Unexpected Daddies

by Lively, R. S.

  "The silvery moon?" I ask, chuckling quietly. "Seriously?"

  She stares back at me, missing the joking note in my voice.

  "Yes," she says.

  "Perfect. Well, I've heard the bears around here are friendly. Maybe you'll be cuddling soon."

  I expect a moment of a confused expression before the absurdity of what I just said dawns on her. Instead, her eyes widen in panic, and she begins to frantically roll to the side, uncoiling herself from the tent.

  "Son of a bitch! Bears? Did you say bears? Are there bears here?"

  She finishes unraveling and jumps to her feet. Her eyes dart from side to side as if she expects a pack of Goldilocks' homies to roll out of the trees any second.

  "I mean... Yeah, I'm sure there are, but I don't think any of them are actually going to come out here and try to cuddle with you."

  "Then why did you – " she pauses, jumping slightly and shifting nervously to the side, "– say that?"

  "What the hell happened to you?" I ask. "You used to be outside all the time. You never seemed to mind running around with no shoes on or sitting by the fire with me."

  I notice her cheeks flush and realize what I said. My body responds to the color and the way she bites down on her bottom lip. I take a few involuntary steps toward her, dying to hold her in my arms. Fiona sees me approaching, but doesn't move. I stop before I make a stupid mistake, and force my eyes down to the abandoned tent on the ground.

  "Why don't I help you with the tents, and we can build the fire together?"

  She nods.

  "Sounds good."

  I nod, and she walks over to the blue tent bag, reluctantly pulling out the poles. "I have to warn you," she says. "There aren't any instructions in there."

  "I don't need instructions," I say. "I could put this tent up with my eyes closed."

  Fiona looks around at the growing darkness around us.

  "That's probably a good thing because if it takes too much longer for us to actually get this done, it's going to be dark enough you might as well be doing it with your eyes closed."

  She offers me the poles.

  "Oh, I'll be fine," I say. "After all, I'll have the light of the silvery moon."

  That was enough. It finally clicked. Her eyes narrow at me and she swats me on the arm.

  "Shut up," she says.

  I laugh as I move to position two of the poles. With them in place, I pick up the next and move around the edge of the tent, humming a tune as I go. I know that just like me, Fiona remembers Gramps singing when he was in a really good mood. Often, he would sweep Grammie into his arms and twirl her into the middle of the living room floor, dancing as he serenaded her. The way he gazed into her eyes – it was like they had completely forgotten Fiona and I were there. Those were the some of the best moments. I'd never seen love like that before. I grew up with two adults in the home with me, but they didn’t act much like parents.

  The truth is, it’s thanks to Gramps and Grammie that I got to this point. Before I started spending time with their family, I had a warped view of love and connection. My parents' relationship was, and as far as I know, still is, volatile and intensely dramatic. They were like a pendulum, constantly swinging between crawling all over each other and disappearing together for stretches of time that could range from a few hours to a few days, to violent bursts of fighting. Never once did I see them look at each other the way Grammie and Gramps did when he held her in his arms and mumbled his way through the words of old croony love songs in his tobacco-tinged voice.

  I connect the poles and reach for the remaining ones, looking at up at Fiona as I hum a little louder. She tries to keep her expression angry, but her eyes are glittering, and I see the corners of her lips curving up as she reaches through the poles to playfully shove my shoulders.

  "Stop," she yelps.

  I duck down under the poles, grabbing her around the knees. Fiona laughs as she collapses, curling up so she doesn't run into the skeleton of the tent, and lands on top of me. I tickle her, and she squirms away from me, giggling quietly. We both drop onto our backs and stare up at the sky. Inky blue clouds have made their way across it, hearkening in the night. I want to stay there, lying beside her forever, but we need to hurry if we're going to get camp set up before it's too dark. I turn my head and look at her.

  "I think this tent is missing something," I say.

  She glances around, feigning confusion.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she says. "I think it's perfect."

  I laugh and pat her on the thigh.

  "Come on," I groan. "Let's get the rest of the tent put together and then we'll work on the fire. Once it's going, I'll put mine up."

  Twenty minutes later, we finished piling sticks and twigs inside the ring of smooth river rocks. Dry moss and leaves at the heart of the kindling act as tinder, and I watch as Fiona cautiously guides the burning stick I handed her toward it. She jumps back slightly before it fully ignites, and I step up behind her. I remember how far she always stood away from the ring when Gramps was lighting the fire. She'd stay far from it until all the frantic, dancing sparks of the first few minutes of burning had settled before venturing any closer.

  "It's alright," I murmur. "It's not going to hurt you."

  "Are you sure?" she asks.

  I want to laugh at the soft hint of fear in her voice, but it sounds genuine, so I don't. Stepping up behind her, I slide one hand along her arm to settle over hers. My body is just close enough to feel the brush of her from my chest down my thighs, and I indulge my desire to touch her by wrapping my other arm around her to bring her other hand up to meet the first on the stick.

  "Come on," I say. "Just lean a little bit forward and set it in the tinder." I guide her forward and feel my cock jump as she bends, nestling her hips back into me. The flame at the end of the stick touches the tinder and there is a slight pop and hiss as some of the moss ignites. "It's alright," I murmur as I feel her body tighten and she tries to pull back. "I've got you. I won't let anything hurt you."

  Fiona relaxes, and she tosses the stick forward into the growing fire, and we take a few steps back. I regret moving my body away from hers, and as she turns to look at me, I see the flush on her cheeks has deepened and spread across her beautiful, moonlit face. We look at each other for a few seconds, and I still feel the heat of her body against mine, and the softness of her skin beneath my hands. I start to take a step toward her, and she looks back over her shoulder sharply as if purposely trying to break the heated attraction between us.

  "Do you need help with your tent?" she asks.

  "It's alright," I tell her. "I can handle it. Why don't you go in the cooler and get the meat out so we can start cooking? I'm starving."

  Fiona nods in agreement. “Me, too.”

  As she makes her way toward the cooler, I head for the tent still wrapped in its bag at the edge of the clearing. I bring it several feet away from hers and start setting it up. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Fiona set the cooking equipment at the edge of the fire the way Grammie taught us. Within a few minutes, the smell of burgers fills the air around us, and my stomach grumbles even more than it was before. Now that my tent is set up, I head back into the edge of the woods for the fallen tree I'd seen earlier when I first made my way toward the river. I kick it a few times to make sure that no woodland creatures have taken up residence inside, and that it won't completely crumble the second I touch it. Since it passes the test, I grab hold of the log and bring it back toward the fire.

  "There," I say when the log is securely in place, "now we have a bench."

  I toss a blanket over it to make it a little more comfortable, and Fiona carries plates over, handing me one before settling onto the log beside me. We eat in silence for a few minutes before she opens her mouth to say something, but stops and stares down at her plate.

  "What?" I ask. "Were you going to say something?"

  Fiona looks into the fire, then back at me.

&n
bsp; "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for the way I've been acting since I got to the house. I've been a spoiled brat."

  "No, you haven't," I say. She gives me a questioning look, and I nod with resignation. "Well, you kind of have. I was trying to be nice."

  "You weren't very nice before we got here," she points out. "But I deserved it. I don't know what's gotten into me. I've been frustrated since the second I heard she had fallen and hurt herself. I don't know why her getting hurt would make me so angry."

  "Are you actually angry?" I ask.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Are you angry that she got hurt or are you worried about her – and don't want to be, so you decided to be frustrated and angry instead?"

  "Have you been withholding that you are a contractor by day and a radio psychiatrist at night?" she asks dryly.

  "It's just something to think about," I say.

  Fiona sighs.

  "Of course, I'm worried about her. She's not a spring chicken, you know." Her face scrunches up slightly. "What does that mean?" she asks. "Spring chicken? Is there a summer chicken? Fall chicken? Winter chicken? Anyway. It doesn't matter. She's old. We don't want to think or talk about it, but the woman is old, Cade. Maybe she really shouldn't be on her own anymore."

  I think about Grammie winning the limbo on her senior cruise, and the mysterious "Arthur" I’ve been hearing about.

  "She might have lived a good chunk of years, Fiona, but I wouldn't call her old. This is the first time anything has happened like this, and it could happen to anyone. Seriously, anyone. I don't think you need to worry about her as much as you are."

  "She got taken by an ambulance to a rehab center," she says.

  I give a half-shrug.

  "I still don't think you need to worry about her so much. Trust me, she's going to be just fine whenever she comes back home."

  Fiona eyes me for a few seconds, and I wonder if I've said too much. I don't want to break my promise to Grammie, but I also don't want Fiona to become more stressed or anxious about the situation. She falls silent again, and from the way she's staring into the fire, I know something is still on her mind. Finally, she glances at me, then back into the flames.

  "Do you really think she still sees my father when she looks at me?" she asks.

  Fiona's voice is soft and quiet like she's unsure if she should even ask the question. She's leaning forward with her arms resting on her thighs, and her hands clasped tightly together. I know it makes her feel uneasy to talk about her parents. It's something she's only done a few times in all the years we've known each other.

  "Of course, she does," I say. "I don't think it's possible for her not to. He was her son, her only child. How could she not think about him when she looks at his only child?"

  She nods slightly.

  "It feels really strange that she thinks about him when she looks at me. It makes me feel like I’ve invaded her memories."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Because I don't know him," she says. "It hurts to say that, but it's true. I don't know either one of them. It's not like she kept them from me, but I don’t really know much about them. When I think about Grammie seeing my father when she looks at me, it makes me feel really out of place. Then, at the same time, even trying to develop a sense of connection with the idea of them makes me feel guilty."

  "Why would that make you feel guilty? Those are your parents. Even if they’re gone now, it makes sense you'd feel a connection to them."

  "I know,” she groans, "but I also feel like thinking about them too much, or wondering what it would have been like if they hadn't died, or wishing I knew more about them makes it seem like I don't appreciate Gramps and Grammie, or that I wish things had been different."

  "Well, don't you?"

  Fiona looks at me like my words have stung her.

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Don't you wish things were different? Don't you wish your parents hadn't died, and that you knew them, and were able to be raised by them? It makes sense to want to know more your parents, especially when what you have heard is nothing but amazing."

  "One time, Grammie told me the one thing she ever really regretted in her life was that she wasn't able to have a daughter. After she had my father, the doctor told her it wasn’t a good idea for her to have any more children, so she completely focused on him. He was her whole life, and what she says was her greatest accomplishment. I know she didn't mean anything by that, but when she said it, it made me feel like when she looks at me, she feels like she had to give up the son she loved so much, to have the daughter she never had."

  "You know she doesn't think that way," I say. "I'm sure she misses your father every single day, but never for a second would she wish she didn't have you. You are not the reason your parents died, Fi. You did nothing. You can't be blamed. It was an accident you had absolutely nothing to do with."

  "If I hadn't been born early –" she starts.

  I reach out and rest my hand on her thigh to quiet her.

  "Stop," I say. "Don't do this to yourself. Being born early is something that happened, but you can't blame on yourself for that. You don't know where they would have been at that moment, even if your mother was still pregnant with you. It's entirely possible they would have been in the same place at the same time, and you would have been killed, too. Grammie didn’t give up her son because of you. She was able to keep a part of her son alive."

  Fiona looks up at me, her eyes swirling with emotion. Her lips part slightly, and I see her draw in a deep breath, her chest expanding out as she inhales the cool evening air.

  Fiona

  My body trembles slightly as Cade moves toward me on the log. Soon his knee touches mine, but our eyes remain locked. The sun has finally set, and the light from the campfire surrounds us, isolating us from the rest of the world. His fingers come to the side of my face, and the calloused tips trace down my cheek, and then along the curve of my jaw. He lifts his hand, and runs his fingers back through my hair, then along my collarbone. The touch is gentle, but there is a sense of control behind it that keeps me completely still.

  As Cade leans closer to me, I know I should move, but I can't. His mouth brushes against mine. We pause at the edge of a kiss, somewhere between hesitating with uncertainty and savoring the heat building between us. Finally, he dips his head to complete the connection. I feel myself melt into him, savoring the feeling of kissing Cade for the first time in ten years.

  The kiss ends, and my hesitation returns alongside the abrupt rush of cool air that caresses my face. I suddenly remember why I didn't want to see Cade the night I got to Grammie's house. A wave of emotions fills me, and memories rush into my mind. I can't pretend I didn't stand there, waiting for him. It doesn't hurt like it used to, but I can't push the memory away. I can't act like everything is how it used to be.

  I stand up, pulling away from Cade. He stands beside me, reaching for my hand, but I take a step away, pretending like I'm bringing my dishes to the side of the fire.

  "I'm exhausted," I say. "I think I'm going to go ahead and get some sleep."

  He nods.

  "Me, too," he says. "We'll head back in the morning."

  He doesn't sound angry, but there's a hint of bitter disappointment in his voice, and I wonder if it was always his intention for us to only stay for the night, or if we are leaving early because of that incendiary kiss.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fiona

  The next day…

  "Grammie, who is Arthur?" Cade comes into the room and looks at me questioningly. "Grammie… no, Grammie… who is Arthur?... Alright, well, keep me updated, I guess."

  "Any idea?" Cade asks as I end the call.

  We've been navigating carefully around each other all day, neither wanting to be the first to acknowledge our kiss last night.

  "Still no," I say. "But I'm really starting to wonder about the authenticity of this rehabilitation program. It seems like some of the people in the
background are always a bit too enthusiastic for a medical facility."

  Cade's eyes flicker away from me, and, not for the first time, I wonder what he and Grammie are up to.

  "What did you get at the store?"

  "Just a few things," I say. "I thought we'd have lasagna tonight."

  "Sure. Before you start on that, though, there's something I want to show you."

  "Did you find something when you were going through the stuff from the basement?"

  The pile of basement items outside has gradually grown smaller, and Cade has already taken two trips to the landfill today. The tree still rests across the back porch, but a tree-removal service crew is scheduled to come by tomorrow night. We've managed to accomplish a lot as both of us try to keep our hands and minds busy, and I've started to feel hopeful about making significant progress before Grammie gets home. Whenever that will be.

  "I did," he says. "It’s upstairs. Come with me."

  I grab two of the glass-bottled sodas that were my grocery store victory of the day and follow Cade up the stairs toward his bedroom. My belly flutters as we step inside, and I quickly remind myself that not only am I an adult but I've already been in here this week. Stealing sheets to wash might not be the most interesting reason to sneak into a bedroom, but I'm going to count it anyway.

  "The sheets look good," I say. "Smooth."

  Did I just compliment a grown man on his ability to make his own bed?

  Cade looks over at me.

  "Thanks," he says. "Go ahead and sit down."

  Left with no other options, I sit on the bed and pop open a soda. Cade walks over to the wardrobe and opens it.

  "You hid it?" I ask, tilting the bottle to my lips and filling my mouth with the nostalgic taste of the sugar-sweetened drink.

  "It seemed appropriate," he says. "That's what we intended."

  "What do you mean?" I ask, but as I twist around to see him, I know exactly what he means. "Oh my god – are you serious?"