17. Caden
Caden
Maybe I should feel bad for avoiding my lifelong best friend’s girlfriend’s birthday party.
I know Morgan considers me a friend too, but I can’t sit through another night of her friends trying to make small talk with me.
They’re nice, but I’m not naive. They see me as a wallet.
Maybe it’s my looks too. But it can’t be my personality—I know how I come off in social gatherings.
Another game, one I definitely don’t care about, begins on the TV in front of me. But there’s nowhere else for me to be right now. My lawn is mowed, I’ve showered, and I already know what I’m making for dinner . . . Everything is routine.
It’s predictable.
It’s fucking boring.
I don’t ruminate long on that invasive thought though because my phone rings.
“If this is Matt Facetiming me, I swear to god . . .” I murmur and snatch the phone off the coffee table, setting my beer down. Haven’t even had a sip yet.
Fia’s name flashes across the screen.
I crane my neck—her car isn’t in the driveway. She danced around me all morning, waiting til I stepped inside, and booked it to her car, leaving like it was an emergency.
Shit, maybe it was. My stomach drops as I answer.
“Hey, Fia.”
It’s silent for a beat, and I open my mouth, but she cuts in, loud and clear.
“Hey.”
I sit forward on the couch fast. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh nothing.” The sound of cars whizzing by in the background set off alarms in my head.
“Come on, what’s up?”
There’s a small groan, and when she finally speaks again, her voice is pinched. “I really hate to ask you this, but the auto shop needs to keep my car overnight, and Daisy and I are stuck downtown—”
I stand promptly, taking quick strides to the kitchen, and grab my car keys. “Where are you?”
“Are you busy? Because I don’t want to bother you, I’m really sorry—”
“Where are you, Fia?” I growl out.
All I can picture is her and Daisy on a busy street. I’m already in my Jeep before she speaks again.
“I’m at Jergal’s Garage,” she replies, and for a moment it sounds like she might be crying. Or wants to cry.
The trees on either side of the car turn into dark green blurs as I press harder on the gas pedal. I clear my throat, hand resting on the top of the steering wheel. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes on the dot, I pull up, immediately clocking her standing outside the shop. A vintage graphic tee tucked into frayed jean shorts, her braided hair hanging over her shoulder. Her arms full with Daisy, a stroller and car seat on the pavement next to her.
I jump out and rush to her side.
“Here let me—” I grab the car seat, quickly realizing I know nothing about how to secure one of these. Fia follows me, collapsing the stroller to toss in the trunk.
“Trust me, you don’t even want to attempt that,” she says, rounding the side of the car. Daisy’s little arms cling around her mom’s neck, but her eyes are glued on me.
Fia climbs into the back of the Jeep, her limbs twisted as she shoves the car seat base into the backseat. Daisy begins to fuss, struggling to hold on to Fia’s shoulder.
“Hand her to me,” I say bluntly, but Fia flicks her eyes towards me and back to the task at hand.
“Fia,” I say her name louder as she actively avoids my gaze. “I may not know how to install that, but I am pretty confident I can hold a toddler for two minutes.”
“Uhm . . .” She blows hair out of her face and stands up straight, grabbing the Jeep’s roll bars as she studies me.
My ego is almost hurt.
I smirk at Daisy, who stops pulling on her mom’s shirt and smiles back at me, drool running down her round chin.
Fia wipes her brow with the back of her hand and relents.
“Okay, fine. It’ll only take me a minute.
”Daisy acts like she was dunked in cold water, too shocked to do anything when she’s passed to me.
She leans back, staring up at me, her green eyes round and bright.
I stare back, suddenly unsure what to say . . . or do?
Cars fly by us on the busy road, traffic building up as dinnertime approaches.
Daisy continues to watch me, probably confused how she got here.
Me too, kid.
Fia clicks everything into place impressively fast. With a triumphant expression on her face, she reaches down for her daughter.
“Thank you,” she replies as I hand her off. “Was that your first time holding a baby?” Fia bites back an amused smirk as she buckles Daisy in.
I snort. “Was it that obvious?”
Fia pinches her fingers together and grins. “Just a lil bit.”
The muscles in my body loosen a little seeing her smile.
But as we start heading towards my home, she goes quiet again, back into her shell. She clutches her small purse tightly against her stomach, periodically swiveling to check on Daisy in the backseat.
“I really didn’t want to have to call you,” she finally blurts out, cutting the silence, and I turn to look at her.
“Come again?”
She smooths a hand over her hair. “It’s just that you’re my boss, I’m your employee, and I know boundaries are important to you, so I want you to know that I truly didn’t want to bother you . . . I just had no one else.”
Her words sting, unexpectedly.
Because what if I want to be the first person she thinks to call, not the last? What if I want to be the person she knows she can depend on . . . like I depend on her.
What lines would that cross? I can’t even keep track anymore.
“I’m glad you did.” My words come out gruff. “There was no way in hell I was going to leave you and Daisy stranded.” I glance over at her again.
Fia casts her eyes down at her hands clasped in her lap. “Well, thank you. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I reply quietly. “Seriously.”
She puffs her cheeks, like she wants to argue, but as we stop at a red light, Fia slaps a palm to her forehead.
“Shoot, I totally forgot—I needed to grab something from the store for dinner tonight.” Her hair is unraveling from its braid, framing her face as she stares at the grocery store up ahead.
When I don’t reply, mulling over what to say, Fia turns towards me. I grip the worn leather steering wheel tightly, fighting with myself—over my wants, over my needs, over the fucking lines and rules—but when I meet her frazzled gaze, I can’t hold it in anymore.
“Just let me make you dinner tonight.”
She laughs like she heard me wrong. “What?” Her fingers play with her gold earrings, and I pass the grocery store, leaving that option behind.
“I bought more salmon than one person can reasonably eat,” I say, turning the steering wheel with one hand down a pine-lined country road.
“I already have it marinating.” When she continues to stare at me, lips slightly parted, I shrug, pulling my baseball cap tighter onto my head.
“It would be a shame to let good food go to waste.”
“Caden, I don’t want to impose, seriously—” Fia fidgets, crossing and uncrossing her legs.
It’s evident she needs someone to throw her a line. I can give her a break, a little respite from cooking. It’s not that big of a deal. Even if the idea makes my heart rate spike.
I throw her a sheepish smile. “Please don’t make me eat alone on a Saturday night.”
Fia sighs, but a smirk pulls on the corner of her lips. “Okay, yeah. Not cooking tonight would be great.” She places her hands back in her lap. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, Hanson,” I reply, rubbing my jaw.
That’s just something people say. Anytime, pal! But as we drive in comfortable silence back to my house, there’s a shift in the humid Carolina air. Fia rests her head back against the cloth passenger seat and takes a deep breath, settling a bit.
My own hand softens its grip on the wheel.
Because I’m beginning to realize that anytime means anytime . . . beginning to realize that there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for this girl.