by Max Monroe
My dad, Uncle Joe, Steve, Buddy, Tommy, and Vince—all the usual suspects—were in attendance, gathered around my father’s large, white-oak dining room table for an early bird dinner, and for the first time in the twenty-four or so years of my life I could remember, they’d managed to find something more interesting than the food.
Me.
Most specifically, my current mood.
“Nothing,” I lied and moved my gaze back to my hand, aimlessly twirling my fork around the noodles without any actual intent of wrapping them around the metal tines and lifting a bite to my mouth.
The usual warm coziness of the two-story Cape Cod—my childhood home—was noticeably absent. Normally, I longed for the weeks when these dinners would come back around to my father’s house and the familiar memories it contained.
But this time felt different.
There was no reminiscing on the good old times or the funny mistakes we’d made, and there was no boisterous laughter to fill any void.
Being relegated so harshly to the present-day felt claustrophobic—suffocating even.
I looked past the table and out toward the deck doors where the five o’clock summer sun was still bright with life and illuminating hints of yellow and orange across the dark brown wood and patio furniture.
Today’s weather could not have been any more opposite from my cloudy, dismal mood.
I moved my gaze back to the table, purposely avoiding everyone’s eyes, and started counting how many spaghetti noodles were on my plate.
One. Two. Three…
When single digits bled mindlessly into one hundred, I started to realize just how pathetic I really was.
But my mind had unraveled into complete disarray and avoidance felt like the easiest option. If I stayed quiet and kept my focus on the food—and didn’t look into my dad’s searching gaze—maybe, just maybe, I might actually survive this family dinner.
Fidgety from the strangeness of a table full of cutups sitting mutely, I snuck a quick glance toward my dad to find his unconvinced gaze still locked on me.
Jesus. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.
I was a mess. I knew I was a mess. Had been for the past week.
But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake this shit mood. Everyone staring at me wasn’t helping.
“What?” I questioned brashly, choosing to take the obstinate, stubborn route instead of just being honest with my family.
“What do you mean what?” he retorted in the way only a father could when his daughter was being an unreasonable asshole. He was calling me on my bullshit, and yet…I still couldn’t seem to get my shit together.
“I’m just a little tired, I guess,” I muttered, the flimsy excuse flapping in the wind like a thin sheet of paper.
“You look like someone pissed in your Cheerios for breakfast.”
I sighed. “Dad, I’m fine.”
“Horseshit. You’re not even remotely fine, and everyone at this table is damn certain of that. Spaghetti night is already fucking ruined, so you might as well drop the tough-girl act and tell us what’s going on. I made blueberry cheesecake, spent an entire two hours on the blessed thing, so I’d really like if we could get this bullshit out of the way before it’s time for dessert.”
“Cheers to that,” Uncle Joe chimed in just before taking a hearty gulp of wine. I shot him a glare, but he just laughed it off, not in the least affected by the singe of the lasers I knew had to be shooting from my eyes.
I mean, what could I even tell them that wouldn’t make them disown me?
I could see it now.
Oh hey, guys, not to worry. I’m just brokenhearted because I told the professional football player you all have man boners for that something between us could never work. That even trying, something he clearly wanted to do, was a losing battle from the start.
That Cam Mitchell—the man of anyone’s dreams—was, right this moment, probably finding solace in another nice girl whose family knew her secrets and had already secured Mavericks season tickets for the rest of their lives.
God.
Yeah. Honesty didn’t really seem like a viable option.
I’d told myself that ending it was the right decision. He probably wasn’t the man I’d thought he was.
A good man with good intentions who really wanted to start something with me, really wanted to get to know me, wouldn’t have spent his night getting lap dances from other women.
I spent my nights entertaining men for money, but lap dances were my job.
Well, at least, they were currently a part of my job. They sure as hell weren’t one of the contingencies on Mr. Football God’s employment contract.
But the more I thought about my supposed reasons, the more they started to seem like convenient justifications.
Lies, even.
God, I just wanted to stop thinking about it—about him—for one fucking minute.
I pined for a reprieve from the emotional war that raged inside me. Alas, as the figurative water got deeper and darker around me, it became more and more challenging to distinguish which way was up.
“C’mon, Lana Lou. There’s no need to keep it all bottled up inside,” my dad added. “What’s going on, baby girl?”
Baby girl. Tough girl. I was a twenty-eight-year-old woman, for shit’s sake.
Yeah, but you’re kind of acting like a child…
“You do realize I’m not sixteen anymore, right?” I spat. My father, remarkably impervious to attitude thanks to raising a headstrong girl all on his own, just grinned.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll always be my baby girl. Even when you’re ninety fucking years old.”
I snorted. “Good Lord, if I were ninety, that’d make you, what? One hundred and twenty? Surely, we’re both not going to live that damn long.”
“I will if I need to. Someone’s gotta be here to pull your head outta your ass from time to time, Detective,” my dad countered with a smile. My eyes narrowed at the way he’d addressed me. He noticed, of course, and challenged, “Your distraction techniques won’t work on an old cop like me.”
“You wanna know what I think?” Steve chimed in, and I tried to cut him off with a quick no, but it was useless. Apparently, everyone at the table was bound and determined to psychoanalyze the female test subject tonight.
My dad raised his hand just as I was prepared to open my mouth again. “Let the man say his peace, Lan.”
I glared at Steve, but his smirk proved he wasn’t the least bit intimidated.
But how could he be? My dad was tossing out cute nicknames like Lana Lou and baby girl. I might as well have been a sullen teenager sitting at this table.
“I think Lana is having some relationship problems.”
Fucking hell.
Instantly, my dad’s and Uncle Joe’s eyes moved straight back to me. Along with the other three sixtysomething men at the table.
Good Lord, you’d think I was surrounded by a bunch of gossiping grandmas rather than a table full of retired cops.
“She went on a date last week,” Steve kindly added, and I started to fantasize about chucking my fork directly at his big-ass head. A bruise, a lump—maybe some blood. I’d take any of it as long as there was a little bit of carnage.
My dad’s eyebrows shot up. “You went on a date?”
Oh God, here we go…
“It was one date, Dad,” I answered, and the heavy sigh that accompanied it made my lungs ache a little. “Nothing more than that. So you can all just stop planning my wedding and naming my future kids.”
It was like I didn’t even speak.
“What’s his name?”
Instantly, I shook my head. “I plead the fifth on any and all questions related to this conversation.” The last thing I needed was to talk to my dad, along with all the other men at this table, about my love life. Especially not while I was still trying to convince myself I’d be okay, even if I never saw or spoke to Cam again.
“Oh, c
ome on, Lana, we should at least get the name of your boyfriend,” Uncle Joe interjected between mouthfuls of spaghetti. His appetite had, apparently, been renewed by the full-frontal attack on his niece.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I responded in an attempt to stop this conversation before it went any further. My heart was already bleeding out, gasping, desperate pumps faltering in their rhythm, and all I could do was try to triage the situation. “We went on a date. One time. Plus, even if I had a boyfriend, I sure as hell wouldn’t be giving you crazies his name.”
Tommy chuckled from across the table. “You afraid we’re going to do a background check on him?”
I held up my index finger. “First of all, there is no him.” And then I added a second finger to the mix. “And secondly, I’m not afraid you’d do that—I’m certain you would.”
When this bunch of nosy assholes had found out about Billy, a boy I’d briefly dated during my freshman year of college, they’d managed a full background check within twenty-four hours of my even mentioning his name.
Uncle Joe grinned. “At least tell us his first name.”
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” I responded, and skepticism dripped from my voice. “If I tell you the first name of the guy I went on a date with one flipping time, you’ll drop this interrogation?”
“No.” Steve laughed, and my dad reached across the table and smacked him upside the head.
“Don’t listen to him. And yes, we’ll drop it,” my dad said, but I could have sworn Uncle Joe muttered “for now” behind his glass of wine.
All six men at the table stared at me like I was preparing to tell them the winning numbers of next week’s lotto.
“Jesus, for a bunch of cops, you sure act like ladies who brunch.”
My sarcasm didn’t do anything, though. Their curious gazes were resolute. And I knew that until I gave them a name, they wouldn’t drop it. Not tonight. Not the next family dinner. And not twelve more dinners after that.
Even if I were on my damn deathbed, they’d be hovered around me asking me what Cam’s name was.
But I wasn’t stupid.
And I sure as shit wasn’t going to give them his actual name.
Especially not after the last discussion that had developed after Steve had mentioned the name Cam Mitchell. I had a feeling if I did a stop and frisk on any one of them tonight, I’d find at least one piece of Mavericks memorabilia on their person.
“His name is Mike,” I finally answered, and instantly, one by one, their eyes lit up like fucking Christmas trees, twinkle lights and all. But I was in no mood to leave any opening in this line of conversation and promptly put my foot down via words. “We went on one date, but it’s just not going to work out. And honestly, it’s for the best. I’m in the middle of this case, and now isn’t the time to get involved with someone.”
True as it was, I felt like someone had sucked all of the oxygen out of the room.
“Lana,” my dad said on a sigh. “You can’t let your career as a detective prevent you from living your life.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll convince yourself it’s actually true.
“Are you sure about that, sweetheart?” His too-wise eyes met mine, and I nearly faltered.
I almost opened my mouth and laid it all out there.
I’d never gotten to experience life with my mother in it. My dad had been my main confidant for most of my life. Frankly, after Aunt Beth passed away, he’d become one of the only people I could rely on for moral support and advice.
I didn’t like the way hiding shit from him made me feel.
But I refused to open Pandora’s box of emotion tonight. I was already having a hard enough time working past the emotional overload my last phone conversation with Cam had caused, and some microinspection by the six main men in my life sounded like actual hell on earth.
“I’m sure,” I lied. It was time to pull it together enough to enjoy this family dinner without being a complete killjoy.
“Now, if you’d like me to stay and enjoy this delicious meal,” I started and forced a half smirk to my lips. “I’d suggest you stop pestering me with questions about my love life and redirect the conversation to something else. Like, how about someone explain to me why Buddy is wearing that ridiculous shirt?”
Right on cue, everyone at the table’s eyes moved toward an unsuspecting Buddy.
With a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth and a gray T-shirt over his prominent beer belly that showcased the words “Does this shirt make my boobs look big?” he replied with a noodle-muffled, “What?”
“Jesus, Bud,” Uncle Joe said on a laugh. “No wonder your wife is now your ex-wife.”
He shrugged. “She bought it for me.”
“As a parting gift, I’m sure,” Steve said through an amused chuckle.
“What do you mean? She thought it was funny.”
“Yeah, Bud,” my dad chimed in with a big grin. “I think it’s the fact that she’s got you wearing that T-shirt out in public that’s amusing her.”
While the table switched its focus toward razzing Buddy about his T-shirt and man boobs, I tried to enjoy their commentary.
I even tried to join in with a few witty remarks.
But I still couldn’t stop my thoughts from wandering back to Cam.
It’d been a week, and still, I couldn’t shake his name, couldn’t stop him from racing through my head.
I should’ve been done with him. See ya fucking later, buddy. It would’ve been for the best. Not just because of what Marco had told me about Cam’s last trip to Skins, but because it would’ve been the smart thing to do. The safe thing. The right thing.
I had a career to protect.
I had a case to finish.
I never should’ve allowed the distraction that was Cam Mitchell into my life in the first place.
But sadly, deep down, it didn’t quite feel like I was done.
I made an early six o’clock departure from my dad’s house, and when I got back to Trixie’s loft apartment, I couldn’t stop myself from picking up Trixie’s cell phone.
I couldn’t stop myself from typing out a message to Cam.
And I certainly couldn’t stop myself from hitting send.
Me: Seeing as we were never dating, I know you don’t owe me anything, but I can’t stop myself from wondering…why?
Almost four hours on the highway, and I almost fully regretted my decision to take my fucking bike.
I loved riding; there was a freedom in it that I didn’t get out of being caged in my truck, but 95 and the 495 Loop weren’t exactly the fucking scenic route.
The only consolation was that the hard beating of the wind felt a little bit like a physical outlet from the emotional turmoil I’d been in for the past week.
I wasn’t sure what the statute of limitations was on how much a woman you barely knew—whose whole name you didn’t even know—was allowed to fuck you up when she cut off all contact, but there was a good chance I’d surpassed it.
I spent far too much time during my day wondering what she was doing or if she was thinking about me, and the entire rest of it taking out my aggression in double-header workouts.
A silver lining, I supposed, was that I was sure to be in the best shape of my life when the start of the season came around this year.
The hot exhaust ticked as I shoved the kickstand down in my parents’ circular drive and pulled the helmet from my head. My sister’s car was in the driveway, meaning she’d managed to beat me here even though she’d no doubt spent her day at the lake with her friends.
I wonder if that means I’m not going to have time to shower off the road grime before dinner?
Hanging my helmet from the handlebars, I made quick work of taking off my road gear and jogged up to the front door with a spring in my step. As much of a pain in the ass as it was to drive down here, there wasn’t a much better feeling than pulling
up to my childhood home.
A sprawling ranch-style that presented to visitors with a presence and warmth, the house and the comfort it could provide were secondary only to the people inside it. Mark and Carmen—my mom and namesake—were all-American parents with unmistakable values. Family, at its core, was important. It was important to nurture and important to grow, and it was unshakable. No matter what I came to them with, no matter how badly I messed up, at the end of the day, I was their son, and they’d go to the grave to defend that.
Now, that didn’t mean they were big on defending actions that spoke against kindness and consideration, actions that hurt the well-being of others, or actions that were ill-intentioned.
But they were forgiving of mistakes and even better at turning those mistakes into lessons.
I truly hoped to mirror the footprint they’d left for me when I set out to establish the values of my own family.
If it ever happened.
The front door squealed slightly as I gently pushed it in, calling out into the open space as I did, “Hello? Anyone home?”
Normally, at least one member of my family would greet you at the door and bustle you into the space with open arms and an even happier heart.
Today, there was no answer.
My eyebrows drawn, I stepped into the entry and shut the door before walking straight through the front hall to the kitchen.
It, too, was empty, and I started to wonder if I’d been stood up by my own family.
A shriek of laughter—distinctly my sister’s pitch and tone—sounded from the backyard, and my face melted into a smile.
They must be grilling.
God, one of Dad’s burgers was just what I needed.
Mark was what you’d call a burger specialist. He marinated, he seasoned, and most importantly, he’d started stuffing them with fillings long before Applebee’s did.
I hurried to the back door, the smell of bacon cheddar goodness overwhelming me just from the memory, and bounded out onto the deck like an overexcited puppy.
My mom turned around immediately. Clearly, at first, she’d been startled by my appearance, but as soon as she recognized the chiseled jaw and fierce good looks of her firstborn, her mouth and eyes melted into a beaming smile.
