The Virgin Society Collection

40. A Deck of Cards

40

A DECK OF CARDS

Nick

I don’t normally swing by my son’s cube when I reach the office. But normally, he’s not icing me out.

On the way to work, I pick up an egg sandwich at the bodega around the corner, hoping he hasn’t eaten. Usually, he hasn’t. In the elevator, I’m that much closer to seeing him, and my nerves fray a little more. What will it take to make this right? A sandwich isn’t enough. I know that. But what will it take? What if he cuts me out of his life? This is uncharted territory for me.

But wait…Is it?

My parents were livid when I told them I got a girl pregnant.

The night I told them, my father refused to talk to me the rest of the evening. My mother woke me in the morning with a knock on my door and an “I’m still mad at you. But get your butt out of bed.”

They weren’t happy with me for a while, but they didn’t cut me out permanently. That gives me a small modicum of reassurance. Very small.

I step off the elevator and head straight for David’s cubicle. He’s not there, so I set the sandwich down on his desk, then grab a Post-It note and a pen. What do I say, though? I’m not going to explain myself again on a sticky pad.

Instead, I opt for a simple note.

I love you. Here’s breakfast.

I turn to leave, but I stop short when I see him walking toward me.

He looks better than yesterday—less haggard, but more stoic, with his jaw set, and his gaze hard. When he nears me, I break the silence. “I got you breakfast,” I say.

I brace myself for a caustic thanks, but I already ate . But he only grumbles, “Thanks.”

And keeps on walking.

I don’t know if that’s better or worse than what I’d imagined.

Later that day, Finn ducks into my office with an expectant look. “Am I getting more tiramisu?”

I laugh humorlessly.

“I take it that’s a yes,” he says, then shuts the door and strides to the chair.

“I’ll send some tonight. Since I finally told David the truth,” I say.

Finn lifts a brow in question. “How did it go?”

“Well, he figured it out before I told him, so I’d say my brilliant plan to stop lying blew up in my face. And now, he’s not speaking to me. Which is…fair,” I admit.

“That sucks,” he says.

I hold out my hands wide. “Honestly, I feel pretty hopeless right now.”

“Why?” Finn asks, confused.

“Um, see above. My son isn’t speaking to me. I’m an asshole dad. I broke his trust.”

“I mean, yes,” he says, shrugging like that’s obvious and inevitable, “you did.”

“Thanks, Finn,” I say, and I don’t bother to hide the sarcasm. This isn’t helping.

“Well, you did break his trust. Did you expect him to suggest a double date tonight?”

“Shockingly, I didn’t,” I deadpan.

“Then, why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” I ask, irritation rising in me.

“Like all is lost,” he points out.

I breathe out hard, annoyed. But I say nothing as I turn over his comment in my head, considering it. Finally, I admit, “Fine. Maybe I expected too much.”

“Then give it time. And don’t give up,” he says.

I scrub a hand across my chin, considering his advice. His wise advice. “Of course I won’t give up.”

“Good,” he says. “So keep groveling.”

“Is that what’s required? Is that what Marilyn makes you do?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Word to the wise—don’t do what Marilyn and I do. Do the opposite. We are like…” He pauses to think. “A Taylor Swift tune.”

“Shit, man. It’s that bad?”

He sighs heavily. “It is that bad. I don’t think we’re going to last.”

Even though I saw this coming, I don’t say I told you so. I just tell him the truth. “I wish you weren’t dealing with that, but I’m here anytime you need me.”

With a faint smile, he taps the desk. “I know you are, Nick.” He rises but looks hard at me one more time. “I mean it. Don’t give up. Just keep trying.”

“I will.”

I won’t give up at all. But trying again with David will have to wait a few hours, since there’s something else I need to do tonight.

After work, I stop by a flower shop then head to the hospital during visiting hours. At the check-in desk, I ask the woman in scrubs if I can see Cynthia Sweeney. She makes a quick call to the room, then tells me, “She’d be happy to see you. Room 203.”

I knew the number from sending flowers yesterday. I take the stairs to her floor. Carrying a get-well basket and another bouquet of flowers, I rap on the open door.

My son’s girlfriend greets me with a bright smile. “Hi, Mr. Adams,” she says and waves me in.

She lies in bed with her leg extended and supported by a pillow. Her dark hair is looped into a messy bun. A scratch cuts across her cheek, and a small blue bruise dots her chin. Poor kid.

“I’m guessing you’ve had better days,” I say with sympathy, eyeing the bulky black brace on her leg.

“Well, you should see the other guy,” she says dryly.

The man who hit her walked away with mere scratches, David told me. “Glad to see your sense of humor is uninjured.” I’m glad to see, too, that she’s not as shy as the first time I met her.

I hold up the flowers. “I got you a little something.”

“Thank you. I don’t have too many. Just from my parents and my brother, and the ones you sent yesterday morning,” she says, gesturing to a handful of vases. “Oh, and Layla’s too.”

I note that Rose hasn’t come by. Neither have the Bancrofts, David’s maternal grandparents. Nor have they sent anything.

“David told me you liked flowers,” I say, explaining the dahlias. “And I told Layla.”

No point in hiding that detail when the cat’s out of the bag.

“It was kind of you. And her,” she says, then gestures to a plastic chair. “Want to sit? They’re serving dinner soon.”

Sounds like an invitation to keep her company, so I take it, since the room seems empty and she sounds eager. First though, I set the flowers down, then gesture to the basket. “There are some puzzles in there. Crossword puzzles and cards, and a few other little things.”

“Cards,” she says, brightening, like I brought candy to a kid.

“You like cards?”

“Card shark in the house,” she says, tapping her chest. “Can you play gin rummy?”

I scoff. “Can I play gin rummy? What do you take me for?”

She stares at me. “Well? Can you?”

I open the deck and deal.

An hour later, I’ve been destroyed by the woman in the hospital bed. She’s beaten me hand after hand, all while eating a sad-looking burger and sadder tater tots. The carrots, sagging in the middle of the plate, remain untouched.

The clock ticks closer to seven, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome. “Well, I should get out of here.”

She smiles and nods. “David is on his way.”

Ah, so she knows that my son won’t want to see me.

Another punch to the gut.

But I take the hint, grabbing my phone, and heading to the door. Before I go, she calls out, “Mr. Adams.”

I pause in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Thank you. And, um, keep trying.”

That lessens the blow, but only a little. “I will.”

When I head down the hall, David’s walking toward me, eyes narrowed. He stops a foot away. He’s tall, like me, so we’re eye to eye. “You gonna try and sleep with her too?”

What the hell? Anger rises in me, a thick, hot plume. But I keep my voice low and controlled. “I didn’t raise you to speak to people like that,” I tell him, though I’m seething inside.

I don’t fight with low blows. And he’d better not either. With me or anyone.

He huffs out hard, like a bull.

I’m not done, though. I go full dad and say, “Do better.”

He swallows roughly, and there’s a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes. Maybe even shame. Then, he disappears into Cynthia’s room.

“Hey, babe,” I hear him say, and he’s clearly happy to see her.

“Hi,” she says brightly.

He’s happy now. That’s what matters. Not whether or not he’s happy with me.

That’s what I tell myself the whole way home.