by Nicole Helm
She slipped her lipstick into her purse. She rarely took a purse to her father’s after she’d figured out he stole money out of it when she wasn’t looking, but he was sober. Surely she could give him the benefit of the doubt here. She grabbed her cute pair of heels and slid her feet into some shlumpy boots—that way she wouldn’t need to stop at her apartment on the way back. She could go straight to Marc.
Nerves tightened in her stomach as she moved down the hall. She should tell Marc where she was going, assure him she wouldn’t be late, but...
She didn’t. She still had an hour. And she didn’t want him to know how weak she could be. She didn’t want him to cancel whatever he was planning. No, she needed that, as much as she needed to reach out to her father when he was sober.
Maybe, just maybe, she could talk him into a treatment facility and her life could really, really, really be on track for the first time in a long time.
She drove to Dad’s apartment, doing her best to breathe deeply and evenly. She would not get her hopes up, she would not let her guard down. This was a quick visit to talk, and that was it. She’d visit, bring up treatment if it seemed like a good time, and then be back to Marc in time for whatever he was planning.
She parked and walked slowly across the yard, clutching her purse to her stomach. She was nervous, plain and simple. Nervous because he was sober, because there was hope.
She didn’t want to analyze that, how bad things had gotten. She slipped her key in the lock, announcing her presence, startled to find her father sitting at the tiny kitchen table. Which was clear of debris.
He’d cleaned. Well, just the kitchen. The couch and living room right off the kitchen were still cluttered with crap, but still.
Dad blinked at her outfit, squinted. “I’m not ruining your plans, am I?”
“No. I just have to leave when my alarm goes off.”
But he stared. Hard. That squinting, strange look never leaving his face. She couldn’t read it. Whatever he thought about her dress and her plans was hidden under a layer of sobriety she hadn’t seen from him in months.
Maybe years.
She barely remembered what it was like to deal with him sober, and that hit her harder than it should. The realization things had slipped so far without her noticing, with her still thinking she had it all under some kind of control.
“Could you make me some soup, Tessie?”
“Sure.” She swallowed at the lump in her throat at how weak and resigned he seemed, and went to work to heat him up some canned soup.
Dad sat at the table while she stood over the stove. Occasionally she’d peek at him as she stirred. He looked more old than sick, although he couldn’t hide the tremors in his hands, the wistful looks toward his fridge though she’d done a check to make sure there wasn’t any beer. Sometimes he tried to tell her beer didn’t count, but he wasn’t doing that tonight.
He was being so...so...normal, and the hope that had bubbled into being when he’d called was full-on balloon-level bursting. Maybe they were getting somewhere. Maybe this was the start of a new phase. He’d just needed to get really bad off again to get better.
She ladled soup into a bowl and set it in front of him. Then she sat at the table, as well.
“You should have some. We haven’t had dinner together in forever.” He attempted a smile, but she had to wonder if he’d forgotten how.
“I...I have dinner plans, Dad. I’d be happy to make dinner plans with you some other night.” If you’ll promise to stay sober. If this is the start of something good.
He stirred his soup with shaking hands, quiet, somber. It was almost worse than him yelling, worse than him being drunk, because she didn’t know what to do with this.
He ate a few bites of soup, and she sat with her hands clutched together wishing she knew how to make this count. How to bring up treatment and help without everything going wrong.
“Did you want to talk about something in particular?” she asked as gently as she could. It had been so long since she’d dealt with calm and sober Dad, she was half-afraid to broach any subject for fear it would evaporate. For fear she would ruin all this hope.
“I just wanted to see you.”
She couldn’t breathe for a second. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d said something heartfelt to her that was loving. Something a father should say to a daughter.
“I’m not...” She took a deep breath and let it out, reaching across the table to rest her fingers on the top of his hand. “Even when I keep my distance, I’m not abandoning you. I won’t. I know things can get better. I know they can. But when you’re...in a bad way, I can’t risk my safety.”
“I’d never hurt you, Tessie.”
The blatant lie caused her to pull her hand away, lean back in her chair. Should she point out all the ways he had? Should she remind him he routinely threatened physical harm and on occasion delivered on it?
“You do hurt me, Dad.”
He didn’t say anything to that, or meet her gaze. He ate the rest of his soup in oppressive silence, a silence she didn’t have the wherewithal to break.
Her alarm went off, and she remembered Marc, and hope. A life for her. A good one, even if it wasn’t perfect. Marc gave her something and she deserved that something.
She wasn’t always sure she didn’t deserve this, but she deserved some good, too. “Dad, I have to g—”
“Maybe...maybe you could show me one of those treatment centers again. Maybe...maybe that’s what I need. So I’m not hurting you.”
She couldn’t get a breath at first. He was saying... She blinked at her stinging eyes and swiped the alarm off.
He hadn’t asked about or let her speak of treatment centers without threats and anger in years. Years. And now he was bringing them up?
The hope was in overdrive again, wishing for an answer, a fix, change. Finally, finally. He was asking to hear about them, so this could actually be it. Her turning point.
Don’t get your hopes up.
But the voice of reason was no match for the bright shining light of possibility. A future where her father was a father, and she could trust him enough to truly have a life of her own without worry or fear or sacrifice.
“Sure.” She brought up her internet browser on her phone and typed in the treatment center she’d committed to memory.
Too expensive. Too faraway. Too everything, but she would do and sacrifice anything if it meant fixing this. Really solving his problem. So that they could both have lives free of this disease that had eaten up too much of both of them.
“I think this one would be a good option.” She slid the phone over to him. He didn’t take it, but he peered at the tiny screen looking only moderately disgusted.
“I know it’s not exactly a vacation, but think how much better you’ll feel.”
Dad snorted. He wasn’t scrolling, his face was just looking more and more...angry. “I haven’t had a drink all day and I don’t feel better,” he grumbled.
Her stomach sank, but maybe if she pressed a little... After all, if he was sober, he wouldn’t get all irrational. “Nothing is ever going to get better if—”
“This is all lies,” Dad muttered. His hands shook harder, his cheeks mottled red, and there was the father who was familiar to her. The one she’d never be free from. Because he had moments of sobriety when he wanted to change.
“Lies and bullshit.” He pushed away from the table, began to pace restlessly. “Fucking bullshit.”
The balloon of hope didn’t pop or deflate, but it filled her chest so much it hurt. She had to calm him down, get him back to being receptive. “Dad.”
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” His hand was eerily steady as he wiped it over his thinning hair. “Those people with their smiles and their nice clothes, and it’s all shi
t. I’ve been there. It doesn’t look like that. It doesn’t fix anything.”
“You have to want to be fixed,” she said. In her head it was a fierce declaration, but it came out weak. A plea.
Dad slammed his fist on the table, sending her phone flying and the empty bowl of soup rattling. Tess flinched and hated herself for it, because, really, wasn’t she used to this? The sudden anger. The complete disregard for his own role in making things better.
“I have to want to not drink and you drive me to drink. You with all your bullshit and lies and it’s your fault. Yours.”
It was over. The hope vanished. The excitement gone.
He was never going to change. She couldn’t abandon him, but he was never, ever going to want to get better. Their lives were always going to be...this.
She slid off her chair and picked up her phone. “Never mind. I’m sorry.” Sick with herself for saying those words, words he didn’t deserve, love and hope he didn’t deserve.
But she said them, and as she left, she couldn’t even muster the determination not to come back. Couldn’t believe that hope was lost.
Why couldn’t she believe that?
She drove back to the apartment complex, refusing to cry by sheer force of will. She pulled into her space, got out. She was late. In this ridiculous dress with stupid lipstick in her purse and heels in her car. Why...why had she thought she could have something for herself? When she couldn’t resist the pull of everything that wasn’t.
She trudged upstairs, briefly thought about canceling outright. But she thought of the way Marc had typed that text on his phone.
If she couldn’t resist the pull of her father, then why the hell should she resist the pull of something good?
She reached Marc’s door, turned the knob and swore.
It was locked.
She’d missed her chance.
She thunked her forehead to the door. Before she could pull away, she heard a chain being moved, the click of a lock being released, and then the door opened.
Marc appeared, a blank, unreadable expression on his face. “A little late.”
“I...” She swallowed down all the words, all the apologies, because if she started she was afraid the words and tears would never stop.
“Your dad?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. He was wearing nice clothes, though the button-up shirt was slightly askew and unbuttoned at the top. If he’d been wearing a tie it was long gone.
As she stepped into the apartment, it smelled delicious, like always, but there was a big vase of flowers on the counter, an array of silverware on the table. Candles.
Oh, God, he’d put together her fancy-restaurant fantasy and she’d missed it. And for what? For what? Tears pricked in her eyes and she wanted to blink them back, be stronger, more resilient, but this hurt. It cut and ached.
Someone was finally giving her...a gift. Care and attention and damn sweetness and she had missed it.
“I’m so sorry. I...”
His fingers curled around her shoulders and gently, so much more gently than she deserved, he pulled her to his chest.
“He...looked at treatment centers,” she mumbled into the solid wall of him. “I couldn’t...”
“You don’t have to explain.” He was holding her, hugging her, and she should believe him. He was doing and saying all the right things, but there was this nagging feeling something was wrong. She’d messed up.
All of it, and she had no idea how to make that right.
* * *
MARC LET TESS sniffle into his shoulder, rubbing his palm up and down her back in an effort to comfort her. She’d looked wrecked when she’d put two and two together about what he’d been preparing.
But how could he not offer comfort? It was just a stupid gesture, after all. She had more important things on her plate than him.
It was comical, really, that he’d thought this would be different. That he could be what someone wanted enough to put him first.
He didn’t feel anger that she was almost an hour late. He didn’t feel his normal frustration, as though he were beating his head against his parents’ concrete wall of Leah.
He felt cold. And resigned. It didn’t feel wrong—it felt undeniable. Maybe this kind of thing was all he was good for. To be the second round of something. The foundation. The stoic comforter.
Maybe this was all he had to give. After all, he’d had relationships with women who did not rush to someone else’s aid at his expense, but he’d never loved them.
Not that he loved Tess. It was too...soon for that. Too...much. So, no. Not love. But he did care. Very much.
So this must just be where he stood. There was no more. Not from his family. Not from Tess. It was, and he had to accept it. Be what they needed, ignore any foolish want of his own.
More was not in the cards, and he was very good at ignoring that need for more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MARC WOKE UP in his bed with a woman beside him. It had been a long time since that had happened.
He wished it could feel good, that he could enjoy it, but he knew what it was. An apology. She’d been sorry for missing his surprise, so she’d stayed over.
Well, you should be appreciative of an apology. You don’t usually get that. Yes. True. He should be appreciative of Tess. So what if she put her father first? Hell, at least she admitted it and felt bad about it.
She yawned, stretched out and into him. Then blinked her eyes open, and he was determined to ignore the selfish voice in his brain that wanted more from her.
She crawled on top of him, curling fingers around his neck and then dropping a kiss to his lips. He smoothed his hands down her sides, rested them at her hips.
She grinned, kissing him on the nose, but her eyes drifted to his clock on the nightstand next to the bed. “Oh, crap, we so don’t have time for morning sex.”
“I bet I could—”
But she slapped him away before he had a chance to finish that thought or the gesture that went with it. She scurried off the bed. “You sorely underestimate the time it takes me to get cop ready in the morning.”
“What exactly does cop ready entail?”
She shook her head. “I’m pretty sure if I explained it to that anal, organized mind of yours, your ears would bleed and your eyes would explode.”
“Wow. Gory.”
She grinned, hopping as she pulled up her jeans then buttoning them. “I was going to go with the face-melting scene in Indiana Jones, but thought that might be a bit of an exaggeration.”
“Just a little.”
“All right. I’m going to sneak on out. Meet me at the patrol car.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” She ran fingers through her hair, he supposed to make it look more manageable, but she didn’t accomplish it. She looked tousled. A very excellent look for her.
She turned to him, head cocked. “Can I ask you something?”
“When people say that, they’re asking something they know the other person doesn’t want to answer.” He didn’t move from the bed, but found a place beyond her shoulder on the wall to focus on.
“Okay, I’ll just ask. When your mother gave the ring to your sister’s boyfriend, what did you do?”
“What do you mean what did I do?”
“I mean, did you say something or did you pull a Marc?”
His gaze flicked to her because he didn’t know what that could mean. Okay, he had an idea of what it could mean. “Pull a Marc?”
“Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I mean.” She pointed a finger at him, much like a scolding parent might. “Where you pretend like it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, you’re a perfect fortress of blankness.”
“That happened
days ago. I thought you said you had to hurry to get cop ready.” He gestured toward the door.
She didn’t move for it. She folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, fortress of blankness, just like that.”
“Tess.” Frustrated with this whole line of conversation, and the fact she was pushing when she didn’t have a right to push—not after last night—he shoved back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“So, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you pulled a Marc and pretended you didn’t care, and I want to know why.”
“Why do you want to know why?” He rummaged through his drawer even though everything was folded neatly and he knew where what he needed was.
“Because I want to know you.” She sighed. “I...it wasn’t a line when I said you were worth it. I don’t take us lightly.”
It should be a soothing thing, not something that strained at the last threads of patience he had, but it wasn’t comforting. It was fucking irritating. “Okay, you don’t take us lightly. How exactly is this going to go, then?” He pointed at his uniform hanging on the back of his bedroom door. “At some point I believe this becomes a bit of an issue.”
It wasn’t what he was really pissed about, and it was a dick move to pretend it was, but...well, he didn’t know how to give her that part of himself. Not when he knew she’d crush it.
She blinked at the uniform, then back at him. “I...”
“Exactly. Look, getting to know all my stupid family stuff is pointless.”
“First of all, and I keep telling you, just because your family crap isn’t as terrible as mine doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to be upset with it.” She fisted her hands on her hips, and it irritated him that she was angry. Why was she mad? She didn’t have a right to be mad. Not today.
Instead, she stepped toward him, hands still on her hips. “Why are you so bound and determined to be tight-lipped about everything? To make everyone think you’re fine when you’re not?”
He forced every word of the sentence that came out of his mouth to be clear, strong and convincing. “I am fine.”
“You’re a shitty liar, and someone with your deep, abiding moral code shouldn’t lie.”
