Chapter 18
18
[Ruthie]
L ater that afternoon, Tulane fell asleep next to me. Her little body erupted in a burst of energy this morning before collapsing in a nap. Instead of placing her in her crib, I set her in the large bed beside me, propping pillows around her body on three sides while I was a wall along her fourth side.
My eyes were beginning to close when my phone rang. Without a glance at the caller ID, I answer, not wanting the loud ringtone to wake Tulane.
Before I can even say hello, the sharp tone of a familiar male voice fills my ear. “Ruth Anne.”
I close my eyes and swallow hard around my still sore throat. “Graham.” For as long as I can remember, I wasn’t allowed to call Graham Avery Dad, even though he is my father.
“What have you done now?” he begins like I’m some rabble- rouser. Like I’ve ever caused him trouble other than by being born.
“I’m sorry?” I wasn’t apologizing for anything, though.
“You married Bolan Adler.”
Now, I wondered if there is a question on his part. It isn’t a secret that I am Bolan’s wife, but there hadn’t been a public announcement. Sports news cared more about Bolan as a new addition to the Chicago Anchors, not his marital status. Still, my father knowing this development was strange, especially as he rarely cared about me. Rarely acknowledged me.
“Yes.” No further explanation was required.
“For money, no less.” The heavy accusation in his voice is clear and he pauses for effect. “If you were so desperate, you should have contacted me.”
The lies in that request are plentiful. I am not desperate. I’d also never contact him. He wouldn’t have helped me.
I am Graham Avery’s dirty little secret. The daughter he had with a girlfriend while he’d been married. While sowing his seed as a young baseball player. In contrast to Bolan, my dad tried to ignore his one responsibility while Bolan is embracing fatherhood, like it was a calling he didn’t know he had.
My mother hadn’t been much better, allowing my father to pay for nannies and private schools for me, while he sent her all over the country to be with him.
I don’t respond to Graham. What is there to say? Correcting him would lead to him making me feel bad about myself. Silence was golden. I’d mastered it as a child.
“How much is he paying you?”
The question gives me pause. How would he know the arrangement involved money?
“If he were paying me, I don’t see how that’s your business.” I’m not certain I’ve ever been this bold with him. I don’t openly share much with my father as he doesn’t often ask much of me. But this kind of question has me protecting myself and my personal situation.
“You’re my business.”
I snort. “I haven’t been your business in forever.” I’m thirty-three. I can’t even claim I speak to my father once a year now. He attended Clifton’s funeral, but I ignored him then, the circumstances a blur of faces and comments.
“Do not be flip with me, little girl.” The words make me bristle. Not in fear but anger. I was never his little girl, and I’d argue, why not? But arguing led nowhere with a narcissistic man who loved himself more than anyone else.
“You’re in Arizona.” Again, more confirmation than question of my whereabouts and I bristle once more. He doesn’t need to know my location, but professional baseball spring training is not a secret.
With a panicked glance at Tulane beside me, I shiver, hating that with one simple call he can get underneath my skin. A call I’m wondering if it has an actual purpose.
“Now isn’t a good time, Graham,” I counter, using words often spoken by him to me.
When are you coming home? Will you be at the school concert? Are you coming to my birthday?
The response was always the same, even in the offseason.
“I’m sick,” I add for some unexplained reason. I don’t, however, hold my breath waiting for him to ask me what’s wrong. He doesn’t.
“Behave yourself, Ruth Anne.”
The warning comes as no surprise. What the man fails to realize is I’ve behaved my entire life, mainly because I was taught to be seen and not heard. When he wanted to appear like a doting father but wasn’t. When he tugged me forward for photos, and then pushed me aside once the cameras lowered.
I was constantly pitted against my father by my mother. Neither wanted me.
“Bye, Graham.” I hang up before he can respond, and power off my phone before curling up beside Tulane and falling into a fitful sleep.
When Bolan finally arrives home, after the Anchors win their first game, he’s a mix of jubilation and trepidation.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
I’m seated on the couch, Tulane at my side. We’ve been flipping through the same book for twenty minutes while I identify every item on the stiff pages. Bolan’s question causes me to remember I turned off my phone.
“I didn’t want it to wake Tulane.” There is no reason to burden Bolan with the truth. My father is not a threat, just a nuance lingering in the recesses of my life. Another man who treated me poorly, walked all over me, making promises and reneging without apology. I should have learned my lesson from the first man in my life. Instead, I made similar mistakes with the second.
Tulane slides off the couch and rushes to Bolan who picks her up with one arm and kisses the side of her face multiple times before setting her on her feet again. I shift on the couch, crossing my arms over the back of it to watch this display of fatherly love.
“I’m surprised you’re home. You won.” My smile is my congratulations. The Chicago Anchors were on fire during their afternoon game. “I thought you’d go out and celebrate with the team.”
I hold my breath waiting for him to tell me he’s leaving. Just coming home for a quick shower and change of clothes, like Clifton would say.
“The Anchors won.” He smiles, proudly acknowledging the game. “Seems kissing my omamori did the trick.” He tosses me a wink and laughs. “As to going out . . . nope. I’m here to take care of my girls.” Bolan puffs up his chest, pride vibrating outward.
I huff in disbelief until Bolan sets a plastic bag I hadn’t noticed on his wrist on the dining table and empties the contents.
“Soup.” He holds up a can in each of his large hands.
“Crackers.” He points at a box big enough to feed six people for a month.
Then he sets down the soup cans and pulls out the final item. “And flowers. Well, actually, it’s a plant. A cyclamen.”
The dark green, heart-shaped leaves are variegated, and delicate red flowers bloom above the thick plant.
“I missed Valentine’s Day,” he remarks, although we are into March.
I don’t remind him we spent Valentine’s Day together because this gesture is too sweet.
“I was also hoping they might brighten your day.”
My smile grows to a beaming grin. “They certainly do,” I respond. He brightens my day, polishing up everything, especially rubbing away my father’s earlier call.
“Now.” He claps his hands once. “Chicken noodle or chicken with stars?”
I giggle as he wiggles each can in my direction.
“I don’t know.” I hum then glance down at Tulane. “What do you think?”
“Nope. This is all for you tonight. I’ve got Tulane.” Bolan walks around the couch and scoops her up. “First, a bath for you.” He points at me before kissing the side of Tulane’s head and walking toward the bathroom. When the water starts running to fill the tub, I rub my hand over my hair, which hasn’t been washed in two days, and wince. He must think I’m a mess.
When he returns, he sets Tulane down and catches me by surprise by scooping me off the couch. I squeal in his arms, wrapping mine around his neck .
Laughing, I say, “You don’t need to carry me.”
“Ruthie.” His tone is rather serious. His gaze latches on my eyes. “Let me take care of you.”
My throat thickens and it has nothing to do with the ache in the back of it. “Okay,” I whisper.
He carries me into the bathroom, where he sets me on the closed toilet lid and checks the bath water. When he stands to his full height, he runs his eyes down my form, then bites the corner of his lip and wiggles one brow. “Need me to undress you?”
Yes . Strip me down to nothing and join me in the tub. But already thinking he finds me a mess, instead I say, “No, I think I can handle it from here.” Still, I can’t fight the smile I give him. Surprised by this additional gesture. Grateful that he’s here.
“Let me know when you’re finished, and I’ll start the soup.” He winks before stepping out of the small room and closing the door. I hear Tulane happily squeal on the other side.
Quickly, I undress and sink into the deliciously warm bath, realizing Bolan added a scoop of bath salts I’d purchased but haven’t used yet.
With my eyes closed, I hear Bolan’s quiet murmurs and the jabber of Tulane, and I smile to myself despite the burn of tears.
He’s here. For her. For me.
Thirty minutes later, I step out of the bathroom to the smell of chicken soup. When I approach the kitchen, Bolan is pulling a large soup mug from the microwave. He smiles at me when he says, “It felt like a stars kind of night.”
Then he tips his head toward the couch. “Take a seat.”
As I’m not used to being so taken care of, or so pampered, I feel a bit awkward curling up against the corner on the couch, but Bolan follows me, draping a blanket over my lap and handing me the soup.
“Be careful. It’s hot. ”
At the gentle reminder, I blink away the threat of more silly tears, telling myself I’m just tired and exhaustion is catching up to me. There’s no room to be sick when you’re taking care of a little person who is also sick. And while Tulane is on the mend, I’m still a day behind her.
Bolan scoops up Tulane, tipping her over his shoulder. “Okay, matey. You’re next.” He does his best pirate impression again. “Bath, books, and bed for you.”
He winks at me again, giving me space and silence to eat my soup while he tackles the nightly routine.
Only after Tulane’s bath, he brings her out to the couch, collapsing beside me and holding her in his lap.
“I thought you could read to her, if you don’t mind.” He knows I don’t mind at all, but then he adds, “I like hearing your voice.” His own is timid, sheepish even, suggesting his comment isn’t about me reading better than him.
The corner of my lips curl. “I’d be happy to read to you.” To both of them.
Three books later, Tulane curls into her father’s chest and he carries her off to bed. Returning to the living room, he snags up the remote and turns on the television. “Okay. So what are we watching? Hallmark? Lifetime? Netflix?”
I bark out a laugh. “You don’t need to?—”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” He holds up his firm palm with the remote in his hand. “I want to.” Then he aims the remote at the television, flips to Netflix and picks a movie.
I settle on my side while Bolan picks up the soup mug I set on the floor, and takes it to the kitchen. When he returns, he tugs at the cushions behind me, removing them from the couch and dropping them on the floor before he slips in behind me.
“Is this okay?” His voice is rough and low at my ear while I feel the solidness of his chest at my back.
“Yeah,” I whisper, keeping my gaze on the opening scene of what is certain to be a cheesy rom-com .
Within seconds, Bolan’s arm is over me. The forearm with the bear tattoo tugging me tighter against him. His chin rests on my head, cocooning me in.
“I’ve never done this before,” he finally says to me. His voice is exceptionally quiet, almost like he didn’t intend to say his thoughts out loud.
“Take care of someone?” He does an excellent job with Tulane. This evening, he’s been wonderful with me.
“Cuddle.” He squeezes my midsection.
I swipe my hand over the bear tattoo on his arm, the ink looking a little less scary as this creature appears to be keeping me safe, offering me comfort, holding me tight. I melt deeper into him.
I don’t know what happens in the rom com, because I drift off to sleep, dreaming my own mental movie, starring Bolan and me, and the easy comfort of him.