4. Derrick
4
DERRICK
There’s an unfamiliar car parked on the street in front of my house, but I don’t think much of it since the driveway next door is full. Steven and his wife have six kids. Between them, their spouses, and their children, it feels like they’ve got an entire city congregating over there sometimes.
Across the street, Mindy steps outside with her Pomeranian under her arm. The instant the dog sees me, it growls. Annoyance flares inside me in response. I still haven’t forgiven the thing for biting my ankle a few weeks ago when I was mowing and Mindy, who was out for a walk, stopped by to chat.
With a hand in the air in greeting, I continue to my front door. I’m exhausted and the last thing I want to do is get caught up in conversation. Mindy is nice, but she’s chatty.
When I step into the house, I immediately know something is wrong. If it weren’t for the smell of sautéed peppers cooking, the white dog running straight for me would have tipped me off.
“What the fuck?”
A clattering sound in the kitchen makes me cringe.
Because I know exactly who I’m about to be confronted with.
Izzy James rounds the corner wearing a sheepish smile. “Um, hi. I’m making dinner. Hope that’s okay.”
Stunned, I stare at her, at a loss for why she’d be in my house. Why she’d be making dinner .
The smile melts off her face. “Oh no. Layla didn’t ask you if I could stay here, did she? I’m so sorry.” She wrings her hands, chin lowered. “Let me finish this, then I’ll pack my stuff. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
I set my lunchbox down and dig my phone out of my pocket. “She called, but I was working, so I figured I’d call her after I got home and showered.”
Izzy shuffles awkwardly from side to side. “She gave me her key and told me to take the spare bedroom.”
With a hand held up between us, I dial Layla.
“Hey, Dad,” she answers. “How was work?”
Despite my annoyance, my chest warms like it does every time I hear my daughter’s voice. Even so, I keep my tone neutral and get to the point. “Good. Were you calling me for something?”
“Yeah,” she ways, a long breath leaving her. “Izzy needs a place to stay. She has a lot going on and she can’t stay with Via because… well, you know how she and Reid are.”
I grunt at this. I don’t like thinking about my son’s sex life.
Layla continues, her words coming fast. “The inn is completely booked. I know I should have okayed it with you first, but I went ahead and sent her over there.”
“I’m aware.”
She curses under her breath. “You’re home?”
“I’m home.”
She huffs, making the line crackle between us. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It’s fine. We’ll talk later.” I swallow back my frustration. It’ll keep.
“Be nice to her. She’s had a lot to deal with lately.”
I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. “I’m always nice.”
“Mhm,” she hums. “Love you, bye!” She hangs up before I can respond.
Once the screen goes dark, I drop my phone to my side and survey Izzy.
She doesn’t cower beneath my gaze. I have to give her credit there.
“Seriously. I thought you knew.”
With a humph , I cross my arms over my chest and do my best to ignore how good it smells in here. “So you said. How long are you in town for?”
She grimaces. “A few months.”
“A few months?” I balk.
In the time I’ve known Izzy, I’ve never seen her embarrassed—not truly. But this time, her cheeks turn bright red, and finally, she averts her gaze.
“That was my original plan,” she says, back to wringing her hands, “but I think maybe I’ll head back sooner. Don’t want to be in anyone’s hair.”
Squinting, I really study her. The way her nose wrinkled when she mentioned going home, the defeated slump in her shoulders, her dull eyes. “Did something happen? ”
“Happen? When?” She snaps her head up and scans the space, blinking uncomfortably.
“Something must have happened if you’re here and you’re planning to stay so long.”
She waves a dismissive hand, but the pain in her next words belies the casual move. “Just work stuff.”
Just work stuff , my ass. It’s much more than that, judging by this interaction, but if she doesn’t want to talk about it, then I won’t push her.
“Listen,” she shuffles her feet, “we can talk more about this later, I don’t want to invade your space or anything, but dinner is going to be ruined if I don’t get back to it.”
“You’re not invading my space. You’re fine to stay here as long as you want.”
Kicking her out would feel like leaving a wounded stray on my front porch and not helping.
“Are you sure?” She bites her lip, fingers wringing together nervously.
“I’m sure.” I doubt she can get into too much trouble in one summer.
My mouth waters when I’m once again hit with the delicious smell. “What are you making?”
“Enchiladas.”
I purse my lips, keeping my expression bland. “Interesting.”
Groaning, she throws her hands up in the air. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who only eats meat and potatoes.”
I shove my phone into my pocket and smirk. “What’s wrong with a good steak? Or a burger? I do like pasta, too.”
She puts a hand to her forehead. “You like beef. Is that what you’re telling me? These do have beef. You know, buried in the tortilla and spices.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great.” I’m not going to complain about a hot meal, especially one I don’t have to make. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to shower first.”
“No problem. I’ll get it plated up.”
With a nod, I bend down to take off my boots, and I swear I hear her mumble something like: “And try not to think about you naked.”
But when I look up, she’s gone. So I step out of my boots and set them by the front door. Even though it’s been over a year since Layla and Lili moved out, it still feels weird not seeing a pile of Lili’s tiny pink shoes on the mat. My kids thought I’d be thrilled to finally have the house to myself, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
My kids, and my granddaughter, are my life. It was inevitable, the day they’d move out and start their own lives, but the longer Layla stayed, the easier it was to convince myself it would always be that way.
The house is eerily quiet these days, like the life has been drained from it. A home is meant to be lived in and with the hours I work, my time here is limited.
Upstairs, I turn the shower on and take off my sweaty clothes. The house is small, so even from up here, I can hear Izzy singing along to some pop song.
For a minute, I let myself imagine that my wife is the one downstairs. It’s rare I let myself think about her anymore, as horrible as it sounds, because even after all these years, it still hurts. I moved out of the house we shared not long after she passed away because the memories there threatened to drown me.
But once in a while, it’s impossible to bury thoughts of what life would be like if she were still here, if we were doing the things we always talked about.
With a shake of my head, I banish the thoughts and step into the shower. I wash thoroughly but quickly so I don’t hold up dinner, and once I’m clean and wearing fresh clothes, I feel a million times more human.
Outside my bathroom door, Izzy’s fluffy white dog greets me with an excited bark. I study him, then eye the door. I’m sure I closed it behind me, but it’s cracked open now.
“Did you sneak in?”
He wags his tail in answer, pink tongue hanging halfway out of his mouth, too damn cute for his own good. I pick him up, and he instantly cuddles into my chest.
Should I get a dog?
Immediately, I dismiss the idea. While it would certainly help with my loneliness, I’m not home enough to give a pet the attention it needs. Sure, I could scale back my hours, it’s my business after all, but I built it from the ground up, and I like it. I don’t just want to manage my guys. I want to be on site working beside them.
“You’re just in time,” Izzy says when I pad into the kitchen. She sets two plates of food on the table.
Setting Wonton on the tile floor, I appraise the food. “It looks… good.”
She throws her head back with a laugh that would be infectious if I didn’t know it was at my expense.
“I don’t know whether you’re trying to convince yourself or me. What matters, though, is how it tastes.” She appraises the table with a satisfied smile. “What do you want to drink?”
I cock my head, giving her a look that says seriously?
She clears her throat. “Right, your house. You can get your own drink. ”
I do just that, opting for a can of Coke. I don’t drink much alcohol. Neither do my kids. Not after the role it played in my wife’s death.
Izzy watches me expectantly, like she’s eager to see my reaction to her enchiladas.
Suddenly itchy from the scrutiny, I roll my shoulders and arch a brow at her. “Izzy?”
“Yes?” she drawls, rubbing her finger over the top of her water glass.
“Are you going to watch me eat this?”
“Absolutely.” Wearing a wide smile, she nods so vigorously I worry her head will snap off. “You might lie and say you hate it, or lie and say you love it, but the eyes always tell the truth.”
With a sigh, I pick up the fork and use the side of it to cut off a sizable bite.
“Make sure there’s a good amount of sauce on it.”
Every inch of the enchilada is drenched in sauce, so I’m not sure what she’s worried about.
She taps the fingers of her left hand against the table, her teeth pressed into her plump bottom lip, as she watches me bring the fork up to my mouth.
The moment the taste registers, an mmm bursts out of me without my permission.
Her smile is so bright, my instinct is to put up a hand to block the shine. A happy Izzy is pure sunshine, chasing away all the shadows.
I chew and swallow, then give her a nod. “It’s good.”
She wiggles in her chair, clearly satisfied with this development. “See? It doesn’t hurt to try new things.”
“Let’s not get carried away.” I go in for a second bite and discover it’s just as good, if not better, now that I know what to expect.
Chuckling, she picks up her fork. “I can’t believe you’ve never had enchiladas.”
“I’ve had tacos. Does that count?”
She stares me down, eyes round with horror.
“I take it that means no?”
“Absolutely not.”
Neither of us says anything while we continue to eat. Periodically, I steal a glance at her, half expecting her to disappear, but every time I look, she’s still there.
“You know,” she begins, the soft sound of her voice wrapping around me like a gentle embrace, “I was looking in your refrigerator and couldn’t help but notice a distinct lack of green things.”
“My fridge is fine,” I bite out, that warm sensation disappearing in a cloud of irritation.
More because of myself than her, I suppose. Because she’s not wrong. I was much better at fruits and vegetables and healthy snacks in the house when Layla and Lili were here. Now, I’ve become an all too frequent flier of the frozen food section of the grocery store. If it’s quick and easy, it’s probably in my refrigerator.
Izzy rests her elbow on the table, giving me a wry smirk. “Did all the men in the universe get together and collectively decide that their favorite word is fine ?”
“Would you prefer I use okay ? Or perhaps acceptable would be better?”
A derisive laugh escapes her. “I’d prefer more than a one-word response, but thanks for trying.”
With a gulp of my Coke, I rack my brain for an acceptable topic. For reasonable questions that may segue into a real conversation. “Back to our conversation earlier,” I say, though in the back of my mind, I realize that this probably falls more into the touchy category than the acceptable one. “What sent you running all the way across the country?”
Deflating before my eyes, she stabs at a piece of enchilada. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Three words have never made me feel so old. So I respond with three of my own. “You can try.”
She inhales a deep breath and pushes the food around her plate. “I was interviewing a celebrity on the red carpet a few months ago. It didn’t go well, and her fans canceled me. Now…” She shrugs, twisting her lips to the side. “Now, I’m here.”
It hits me then, how much I really don’t understand. “You interview celebrities?”
“Sometimes.” With a sigh, she drops her fork to her plate with a clatter and leans back in her chair. I can’t help but survey the space behind her. Take in the simplicity. It’s no doubt worlds different from what she’s used to in LA. “For the record, I’m not running away.”
Brow arched, I tilt my head. “Sure looks like it.”
She puffs out her cheeks. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of rude?”
I sip my Coke, assessing her over the can, then set it down gently. “Only you.”
Something about Izzy brings out my combative side. Whether it’s her or my insane attraction to her, I can’t be sure. But the attraction is absolutely an issue. She’s the same age as my daughter. Lusting after her is wrong.
And now she’s living in my house for who knows how long .
“I’ll go back to the grocery store tomorrow,” she announces, picking up her fork again, the defeat rolling off her all but gone.
I’m too tired to understand her meaning. “Huh?”
“To pick up veggies and stuff. You can’t live off protein shakes, frozen pizzas, and those gross prepackaged meals in the freezer.” She sticks her tongue out, shuddering in horror.
“Don’t knock them until you try them.”
They’re barely palatable, but I suddenly feel the need to defend my food choices.
“Sure,” she drawls, eyes twinkling with amusement like she knows I’m full of shit.
“You’ve never even eaten gas station food, have you?”
“Ew, no.” She shudders violently, the force of it making the table tremble between us. “Not a chance.”
A niggle of mirth works its way through me. This woman is something. So, teasing, I ask, “You mean to tell me you’ve never had a gas station slushie?”
Straightening, she shakes her head. “Nope,” she says, popping her lips to emphasize the p sound.
There’s no stopping the scoff that escapes me. “We’re getting one.”
“What?” She blinks at me, her eyes swimming with confusion.
“After we clean up, I’m taking you to get a slushie.”
Brows knitted, she frowns. “Am I going to keel over from a sugar rush?”
I tilt my head and hum, feigning deep thought. “It’s possible, but I think you’ll survive.”
As we finish dinner, Izzy never loses her worried expression. Once the dishes are washed and put away—my dishwasher has been broken for months and I haven’t gotten around to fixing it—I pick up my keys and twirl them around my finger.
“Let’s go.”
As if I’ve sentenced her to prison, Izzy skulks after me, shoulders rolled in and feet dragging, with Wonton toddling behind her. At the door, she crouches down to kiss his head.
“We’ll be right back. You can’t go to the gas station.”
I flick the front porch light switch on, though it’s not quite dark yet—the beauty of summer. Izzy follows me to the truck and hops into the passenger side with ease.
The nearest station is within walking distance, but if Izzy is really as unused to sugary drinks as she let on and does pass out from a sugar rush, I’d rather not have to carry her home.
The radio blares, a country song about a pickup truck and dirt roads.
In my periphery, Izzy shakes her head, and when I turn, her lips are quirked in amusement.
When I lower the volume, she says, “A country boy? Should’ve known.”
“What did you expect?” I ask, putting the truck in reverse.
Deadpan, she says, “Whale noises.”
A guffaw so violent flies out of my mouth that my back presses into the seat behind me. “Whale noises,” I mutter.
“They’re very soothing. Very Maine.”
I turn right at the stop sign. “Have you gone whale watching here?”
Beside me, she peers out her window, watching the scenery pass by. “Not yet. I want to, though.”
With a thorough look around me, I take a second to study her before focusing on the road again. Damn, the sad droop of her mouth is like a punch to the gut. I’m sure it has more to do with what’s going on in her life and less to do with whales. Even so, I find myself volunteering, hoping to cheer her up. “I’ll take you sometime.”
Slowly, she turns my way, her lips tipping up. “Derrick Crawford, do you own a boat ? If so, why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
I shift in my seat, rolling my shoulders to dislodge the discomfort soaking into me. “Yes, I have a boat. But I work a lot, so I don’t take it out often.”
“Well, now you’re obligated.” She holds out her pinky to me. “Swear on it.”
I loop my pinky through hers like I’ve done with Lili a thousand times and pull into the lot of the station.
Quickly, I hop out and round the hood so I can get her door, then I hustle past her to hold the one to the store, too.
“A gentleman,” she croons. “I like it.”
In the back of the store, I introduce her to the slushie machine. It doesn’t get past me that these were a staple when I was a kid. And when I was a kid, Izzy wasn’t even close to being a thought in her parents’ minds yet.
“You’ve got cherry, blue raspberry, Coke, and watermelon. They rotate the watermelon flavor in every so often. Sometimes it’s lemonade or strawberry instead.”
She eyes the cups stacked to the side. “What do you normally get?”
“Coke.”
“I should’ve known.” She laughs softly and chooses one of the smallest cups.
“Which one are you going for?” I ask, grabbing a cup for myself .
With a hum, she studies each one, watches the way the frozen mixtures swirl in the plastic windows. “Can I mix them?”
“Yeah,” I say, popping a plastic dome onto my cup. I get in position, then pull on the handle and fill it with frozen Coke. “That’s what my kids always did.”
Eyes suddenly round, she points at where I’ve just released my hold. “I’m not sure I’m capable of working the handle without making a mess.”
Biting back a chuckle, I hand her my cup and take her empty one. Then I pop a plastic dome lid on it. “Which ones do you want?”
“Blue raspberry and cherry.”
I mix the flavors, creating several layers, and when the cup is full, I pass it back. Then, with two red plastic straws in hand, I nod for her to follow me to the checkout.
“Hey, Derrick.” Greg, the same guy who’s worked here for the past ten years, greets me. “Good day?”
“Can’t complain.”
Before he’s finished ringing up the slushies, I’m holding out cash while I steadfastly ignore Izzy, who’s standing at my side and pulling out her wallet.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, ducking under my arm when I hold the door open. The warm evening breeze stirs her hair. It’s a long, thick curtain hanging past her breasts. A part of her anatomy I shouldn’t be thinking about. “I could’ve gotten my own.”
I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “Slushies were my idea.”
“Hmm. I guess you have a point there.” She flashes me a sly smile.
Once we’re both seated in the truck again, I start it up and adjust the AC, but I don’t pull away yet. I want her to try the slushie first.
Straw held out, I wave it in front of her. “Go on. Try it.”
Carefully, she removes the wrapper, that simple move holding my attention. Her nails are long and painted pink. For a moment I wonder if I should’ve taken it off for her, but she pulls the straw out with ease.
She gives me one last skeptical glance before she wraps her lips around the red straw and takes a sip.
Her eyes widen in pleasant surprise, and a small hum of satisfaction rumbles in her throat. “Oh my God, that is good .”
I chuckle. I’m equal parts amused and pleased by her reaction. “See?”
She nods quickly, exaggeratedly, in an impression of a bobblehead. “How have I gone my entire life without having one of these? This is like the perfect summer drink. This gas station better get used to seeing me. I’m about to be here every day.”
My chest flutters with a mix of excitement and pride because I was the one to introduce her to something she’s never had before.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“It’s fantastic.” Her cheeks hollow around the straw. “The combination of flavors is perfect, but I think I like blue raspberry the best.” She eyes me then, long lashes fanning against her tanned cheeks. Freckles dot the bridge of her nose.
The innocence of her joy reminds me of a simpler time in my life, before reality came crashing down.
“We can go back.” She puts her cup in the holder and snaps her seat belt in place, at the same time snapping me out of my reverie. “Don’t feel like you have to sit here until I finish.”
“Maybe I want to sit here.” I finally open my own straw and take a sip of my slushie. Then, for reasons I don’t understand, I hold it out to her. “Want to try.”
I expect her to take the cup from me, but I should know better. This is Izzy. She never does what I think she will. Rather than reaching for the drink, she leans in close. And as her hair falls like a curtain around her face, brushing my fingers, she wraps her lips around my straw.
Though I know it’s a terrible idea, I can’t help but study her mouth. The plump, pink lips and how they purse as she sucks.
Look away .
It’s what I should do.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
And for a moment, the world stands still.
It only starts spinning again when she licks her lips and pulls away. “Not as good as mine.”
With a shake of my head, I take a sip, hoping to hide my embarrassment and cool the heat in my cheeks. “You just don’t want to admit mine is better.”
“Or maybe,” she takes another sip of her own slushie like she’s chasing away the taste of mine, “you have bad taste, and this is an entirely different discussion all together.”
I let out a low breath. “Touché.”
We stay there, parked in the gas station parking lot, until we’ve finished our slushies. When we’re done, I get out and toss them into the trash can near the entrance of the building.
“Thank you,” Izzy says when I get back in the truck.
Confused by the genuine awe in her tone, I frown. “It’s just a slushie. You don’t have to keep thanking me.”
With that, I roll my window down partway and put the truck into reverse.
She’s focused on something outside the passenger window, her voice so soft I almost miss it, when she says, “It’s more than that.” Then she clears her throat and, voice louder, adds, “This is the first time I’ve been genuinely happy in months.”
I don’t reply, because my heart is aching for her, and frankly, I don’t know what to say. I just crank the volume up on the radio and navigate toward home.