“Okay, thank you. I’ll send them up.” The receptionist picks up her hand again.
The bellman slides out of the way. He should be happy that he still has his hand. My mother has the patience of a lion.
“Sorry, but I don’t want to lose my job,” Kyleigh says.
“It’s completely understandable. Thank you,” I remark.
“Bea!” my mom yells.
I shake my head. “I’m coming,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Penthouse, Carl,” Kyleigh calls over.
“Yes, penthouse, Carl,” my mom repeats.
I wonder why she has to act so justified. She left this man eons ago without a look back.
As the elevator moves up the floors, I hope Gretchen is the girl who he’ll marry because if he marries my mother, I’m not sure I could handle it.
The elevator dings, and Carl holds the doors open for us to file out. My mom walks straight ahead, so I dig into my coat pocket, handing him a tip.
He bows. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Just Bea, and you’re welcome.”
I catch up to my mom down the hallway, and there in the plaque is written Penthouse A. Immediately, my stomach is in knots. I haven’t seen my father in five years, and I’m not sure how today will play out.
My mom’s wastes no time pressing her finger to the buzzer. We wait in silence because I’m already nervous to see him.
What shape will he be in? Sick and fragile? Or will he still be the lively man he’s always been? Will the suited tall male with a scotch in his hand I remember open the door?
The doorknob circles, and the knots tighten from the anticipation of who is on the other side of the door. The door opens, and there’s a young woman with a short dark bob. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, barefoot.
“Hi, Mrs. Zanders, Mrs. Vitron. I’m Gretchen, Hugh’s caregiver,” she introduces herself.
I could facepalm myself for not thinking about a caregiver. Of course, my dad picked a sweet young girl who he probably regularly feels up. Might as well see the eye-candy while he can.
“You can call me Bea.” I breeze by her in the doorway, entering my father’s plush penthouse.
“You can call me Mrs. Vitron,” my mom says from behind me.
I roll my eyes from her absurdity.
The door shuts, and Gretchen meets my mother and me at the round table with numerous flower arrangements on it. “He’s sleeping, but he should be up soon.”
“Thank you, Gretchen,” my dad says, walking into the foyer.
“Sir, you shouldn’t be up.” Gretchen practically knocks my mom into the table, rushing over to my dad. She grabs his elbow to hold him up, and they disappear through the archway to the family room.
My mom stands there in awe of the absence of the vibrant man she once knew, maybe even loved.
“Come on.” I wave my hand in the air for her to follow me, but she stands there, her long, thin fingers gripping the round maple table in the foyer. “Mom?”
Her eyes reach mine, but her face has paled. I understand what she’s thinking. My dad’s rosy cheeks have been replaced with a yellow tint. His once muscular build with tight skin is now saggy skin hanging off his thin frame.
“I should go,” she says softly. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.” Her hands let go of her anchor, and she backs up toward the door.
I grab ahold of her hand to stop her, but her eyes are fixated with fear at the archway, like a monster is lurking nearby.
“Mom, let’s go.” I pull harder to bring her back down to Earth with me, but she’s somewhere far, far away.
“Mr. Vitron would like tea. Would either of you?” Gretchen’s voice says from behind me.
I drop my mom’s hand to give Gretchen my attention. “Yes, please. We’ll both have tea. Just give us a minute.”
She smiles and leaves us alone once again.
“Mom, you are going to go in there. What did you expect a dying man to look like?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t.”
She wiggles her wrist out of my grip, and before I can stop her, she’s at the door. The door clicks shut, and my eyes close as I try to calm my anger. I should have known that she wouldn’t be able to handle anything serious.
Pushing my issues with my mother off, I straighten my shoulders, plaster on that fake smile, and walk through the archway to my sick father.
My dad is sitting in an oversize chair, looking out his span of windows to downtown. His back is to me, and his thinning hair is what I notice first. My hand grips my purse strap, and I break the distance between us.
“Hi, Dad.” I sit down on the matching leather couch.
“Hi, Bea.” He smiles, shifting in his seat to straighten his back. “How was your trip?”
“It was good. I came with a coworker, so it wasn’t a dull drive.”
He glances over to me from the corners of his eyes. “What’s the coworker’s name?”
I should have known to zip my lips. He’s going to make more of an extensive issue of this than he should. “We have a campaign to work on, and he agreed to drive me out here, so I would be able to come. My boss is an asshole who didn’t want to give me the time off.”
I lean back into the couch, wondering why I was so scared of coming. Although it’s a rarity to see my father, when I’m in his presence, it’s always effortless conversation.
“Even with your ailing father?” He props his slippered feet onto the ottoman.
“I know. He’s just a dick. A complete woman-hating dick.” I place my purse on the couch, swinging my legs under me.
My dad might look like a much older self, but his personality is still alive and vibrant.
“Let me pull some strings, and get you out here. There are top agencies in Chicago.”
I roll my eyes at his classic fix-it obsession. “Eventually, I’ll earn it, but not before.”
I remember the last time he tried to fix it, and my own grandmother turned me down for the Vitron’s advertising account. Never again, I swore to myself.
“I love your drive and independence. Wish I had more of it.”
Gretchen comes in, placing the tray on the side table. She glances over to me and then back to her three steaming cups of water. “I brought a variety for you to select from.” She hands me a box while she prepares my dad’s cup.
“Can you believe how beautiful my daughter is, Gretch?”
She glances over to me with a soft smile. “She is gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” I say, my cheeks heating with their compliments.
Gretchen moves to put the tea bag I selected in the cup, but I stop her, insisting that I can do it myself. Truth be told, I should be doing my father’s, too.
She slowly nods and then exits the room.
“What were we talking about?” My dad stares at me longer than usual, and I shift in my seat. “Oh, yes, that I’ll put you in business.”
“No, Dad. I have a good job at Deacon, and I have a feeling I’ll become senior exec soon.” Just saying it aloud shoots tingles through my body. After all this time, I’ll finally be senior exec.
“If only I had paid attention to you sooner.”
My brows crinkle as I wonder exactly what he means.
He must sense it because he holds his hand up in the air. “I mean, if I wasn’t so self-absorbed, maybe I’d have seen your dreams and aspirations before now.”
I shake my head because I wouldn’t want those things anyway. “I’m happy where I am, but thank you.”
I fail to mention that I’d have loved to have more of a relationship with him, but I won’t kick a horse when he’s down, and that’s exactly what I’d be doing if I told him how much I craved a normal father/daughter relationship. He’s in the final chapter of his life, and reflection can strip you down. Not that I know what it’s like to be knocking on death’s door, but I’m best friends with reflection and regret.
“Well, swimming used to be,” he says. A warm smi
le absorbs his face.
He was the one who got me into swimming. Hired instructors for me and paid my monthly dues to a top-notch pool when I lived with my grandmother. He’s always been good at paying.
“I still remember when you won that meet at, what age? Eight?” His eyes float up to the ceiling, as though me getting the ribbon is replaying for him.
I was actually ten, but it was the last day I ever saw my parents in the same room, other than moments ago here. They sat in those stands, and for a brief moment, I thought they might reconcile. That was, until I stood to claim my medal, and my mom stood, too—to scream at my dad for dating teenagers.
I notice my dad’s goo-goo face, and I know he’s not remembering that specific part, only the good of that day.
“Yeah, I think that’s what spurred my drive toward swimming.” I tuck my legs back up under me on the couch. I’ll say one thing. My dad’s got some dope furniture. Comfy and practical. So much better than my mom’s.
The conversation quiets, and my dad’s eyes focus outside to the streets of Chicago.
“Dad?” I ask.
He turns his attention away from the windows back to me.
“Why can’t you get a transplant? I did some research, and I don’t understand why you aren’t fighting it. There was this one case—”
The teacup shakes down to the table, and he holds his hand up to stop me. “Sweetie, I could probably fight for one, but I’ve made my peace.”
“Dad, you’re still so young, and I think you’ve learned what drinking can cause. If you promise to quit, I’m positive they would approve you.”
He shakes his head, a wry smile on his face. “They never denied me.”
My brows furrow as I stare over at him.
“I never asked for one.”
“Dad, how has your doctor not asked? Does June know?”
June is my grandmother. I’ve never been asked to call her anything else even though my uncle’s kids call her Nana.
“She does. She told me she wouldn’t watch me die.”
I’ve never had such a frank conversation with my father, and there’s a small pea-size amount of hope that it won’t be our last.
“Let’s go see your doctor. I have a few questions of my own.” I set my teacup down.
“No, sweetie. I’ve chosen my path, and this is it. I did this to myself, and I’m not going to take a liver away from a deserving person just for me to ruin another one.” He picks his teacup back up.
My eyes veer to the window. I’m unable to swallow the thought that he won’t be here much longer. In my mind, I thought we had forever to mend our relationship, not weeks or maybe months.
“I have to say, I agree with June. It’s not fair to your loved ones to watch you die when you could easily be cured.”
I stand and look down at his frail body glowing a yellowish tint. He’s not the man I’ll remember.
“Sit down, Beatrice,” he says with an authoritative voice.
With one tone, my butt is back down on the couch, like I’m four years old again.
“Dad,” I plea.
“No, Bea. This is my choice. I have no control over my drinking. Last night, I still drank a fifth of scotch, and if this”—his hands move down his body—“doesn’t stop me, nothing will.”
I stand, but this time, I go to the window. As I look out to Lake Michigan, my nose tickles, and I’m certain that tears are about to follow. But I don’t cry over anything and damn sure not in front of others.
“I wish you’d reconsider,” I talk to the window.
“I’m not going to.”
“Money can buy anything, Dad, and it sure can buy you a new liver,” I argue the points he’s already considered.
He’s made his choice though, and I’m not sure I can accept his death wish.
His hand lands on my shoulder, and I inhale a deep breath to push that gnawing emotion of sadness away. When his hand moves to my back, rubbing up and down, I lose my battle, and I step into his arms.
In the moment, he’s not the run-down man he’s become. In my mind, he’s my dad, the man who can hold the weight of the world on his shoulders. We’ve had our differences, and he hasn’t been the best father figure, but he’s the only one I’ve got. And, now, he’s practically committing suicide by not allowing modern medicine to do its job.
“Shh,” he whispers, soothing the sobs racking my body.
“No!” I step back.
His arms fall back to his sides. He instantly grabs the back of a chair to hold himself up.
“I won’t let you do this.” My eyes lock with his to show him how serious I am.
“Bea . . . sweetie.”
“No, Dad. June might be okay with ignoring the fact that you’re killing yourself, but I’m not. You are going to fight this, and if you won’t do it, I will.” I walk over to the couch, grabbing my boots. I put them on and grab my purse.
Once I have everything on and I’m ready to go, I see that he’s sat down in a nearby chair. He’s incapable of standing, which only means that I need to move fast on my endeavor.
“I’ll be back with help.” I spin around on my heels and start to exit his condo.
He says nothing. Not even a call out of good-bye, which is fine by me because he isn’t going to say good-bye to me. Not now, not ever.
Dylan
I WAKE UP FROM MY impromptu nap and look over at the clock.
Fuck. Two damn hours. What was I thinking? The other side of me argues that I drove half of the day today, and I am now in a different time zone. Not to mention, the constant fight within myself not to step over that line with Bea is emotionally tolling.
Shuffling through the paperwork spread out on the table, I realize it’s no use. I’ve never been good at working alone. I’m better with partners when it comes to brainstorming. That’s when my pure genius shines. Pushing my doubt of myself aside, I pull out my workout clothes from my neatly packed suitcase.
I fiddle with my iPhone on the way to the workout center of the hotel. A sigh of relief leaves me when I notice it’s empty. The worst is sharing a small room with a stranger, especially if they want to talk. I head to the treadmill first and plug my earbuds into my phone. Time for inspiration to hit.
If only I could focus, but instead, my head is everywhere but on the Nike campaign. Mostly, it’s on Bea and then flicks to Ava and the thought that I’m screwing up my life more. I mean, do I need someone on the account with me? I could have easily picked Kevin or John. Wish I could say Yasmin, but her diet food ruled her out.
Then, to come with Bea this weekend. What the hell was I thinking? I’ve shut a handful of fireworks in a jar, hoping the explosions don’t blow the top off. Sooner or later, they’ll have no other choice but to bust out. I’ve done the same with the tension rising between Bea and me.
My body responds to her, and I can lie to myself, pretending that I maneuvered the schedule to allow her to go to Chicago for the benefit of the Nike campaign, but in truth, my heart pulled when I heard her pleas to Tim. She wanted to be here, and I wanted to work it out for her.
With Nike completely off my mind, I up the speed on the treadmill, figuring the harder I have to work, the more my mind will concentrate on anything but her. Just as I’m about to say screw it and go back upstairs to demand that my creativity reveal itself, Bea walks through the doors to the pool.
My eyes watch her from the window of the workout facility that overlooks the pool. She saunters over to the glass table, placing her towel and key card down. My eyes veer down her toned legs as she slides her shorts off, as if I’m watching her strip. She raises her shirt over her chest, and I’m disappointed that a one-piece swimsuit covers the length of her torso. I was hoping for a glimpse of that flat stomach I licked salt off of that night at Breaker’s.
She’s ignorant to my voyeur eyes, and it turns me on. My feet move like I’m running to her. She positions her goggles over her short blonde hair and slinks into the water, never testing t
he temperature first.
My arms pump at my sides, demanding my body to keep the momentum, even with my breathing constricting the more I watch her. Immediately, she pushes off the wall into a freestyle form.
Growing up with an Olympic hopeful, I can spot a good swimmer, and Bea is one. Contrary to my brother’s rougher form, her swimming is similar to a dolphin skimming the surface. Bea has edges, sharp ones to keep people at a distance, but in the pool, I can feel the serenity washing off of her.
Without fully thinking of the repercussions, I press end on my treadmill and grab a towel from the rack. Wiping down my face and neck, I leave the workout facility and walk into the pool area. Bea’s blind to my approach, steady in her own groove. I wish I had the willpower not to interrupt her. She’s obviously working something out within herself.
I strip off my shirt, toe out of my shoes, and take my socks off. Leaving my phone and key card by hers on the glass table, I wait until she’s ahead of the ladder, and then I slither into the water, careful not to cause a wake.
The water is heated and feels unbelievably incredible on my tense leg muscles. Leaning back on my arms, I push my legs out in front of me, waiting for her to notice.
I spot her hesitation for a second once she spots that someone’s in the pool, but she continues to propel forward until she hits the edge of the pool. She stops, leans over the edge, and pushes her goggles up to her head. All the while, I sit there with a smirk on my face, waiting.
Finally, she glances over, and she drags her hand across the water, splashing me—well, if it could reach me.
“What the hell?” She takes off her goggles, tossing them on the edge of the pool.
“I was on the treadmill. Thought I’d join you.”
“You swim?” she asks the same question most do after finding out that Tanner McCain’s my brother.
“No. I mean, I took lessons when I was younger, but I never competed.”
Her lips dip down for a second.
“Is that a knock against me?” I joke because I couldn’t care less.
She looks up, rapidly shaking her head. “No, not at all. I just thought we could race.” She shrugs.
Love Emerged (Love Surfaced #3) Page 10
