into fancy clothes.
The way she moves is unique, feminine in her cautious footsteps. Her hips sway as she slides the coat from her shoulder and sets it, along with her purse-thingy, onto the kitchen island.
