Chapter Seven Rae #2
A message pops up on my screen.
I lean forward and read. My Vitals Tracking alert: Patient heart rate elevated.
“Crap, Dad’s heart rate’s up again.”
“Don’t avoid the question. What happened at the club? Do we need to report someone or—?”
“No. No, when I said it was good, I was not kidding. At all.” Distracted now, I scroll over to Dad’s heart monitoring app and click the heart rate icon. This has been happening a lot lately. “The thing is, the one Dom I’d be into playing with again is apparently taken. So…”
“Bummer.”
“Total bummer.”
“Too bad you’re not the kind of evil wench who’d go back there in twenty-inch heels and transparent booty shorts or something and steal him away.”
I pause, my head tilted as I picture that. “Transparent? You mean fishnet or—”
“I was thinking more like a medium-transparency vellum, but plastic wrap could—”
“Ew.” I squint. Dad’s heart rate’s okay, although it’s definitely a little elevated for this hour. This is TV time.
Samantha slurps at her lollipop and hums while she, too, lets the image sink in. “Oh, yeah. I see it now. Nothing transparent, then. You’ll have to do pasties and one of those—”
“I should call to check in on Dad.”
“Wait. Seriously? Now? You haven’t even gotten to the good stuff. Can’t one of your sisters deal for once?”
I snort. “What, Hannah? No. Between the kids and—”
“The loser husband.”
“Come on. Don’t say that.”
“We all know it’s true. I’m just not Jensen enough that I get to say it out loud.”
“You’re Jensen-adjacent.”
“Exactly.” She makes a popping sound with her mouth, so familiar I can smell the artificial watermelon as if she were here beside me. “I tell it like it is. What about Otty?”
“What about her?”
“Why don’t you ask her to pick her ass up and check on your dad at the crack of midnight, instead of you doing it? What else could she possibly have going on?”
“Well, it is Friday.”
Samantha lets out a low, evil, lollipop-muffled laugh that says everything there is to say about my youngest sister without uttering a single word. Otty, we both know, is out getting her heart broken. Again.
“Oh, crap. Got to go.”
“Wait. Why?”
“Think you’re the only one who’s got hot-and-heavy playdates, Rae?”
“Playdates? Hey, who are you—?”
“That was the doorbell. Better run!”
“Who is it?” I yell, though she’s already ended the call.
When did Sam start having secret midnight sex dates? I mean, the midnight-sex-dates thing is typical Sam, but the secrecy sure isn’t. I know Sam better than anyone on this planet. And that’s saying a lot, given how close-knit my family is.
I don’t like that she hasn’t told me about this new person, whoever they are. Then again, I went to the club without telling her.
But Sam and I have been friends forever. She knows me and my wackadoodle family to a T. She has opinions. About everything. So maybe I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want to have to overdiscuss why I want to be submissive in bed. I just wanted to do it.
If I’m being honest, Sam’s been kind of pushy lately when it comes to my life decisions. Like the book-nook thing. If it were up to her, I’d quit my job, move to some island in the sun, and become an Etsy millionaire.
Do I occasionally fantasize about doing something other than HR for a living? Absolutely. Would it be nice to make money doing something creative? Hell yeah. Do I wonder how it would feel to go somewhere or do something just for myself?
Well, yes. And that’s exactly why I went to that club tonight. One night. Just to see.
I don’t need more than that anyway. I’ve got everything I could possibly want here. A job, a family, and my very own she shed without Brendan negging everything from my romance novels and book nooks to the dinosaur-print dress I never got up the courage to wear while he was around.
Somehow, my ex being a jerk about my clothes reminds me of the General’s compliments tonight, and then I start thinking about how it felt when he rubbed my back, picturing what might have happened if we’d had privacy, so when another alert comes through, I jump like a startled rabbit, nearly upsetting my entire work setup.
Crap. Dad’s heart rate’s gone up again.
I call him. When there’s no response, I open the sisters’ group chat and type out a message.
Me: Anyone talk to Dad?
Hannah: What? Why?
Me: Heart rate alert.
Hannah: Calling now.
Me: I just tried. Can you go over?
Hannah: Schaffer’s not home yet.
Still at work at midnight on a Friday while his wife’s home with a five-year-old and three-year-old twins? It’s about time Schaffer and I had a chat.
Me: Anything?
Hannah: No answer.
Me: Don’t leave the kids. I’ll take care of it.
Shaking a little as I picture Dad passed out on the bathroom floor or stuck in the shower, I send him a quick message and video call him again.
I’m about to hang up when he fumbles the phone on and puts it to his head, giving me a screen full of ear. “Rae? That you?”
“Dad? What’s going on?” Relief pours through me. “You okay?”
“Yes. Yes, fine. Fine. Why are you calling so late?”
“I got another one of those alerts.” So late? “It’s not even midnight.” After a pause, “This is a video call, Dad.”
“Oh, oh, crap. Sorry.” He holds the phone up in front of his face and squints into it with a broad Dad grin.
“What are you wearing?” I ask, staring at the screen as if my father’s grown a set of horns or something. “Is that the Christmas robe?”
His quick downward glance looks almost sheepish, which makes no sense. “I thought I’d pull it out of semiretirement. Give it a little more air time. You know. Poor thing barely sees the light.”
“Okay.” What’s happening here? What is this?
There are some things, like Dad staying up to watch TV until 1:00 a.m., that we can always count on.
They are as constant as the stars above or rush hour traffic or going on the New Year’s Banana Hunt, which I realize isn’t a tradition outside our family, but still.
For us, it’s a thing. Like clockwork, the Christmas robe comes out on Black Friday and gets sent back to the mothballs January 2.
It’s only September. It’s several weeks until holiday robe season. “Are you okay, Dad? Do you need help?”
“Help?” Looking confused, he pushes his glasses up on his nose but doesn’t otherwise react. “Why would I need help?”
In a whisper, I ask, “Is someone there?”
He startles and casts a quick glance over his shoulder. “Here? In our house? No. No one. No one at all. Not a soul.”
“Are you being held up or something? Did you mention we’ve got nothing worth stealing?”
“I’m fine, Rae.” After a pause, he tilts his head and squints at me. “What about you, sweetheart? You seem a little out of sorts. You need to come over this weekend for some musical theater karaoke or a sweet baby huggle? I can make hot chocolate, and you and Otty can do ‘I Feel Pretty’ and—”
Oh god, no. No huggles or chocolate or any other old-school Dad comforts. Especially not karaoke, which everyone knows I’m terrible at. I am the musical dud in a family of Broadway-worthy belters.
“So, you feel okay?” I ask.
“Right as rain.”
“No excessive physical activity? Are you… jumping or something?”
“Nope! Not a thing. No jumping. Thanks, Beanie.” He casts a glance to the side and then looks at me with a long sigh. “You don’t have to take care of—”
“I know.”
“You going out? What’s that you got on? You look fancy.” Leaning too close to the phone. “Are those spiderwebs?”
“Just a… a costume thing. I’m home now.”
“You sure you’re too busy this weekend? I’ve got the extra-special cocoa mix with the little freeze-dried marshmallows.”
The special cocoa in our family is the opposite of what anyone else would consider gourmet. I realized sometime in my teens that it was all we could afford back when we were little, but like everything else, Dad somehow managed to make it shine.
Even now, looking at him in the Christmas robe, I see the frayed collar, the fading red and white stripes, and understand just how much of our upbringing was cobbled together from smoke and mirrors and pure, unadulterated love.
Stifling a sigh that’s half adrenaline crash, half affection, I shake my head. “I’ve got to finish one of my book nooks.”
“Let’s see it.”
Grinning, I turn the camera around and show him the mini restaurant scene.
He oohs and aahs until I tell him goodbye. He then opens his mouth as if about to say something, but then closes it. “You look lovely, sweetheart. Glad you’re going out and having fun after…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he doesn’t really have to.
We both know he means I’m getting out and seeing people after Brendan.
Unlike Hannah and Otty, who’ve unsubtly celebrated since the moment I ended things, Dad has, true to form, kept his thoughts to himself.
Even now, see, he turns an incomplete sentence into a full thought without actually saying the awkward thing out loud. It’s an art.
“Okay, Dad. Good night. I’ll just—”
“I’ll let you get back to—”
He hangs up on himself, leaving me staring at my reflection in the black screen.
After a second, I close my eyes and let myself remember just where I was an hour ago and exactly what I was doing.
No regrets. At all. And who knows, maybe I’ll work up the courage to go back to Off the Cuff next weekend.
Yes, actually. That’s just what I’ll do.