Arm Candy

by Jessica Lemmon

  “For years I reached out and you ignored me,” I tell my dad, my voice hard. “You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me when you stood me up at my college graduation. And now you’re here…Why?”

  “I’m your father, Grace.” I scan his hulking presence. He doesn’t look sick. “That’s forever. However long we got left.”

  “I can’t do this now.” I slap the wet towel onto the bar, heat building in my eyes and tingling my nose. My mind skitters left and right. Does Mom know? If so, why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t he tell me in a note along with my tea? I snag my coat and purse from the office and rush by my father.

  “Grace,” my dad bellows from behind me.

  “I can’t” are the only words I can manage. “I can’t.”

  “I don’t have much time, angel.” His face broadcasts concern, his mouth turning down.

  The lump in my throat doubles in size. I turn for the door, tears obliterating my vision. Yes, I’m running. Running away from truth I can’t handle.

  “Grace!” His desperate shout causes adrenaline to dump into my bloodstream. I’m thirteen again, in my room with the door shut, his and my mother’s shouts rattling the windowpanes.

  He can’t be dying. He was always invincible. Always.

  I throw open the door as someone walks in. I have too much forward momentum to stop short, so instead I plow into him. I awkwardly apologize, my eyes on my feet as I attempt to flee, but the man in front of me scoops me against him, his arms solid and strong. He smells good.

  Really good.

  “Hey, hey. Gracie.”

  I look up into Davis’s concerned expression and practically collapse against him.

  “Don’t let her leave.” My father’s commanding voice sends a ripple of fear through me. Not of him but for him.

  Davis takes it as the former, his face morphing into hard planes, his jaw set and nostrils flaring. He addresses my father, and when he does, he’s not the least bit polite.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Chapter 14

  Davis

  Grace trembles like a leaf next to me, insisting for the umpteenth time that she’s “fine.” I’m not buying it. The run-in with the leather-clad mountain man, who’s apparently her father, was a surprise for both of us.

  At McGreevy’s, she begged to leave while clinging to my coat. I was about to take her out of there when Raphael Buchanan introduced himself in such a way that I knew I couldn’t take her out of there.

  I’m her father. I assume you care about her. So do I. I don’t have much time left on this earth, so if I could have two minutes. I don’t want things to end like this.

  Grace buried her face in my shirt and let out a sob that crushed my heart. In the unique position of never having gotten to say goodbye to my dad, I suggested she grant her old man two minutes and hear him out.

  Two minutes turned into two hours with Raphael. Pancreatic cancer. They’ve given him six months.

  I offered to excuse myself several times to give them their privacy, but Grace had a hold of my hand so tightly, I didn’t go anywhere. She listened. She even smiled. Her father apologized and explained.

  Then she and I left McGreevy’s for my place.

  Her request.

  After everyone slipped out at the end of poker night, I didn’t bother cleaning up, which I explained as we stepped into my house. She didn’t care about the mess, and after I took in the hollow look in her eyes, I didn’t care either. All I cared about was getting that hollow look out of her eyes.

  We walked inside and collapsed on the couch. She clung to me then and clings to me still. She hasn’t spoken in a long while. I rub my hand up and down her arm and wait.

  Against me now, she lets out a sigh. The tremors subside. She untangles herself from my torso to sit on the couch cushion next to me, swiping her hands over her face and resting her elbows on her knees.

  “I can’t decide if your timing is perfect or horrible,” she says, her words slightly garbled from her hands pressed to her cheeks.

  “I’d say my timing was damn near perfect, considering.”

  She nods but doesn’t look at me, her focus off in the distance.

  I take her one of her hands. “Hey.”

  She blinks at me like she forgot what I looked like.

  “Remember that time I told you about my runaway bride?” I lift my eyebrows.

  One side of her mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you a story?”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Gracie.” Talking to her made everything better, and I want to be here for her in case unloading to me sets her mind at ease. “But yeah. Why don’t you tell me a story?”

  Her shoulders lift and drop with a heavy sigh. I’m not sure if she’s going to tell me any more or not. Then she does.

  “My father used to be a suit-and-tie guy like you. He was a lawyer. He and my mom had one of the worst marriages on the planet. They stayed together for me, or so they said, but I didn’t reap many benefits from the additional years of them fighting.”

  Her eyes lose focus across the room again. I squeeze her hand to bring her back to me.

  “Did he…hit you? Did he…?” I can hardly ask, but I have to know. It’s clear there’s a chasm between Grace and her father. I want to know how wide it is. “Did he hurt you?”

  Her face broadcasts so much surprise, I know I’m wrong. Thank God.

  “No. Not like you mean. He was loud, and he was angry a lot, but he never laid a hand on me.”

  I let out a breath that I was holding hostage in my lungs.

  “Thanks for worrying.” She touches my chest.

  “Can’t help it.” I care about Grace. I don’t want anyone to hurt her—past, present, or future. She deserves happiness. Safety. A future free of worry. I feel my eyebrows pull together as I consider being the person to give her those things. It’s not a bad consideration.

  “Once he left my mom, he changed. Swapped the sedan for a motorcycle. Started hanging around a rougher crowd. Quit his job. My mom and I thought he was on drugs, and he probably was for a while there. I don’t know. He popped into my life once or twice a year at first, and I tried to reel him back in. Tried to make it work between us even though he was the one digging the divide.

  “The last straw came when I invited him to my college graduation. He never showed.” She shakes her head, sadness wafting off her. “That sounds petty now.”

  I squeeze her hand in support.

  “Anyway, I expected him to show up for my graduation. I needed him to show. Christmases, birthdays could fall by the wayside because there was always another coming the next year. But I worked hard for my degree. I wanted him to be there and…I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

  “You wanted him to be proud of you. It’s not stupid.”

  “He came to see me at my apartment a few days after that.” She bites the side of her cheek as tears pool in her eyes. “With a huge frame for my degree. I didn’t answer the door, so he left it by the mat. Every other year or so, I’ll find an expensive gift on my doorstep. A fountain pen. A leather journal. Fancy tea.”

  Her lashes flutter and a tear escapes. She brushes it away, almost angrily.

  “He never shows up. Never.”

  “I’m so sorry, Grace.” What else is there to say? The father who should’ve been there for her only ever showed up on his terms. Even tonight, he delivered the worst possible news in the worst possible way.

  It’s bullshit, but she’s processing a lot right now. My being pissed off isn’t going to help, no matter how tempted I am to remind her what a fuck nugget he is for neglecting her.

  “I’ve taken up enough of your evening with this stuff.” She stands and physically distances herself from me, grabbing her coat and purse from the other side of the room. “Thanks for the bailout. I owe you one.”

  As she slides her arms into her coat, I stand and cram my hands into my pants pockets. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  I
don’t want her to go. I don’t want her to climb into her bed and cry herself to sleep. I don’t want her to be alone.

  “You went above and beyond,” she tells me, her armor locking into place. She shoulders her purse, and when she grasps the handrail for the stairs, I say the first thing I think of that might get her to stay a few minutes longer.

  “My dad died when I was nine.”

  Her grip tightens on the railing. She looks over her shoulder at me, her red hair bright against her gray jacket, her green eyes flooding with concern.

  “He was in a car accident and my mom, who was always flighty and had one foot out the door as it was, showed up to the hospital for about fifteen minutes before she skipped town for good. I was there with my grandmother—my dad’s mom—and after my mom left, Grandma Rose raised me.” Hands in my pockets, I shrug. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to him. He never woke up.”

  Her brows bend in sympathy.

  “My mom left and never came back,” I say. “If she showed up out of the blue today and told me she had six months to live, I’d…” I shake my head, at a loss. “I have no clue how I’d react.” I push a curl from Grace’s cheek. “I’d probably go home with you and shake in your arms.”

  Grace gives me a weak smile.

  “You don’t have to know what to do right now. You don’t have to be in control of your feelings. Hell, you don’t have to do anything. He laid this at your feet, Gracie. It’s not your battle to shoulder. But one thing is for certain.”

  I tip her chin so that she’s looking at me.

  “You don’t have to be alone tonight.”

  Grace

  I stayed.

  I couldn’t look into Davis’s kind gray eyes and turn him down. He’s so warm and careful with me, it hurts. I’m not used to being handled with that much care.

  My past turmoil—arguing parents and my dad bailing on my graduation—plays in the back of my mind like the world’s tiniest violin, knowing my father faces his final days.

  Knowing I swapped years with him for what now amounts to days.

  Over breakfast—Davis makes Belgian waffles and espresso (though he adds hot water to mine, since it’s way too strong)—I decide to come out with it and thank him. It’s the least he deserves.

  “These are incredible.” I point at the perfectly golden, fluffy waffles with my fork.

  He’s wiping down the waffle iron. “It’s just waffles, Grace. Not like I made you a quiche.”

  “It’s not just waffles.”

  He dries his hands and sits at the table next to me. “I know.”

  “Can you really make quiche?”

  “I can.”

  “Wow.”

  “I’m a man of many talents. None of my skills should surprise you.” He pours maple syrup into the squares of his waffle.

  We eat in silence. I’m comfortable with him. Here. Not talking. Eating waffles. Even though we haven’t been dating long. The urge to duck and run hits me square in the chest, and a little harder than it usually does. I’m no psychiatrist, but I’m assuming my dad returning to surprise me might have something to do with the twitch to flee.

  I spread more butter on my waffle. I refuse to allow fear to take me away from Davis. He hasn’t asked anything of me, and I haven’t asked anything of him. We can exist in this pleasant friends-with-benefits pocket for a good long while.

  Probably.

  “What time’s work?” Davis asks, knowing that Saturday is a busy day for me.

  “Ten.” I eye the clock. It’s eight thirty. Early for breakfast for me, but I didn’t want to be rude. Davis was up clattering around at six thirty (I checked the time on my phone when I heard him).

  I stand to join him at the sink, where he washes his plate, and he takes mine from me. I smile at his attire—slacks and a button-down. He looks sure and strong, relaxed in a Davis way.

  I’m in my bar clothes from last night. If I leave now, I’ll have enough time for a quick shower at home before changing for work.

  “I should get going.” I don’t want to, though. I’d rather stay here with him.

  “Call me if you need me, okay?” He ducks his head and kisses me.

  “You mean if my big, burly dad comes in and gives me horrible, life-altering news?” I offer a sad smile Davis doesn’t return.

  “Yes. That’s what I mean.”

  “Thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder.” I woke feeling embarrassed about it. “I guess…I needed a friend.”

  “Anytime, tough girl.”

  That’s nice. Legitimately, completely nice.

  I put another kiss on the center of his lips, gather my things, and leave his house.

  —

  I don’t have to work another twelve-hour shift today, so by four o’clock I’m en route to pay a visit to my mother.

  I’m owed an explanation if she knew about this. And if she didn’t, she’s owed the consideration of my breaking the news in person.

  At least she didn’t ask me to meet her at Buchanan and Roe, her firm, like she usually does. My mother is a divorce lawyer and makes a living of severing relationships and divvying up belongings, pets, and children.

  For not the first time, I wonder which of my parents I take after. The idea of being a woman with ice in her veins like my mother doesn’t appeal, but neither does my father’s duck-and-run free-spiritedness. Maybe I’m like neither of them.

  Since my mother is always incredibly busy (and makes a point of telling me how incredibly busy she is), I meet her at a Starbucks near the courthouse. As I reach for the handle of the coffee shop door and pull, she bursts out of it, a white-with-green-logo cup in each hand.

  “You’re late.” She thrusts one of the cups at me. “I ordered for you. Nonfat latte, and none of that sugary syrup. As a girl your age knows, we can’t afford to drink the extra calories.”

  I hate that I look down at my hips with disdain after she says that.

  “Let’s grab one of these seats.” Dawn Buchanan leads the way and I follow. We sit at a small patio table for two. It’s a fairly warm October day, but still too breezy for me. I hunch, wishing my leather jacket had a lining. Suddenly I’m glad for my bland nonfat coffee. I sip the hot liquid and try to warm up.

  “What’s new, Jellybean?” Lawyer Mom smiles. My mother has short, dark hair with thick blond highlights. Her makeup is just so, her suit expensive, the heels on her shoes high and spindly. The nickname is a nice reminder that my mom isn’t one note. She’s the woman who bought me a car for graduation. She’s the woman who held me when I cried after I found out my boyfriend of two years was moving to Spain. Yes, that Spain. She’s the woman who made horrible, dry pancakes every Sunday.

  The point is, she tried.

  “Work is great.” A generic answer is always the safest, and quite frankly, I don’t want to talk about Dad just yet.

  “That’s lovely. Are you dating anyone?”

  “Oh, you know…” I hedge. Sometimes she asks; sometimes she doesn’t. Usually I give her very little information and she moves on to the next question. Today that’s not the case.

  “Who is he?” Her tone hints that we’re besties, but of all the hats my mother wears, my BFF isn’t one of them. Still, I see no harm in sharing about Davis.

  “He’s a stock analyst. We’ve only been out a handful of times. He’s nice.” It’s not an inaccurate description for Davis, but he’s so much more than a “nice stock analyst.” He’s becoming important to me—more so every day.

  “A guy with money. I like it. Especially for a girl like you, without a career.”

  Ah, there’s the dig I’ve been waiting for.

  “Gee, look at the time.” I stand from my chair. Maybe today isn’t the best day to share what I know about Dad.

  “Grace. I’m sorry. Sit.” Mom tips her chin at my vacated chair.

  I count to three before lowering myself into it.

  “It’s this case I’m handling,” she explains. “Divorce after forty ye
ars of marriage. They hate each other. Three grown kids, a cabin in Maine. They shared a business, have six grandchildren. It’s heartbreaking that no one makes it anymore.” She sips her coffee. “Whatever you do, never get married.”

  I’ve been receiving the same advice since I was in the eighth grade. That was the year my parents chose to stay together “for me.” Both of them were particularly bitter from that point forward.

  “Dad stopped by McGreevy’s,” I blurt, knowing if I don’t blurt it, I’ll never say it.

  “What the hell did that bastard want?” Her lip curls at one edge.

  My cheeks heat. She doesn’t know. My mother is a lot of things, but cold-blooded isn’t one of them.

  “Leave it to him to crash into my world without notice,” she continues. “Just like when he left all of his things behind when he moved out and then expected me to give them back when I hadn’t seen him in two years.”

  This is the side of Dawn Buchanan that makes it hard to remember she can be sweet. Her bitterness and resentment of my father overshadow every aspect of her life. The fact that my father came to see me doesn’t even register as being my issue rather than hers.

  “Let’s focus on the present here, Mom.”

  Some of the anger seeps from her expression. “Sorry, dear. You know what that man does to me.”

  “Do you know why he came to see me?” I ask.

  “Why does he do anything?”

  Real helpful.

  “Mom. He’s…he’s sick. Pancreatic cancer.”

  Her eyes widen. She blinks. Then she presses her lips into a line and regards her cup. “How do you know?”

  “Because he told me?”

  Her next breath is heavy.

  “Grace.” She puts a hand over mine. “Your father has always been a martyr. I don’t want him using an elaborate excuse to worm his way back into your life.”

  I gape. “He wouldn’t lie about this.” After speaking with him at length about his illness, I knew there was no way he was being anything less than truthful. I tell her he only has a few months to live and share the details that he shared with me.