Mr. Nice Guy (Pierce Brothers Book 1)

by Belinda Williams

  Chels, I’m so sorry. I won’t be home until late tonight. Long shift. One of my co-workers needs support. Dinner will be there for you when you get home.

  Chelsea re-read the message. She knew Tom well enough by now to interpret “long shift” as a really intense, serious call-out, and “co-worker needs support” to mean they’d experienced something horrible.

  Chelsea released a shaky sigh. She hoped his co-worker would be OK and that the patients were alive and recovering.

  Chelsea typed a reply.

  Of course. Totally understand. And don’t worry about dinner. I’m good.

  A message came back almost immediately.

  Dinner will be there for you when you get home.

  Chelsea’s heart—which was almost back to normal—skipped a beat. For some reason, she liked it when Tom insisted on things. It had been the same with the watch. Not pushy. Just . . . firm. But nice, of course. Always so nice.

  Chelsea grinned, then typed a reply.

  Thank you. Should I wait up?

  She hit send and then gasped.

  Oh my God, that was something a girlfriend would say! Talk about being laced with innuendo.

  Chelsea rushed to shoot off another message.

  I didn’t mean it that way! I meant in case you wanted to talk.

  Tom’s reply didn’t take long.

  Lol. Way to get a guy’s hopes up. I know what you meant. No need to wait up.

  Chelsea stared at his reply. He was just joking around and being fun like he normally was. That was Tom in a nutshell—good spirited and a great sense of humour. The bit about getting his hopes up was just a joke. Wasn’t it?

  ‘Chelsea? Can you join me in my office, please?’

  Chelsea quickly switched her phone screen off and looked up at Barb, who was standing in the doorway with a sober look on her face. More sober than usual, that was.

  Shit. What was this about? Had Barb finally figured out that Apple watches could receive messages and decided that it was a conspiracy against her running an efficient business?

  ‘Sure. Everything OK?’ Chelsea tried to sound casual and relaxed.

  Barb’s thin lips spread themselves into a tight line. ‘Dylan’s mother is here and she wants to speak to both of us about something.’

  Chelsea’s thoughts about Barb’s paranoia regarding technology vanished and she followed Barb to her office. It must be serious if Dylan’s mum, Tori, was here to talk to them. Tori wasn’t generally the sort to stop and chat like some of the other parents—she was too busy running between her corporate job in the city and her children.

  Maybe it was about the biting incident. Chelsea had already reassured Matt it wasn’t unusual behaviour. Perhaps Tori wanted to discuss it in person, too, and Chelsea was happy to reassure her that it wasn’t uncommon behaviour in some toddlers.

  As soon as Chelsea saw Tori standing ashen-faced in the centre of Barb’s office, she knew it was much more serious than that.

  ‘Tori, hi,’ Chelsea said softly, stunned by Dylan’s mother’s appearance.

  Tori met Chelsea’s eyes. They were puffy and red as though she’d been crying, and she was twisting a tissue between her hands. It was out-of-character behaviour for her, and she was usually extremely self-possessed. Chelsea had only ever seen her in corporate attire on her way to or from work. Now she wore an old T-shirt that was faded and stretched and a comfortable pair of jeans.

  Tori’s mouth twisted into an anguished frown and she looked between Barb and Chelsea helplessly. ‘Last night, Matt . . . Dylan’s dad, tried to take his own life.’

  Chelsea stared at her, too shocked to speak.

  Barb stepped forward. ‘We are very relieved to hear that he didn’t succeed.’

  Tori nodded, and a few tears escaped to trail down her cheeks. ‘He’s safe now and currently receiving care in hospital. So that means Dylan will be living with me permanently for the time being.’

  Barb reached over and briefly rubbed a hand on Tori’s arm. The physical contact was unusual for her. Obviously Barb was as similarly shocked by the news as Chelsea was. ‘I think that’s for the best,’ she agreed.

  Tori nodded and looked at her feet. ‘We haven’t told Dylan. I’m still not sure what to say. We’ll probably just tell him that Daddy had to go away for work for a little while . . .’ Her face crumbled and she put a hand to her mouth to cover a sob.

  Barb reached over and patted Tori’s shoulder sympathetically. ‘We’ll keep the routine here for Dylan as normal as possible, and if he asks about his dad, we’ll only tell him what you’ve advised us to.’

  Tori nodded, still not looking at them. ‘I feel so helpless. And guilty. There’s so much guilt. I keep thinking that maybe if our marriage hadn’t ended . . .’

  ‘Hush,’ Barb soothed, rubbing her arm again. ‘That line of thinking isn’t going to help anyone. Just concentrate on what’s important—your family.’

  Tori nodded. ‘I really appreciate the support.’

  ‘Can we get in touch with him?’ Chelsea blurted and ignored Barb’s pointed look. ‘So we can send a card saying we’re thinking about him,’ she added.

  Tori definitely needed their support, but so did Matt right now.

  Tori rubbed a hand across her forehead like her head hurt, which it probably did. ‘That’s really thoughtful. I think he’d like that. I’ll email you the details.’

  From there, Barb steered the conversation to more practical matters like arrangements for the pick-ups and drop-offs when Tori was working on the days Matt had usually picked Dylan up. By the end of the meeting, Tori seemed a little more like her normal self, or at least less shaken.

  Barb and Chelsea followed Tori outside and stood and watched as Dylan left with his mother.

  When they were gone, Barb let out a rush of breath. ‘In all my years of running this centre, I thought I’d seen everything. Sadly not.’

  Chelsea had the unusual urge to pat Barb on the shoulder, but resisted. You never touched the Dragon Lady, although today she seemed less like a dragon and more like a tired older woman.

  ‘Poor Matt. He was so sad about having so little access to the kids,’ Chelsea said softly.

  ‘I know. And the tragic thing is that now he’s made an attempt on his life, it’s only going to hurt his ability to have access to them.’

  ‘Can they do that?’ Chelsea asked, alarmed.

  For once, Barb’s blue eyes were soft, not stern. ‘Think about it. You’ve heard the stories in the media about parents killing themselves and their children.’

  Chelsea’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Matt would never . . .’ She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

  ‘I don’t think so either. But you never know, do you? You never know.’

  Barb turned to head back inside towards the sound of children playing and laughing. It was so at odds with the dark feeling of helplessness lodged firmly in the pit of Chelsea’s belly. It was only when she was gone that Chelsea realised Barb hadn’t ordered Chelsea back to work like she usually would. Her boss was giving her space.

  Chelsea took in the empty play equipment that stood ready for tomorrow. The sandpit that was covered over. The soft fake turf to cushion against tumbles and falls. These children were so young. How was a kid like Dylan ever going to begin to comprehend what had happened to his daddy? And that was if they ever told him the truth.

  One thing Chelsea had learned over the last decade working with children was they were more resilient and a hell of a lot smarter than you gave them credit for. Previous students had lost grandparents or older aunts and uncles and come out with the most surprising things afterwards. One comment from a little girl still stood out:

  Mummy is sad about Grandma not being here anymore. But I know she’ll never leave us. She’s in all our good memories and no one can ever take those away.

  Chelsea wiped away a single tear, hurting for Matt, Tori and Dylan, and the rest of their family. She turned and made her way towards the happy sound
s of the children, finding that she needed to be around them.

  Chelsea always liked to talk—or at the very least have the company of others when she felt sad about something. Later on, she would call Nadia on the way home. Chelsea knew her friend would be there to listen.

  The strange thing was, Nadia wasn’t the first person who had come to mind.

  Tom was.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was late by the time Tom arrived home. He was careful not to make too much noise on the landing as he retrieved his keys from his backpack. It was after eleven on a weeknight, and Chelsea would most likely be in bed already. Tom hoped she’d at least enjoyed the dinner he’d organised for her despite screwing up the fifth date.

  Reece had needed him. He hadn’t been working as a paramedic for as long as Tom had, so he hadn’t seen everything yet. Not that Tom was ever sure you could see everything in this job.

  Today Reece had arrived at a domestic violence call-out to find they were too late. It was one of those ugly firsts no paramedic wanted to experience, but frequently did. Tom still remembered his. It had been in Sydney seven years ago, and he could still bring to mind the most unimportant details. The child’s Sesame Street cup on its side near the sink. A woman’s black hoodie draped over the back of a chair. They were burned into his brain along with the more important details like the woman lying face down, her greasy brown hair stained with blood due to the fatal blow to her head.

  Tom shook the memory away. It wasn’t fair that some memories—especially the good ones—faded easily, while the bad ones remained imprinted in your brain. Logically he knew it was a survival instinct thing, but most of the time it just felt cruel.

  Absorbed in his thoughts and his need to be quiet, he was halfway to the kitchen before he noticed Chelsea sitting on the sofa.

  He stilled.

  She was staring out the window, her face pale in the dark room—she hadn’t bothered to turn a lamp on. The only light came from the television, which was casting flickering shadows across her face. Tears trailed down her cheeks, and she still hadn’t noticed him standing there.

  Tom was careful to keep his voice soft. ‘Chels?’

  She didn’t respond.

  He tried again, louder this time. ‘Chels?’ He walked around the front of the coffee table so that he came clearly into view without scaring her.

  She blinked as he crouched in front of her and looked down at him, confusion lining her face.

  ‘Chels? Is everything alright?’

  She released a breath. ‘Um, no. Not really.’

  Tom waited. He’d learned not to push people in his line of work. Sometimes it was better to give them their space.

  Tom rose from the floor and sat beside her on the sofa, careful not to sit too close. When she still didn’t say anything, he tried a different approach.

  ‘Did you enjoy dinner?’ he asked.

  Chelsea was staring out the window again. Her frown deepened, then she burst into tears.

  ‘Chels?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ve just had a really bad day. Except that’s really selfish of me to say because it wasn’t my really bad day, but someone else’s. And I don’t know why I’m not handling it, but I’m not, and I’m so sad, and it’s so horrible and I don’t know how to process it. And then I keep thinking of Dylan, poor Dylan, and his poor father and—’

  ‘Shh.’ If he’d been with a patient, he’d have put a reassuring hand on their shoulder. But this was Chelsea, so he drew her into his arms.

  Her words became muffled against his chest and transformed into sobs. Tom let her cry, because that was obviously what she needed to do. He stroked her back gently while she cried, and after a minute or two, she produced a loud sniff and eased away from him.

  Tom used his thumb to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Bad day?’

  She bit her lip, not saying anything and looking close to tears once more, so he changed the subject again.

  ‘Did you eat dinner?’ he asked.

  She nodded and then burst into tears a second time, which wasn’t the desired reaction. He circled her in his arms again.

  ‘The food was that bad, huh?’

  She buried her face into his chest and sobbed, laughed, hiccuped, then sobbed again. Finally he was rewarded with a soft “thank you”.

  This time he stroked her hair. ‘I know Italian food is your weakness, and that place came recommended. I ordered it earlier and got Annie to let herself in to put it in the fridge ready for you. You know she’d do anything for me.’

  Annie was their elderly next-door neighbour who Chelsea often joked would run away with Tom if she were forty years younger. Tom fed her cat and watered her pot plants when she went to visit her sister, so Annie was always good for a favour in return.

  Chelsea slipped out of his arms and looked at him, her eyes bright like the blue sky during a sunshower. ‘The food was delicious. There are leftovers if you want them.’

  ‘I’m good. I ate with Reece earlier.’

  ‘Is Reece OK?’

  The concern in her gaze almost undid him. God, he adored this girl and her big heart. She was obviously upset about something serious, but still thought to ask about Reece.

  ‘Long day. He had a first.’

  Chelsea grimaced. She knew what he meant by “a first” after having lived with him for a while now. Usually she’d ask what the first had been, but this time she said something else.

  ‘I had a first, too,’ she whispered.

  Tom’s heart constricted, and it felt like a ten-tonne truck had collided with his chest.

  She’s alright. She’s sitting here. She’s not hurt.

  Tom redirected his thoughts—as he’d learned how to do—and the pressure in his chest eased a bit. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  Chelsea gave him a weak smile. ‘I sort of did already, didn’t I? But I don’t think I made much sense.’

  ‘That’s OK, you don’t have to explain yourself—’

  ‘Dylan’s father tried to kill himself.’

  Tom closed his mouth. Dylan was obviously a child at work. And the word “tried” implied that he’d failed, which was the best outcome for everyone involved.

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ he said, meaning it. ‘Is he going to be OK?’

  ‘Yes. He’s alive. But I don’t know. Will he ever be OK? Barb thinks it will be harder for him to see his children now—they’re getting a divorce, you see. Now he’s done this, they might consider him unsafe to be around the kids, but I don’t think he will be, and I know he’s a great father.’ She drew in another breath, the words tumbling out, one on top of the other.

  ‘Everything I’ve seen to date suggests he’s a good father, and the whole situation is just so horrible and unfair, and I wish there was something I could do. I was going to send him a card, but that seems kind of stupid. I mean, what do I write in it? “Sorry to hear you tried to kill yourself. I’m so glad you didn’t succeed”? Ugh! See? But he must be hurting right now, and surely it would be really good to know that someone is thinking of him. And oh, God, I’m rambling again, aren’t I?’

  Tom bit down on a smile, because she was just so damn beautiful inside and out. ‘You can ramble all you like,’ he told her.

  ‘This is why I wanted to talk to you when you got home. I knew you’d understand. I spoke to Nadia on the phone and she helped a bit—although I think what people say about her brusque bedside manner is true, you know. We’ll have to be careful she doesn’t turn into a surly old matron one day. So after I got off the phone, I sat here and waited and tried to distract myself with the television, but that was equally tragic and . . .’ She inhaled a shuddering breath and offered him a weak smile. ‘And here we are.’

  ‘You were waiting up for me?’

  Chelsea shrugged. ‘I know you told me not to because you’d be late, but it’s not like I felt like going to bed anyway, and I knew you’d understand. In fact, I reckon you’re probab
ly the only one who does.’

  Tom grappled to get hold of the war of emotions clamouring for his attention. Satisfaction that Chelsea wanted to talk to him. That she’d waited up for him. Sympathy because she was so distraught. Relief that she was OK, except for a little emotionally battered.

  Chelsea gave him a worried look. ‘That doesn’t sound stupid, does it?’

  ‘You’re never stupid, Chelsea. Occasionally amusing, but never stupid.’

  She smiled more convincingly this time and then dropped her gaze to her lap. ‘I just wonder if you think I’m stupid sometimes, that’s all. See? Now I’m repeating myself.’

  Women could be maddening, and that included Chelsea, but he’d never wanted to understand any woman quite as much as he wanted to understand her.

  He put his finger under her chin and tipped her face up so she’d look at him. ‘Chelsea, why would you think that?’

  Her eyelashes fluttered as she blinked and she tried to look away, but his finger was still on her chin.

  ‘I like how you say my full name.’

  ‘Chelsea?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her answer came out in a rush of breath.

  Tom swallowed. Somehow the tone of the conversation had changed in less time than it had taken him to draw a breath. The twenty or so centimetres between them now felt much too close.

  Be careful, Tom. She’s feeling emotional and vulnerable.

  Tom retracted his hand and rose slowly from the sofa, scooping up the empty wineglass she’d left on the table.

  ‘I’m glad you feel like you can talk to me,’ he said as he returned the glass to the sink.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Mmm?’ He didn’t look up and kept rinsing the glass under the tap.

  ‘Can you say my name again?’

  Tom shut off the tap and looked at her.

  She was standing up, staring at him from across the room, that earlier vulnerability he’d identified writ large in her pale complexion and wide eyes.

  ‘Chelsea,’ he obliged softly.