3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
CHARLOTTE
I ’ve entered the Twilight Zone. That’s the only explanation for why I’m sitting at my father’s dining room table with Chris Collins and his mother?my father’s girlfriend.
I take a bite of my turkey, chewing while I eye the pair across from me. We started having a full turkey dinner for my birthday when I was eleven and complained that the only time of year we ate the large stuffed bird was on Thanksgiving.
My father beams as he compliments Barbie’s cooking, and even I have to admit this is the most fucking delicious turkey I’ve ever had. It’s herby, tender, and full of flavor. It’s nothing like the dry meat my mother used to prepare when they were still married, and even better than my father’s overpriced meals he catered out. There are no dry birds at this table, only moist bir?er, you get the picture.
Beside me, Chris nudges me in the ribs, breaking me from my trance.
When I turn to him, he nods at his plate. “It’s good, right? Mom’s always been one hell of a cook.”
“It’s amazing,” I begrudgingly admit.
“I told Barb we could order a meal for today to give her a break from cooking, but she insisted on preparing everything herself.”
I grunt out an intelligible response before I remember I’m supposed to be proving Chris wrong, and I smile. “Thanks, Barb. It’s amazing. Speaking of family, how many kids do you have again?”
“Six, but only five are at home now that Chris is away at school.”
“Six?” I choke on a bite of stuffing, coughing it up before I take a sip of water while Dad nods, eyes bright.
“They have a big family.”
“Holidays with us are an adventure,” Barb chimes in, casting my father with what I can only describe as a look of infatuation. “We’re really looking forward to the holidays this year. If you can make it, we’d love to have you.”
“She makes five different kinds of pies,” Dad chimes in, eyes bright.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the unspoken comparison between Barb and my mother. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, even though I have no intention of doing so.
My father’s face falls as he nods, pushing around the food on his plate.
Noticing, Barb smiles. “Monday is my little Tucker’s birthday. We’re celebrating on Sunday with my extended family. There will be lasagna and cake for him, if you’d like to come.”
I muster up a smile, already tired of pretending, and feeling that a family I never wanted is being forced upon me. I can already envision my father singing to her son without a second thought about me. “I’m sorry, but Mom wanted to spend the weekend with me, so . . .”
She always wants my best while giving me little in return, but I’m cautiously optimistic the tides are turning. After all, Mom’s made a lot of progress since I went away to school. The combination of the right therapist and meds has her functioning like an actual human.
“Oh, of course.” Barb flaps a hand at me, telling me not to worry.
“So, Garry tells me you’re an early education major?” Barb asks, clearly trying to change the subject away from my mother and to safer waters.
“It’s secondary education now, actually,” I say, which Dad probably doesn’t know because I never bothered to tell him.
“Oh?” Dad lifts his head, surprise coloring his voice as he asks, “What prompted that change?”
I shrug. “I realized I don’t like children.” Then, pointing between them, I ask, “How long have you two been dating again?”
Barb glances at my father, her gaze soft. “A little over two months now, right?”
Dad reaches out and clasps her free hand in his, his smile warm as he says, “Best nine weeks of my life.”
I scoff, and their attention returns to me.
Oops. Did I do that out loud?
Chris clears his throat beside me. “Well, I for one, think it’s great. I haven’t seen Mom this happy in a long time.”
“Kiss ass,” I whisper behind my hand.
“Scrooge,” he hisses back.
Pursing my lips, I paste on a happy face as if to prove him wrong. “And what do you do for a living, Barb? Other than pop out children,” I joke.
Barbie laughs good-naturedly. “I’m an ER nurse.”
“Wow,” I say, admittedly impressed. “That must be tough hours with kids.”
“Barb is tough,” Dad pipes up. “Worked cleaning houses and babysitting after her husband died while she took classes at night to get her degree, all while her kids were young.”
I glance over at Chris, who seems unfazed by my father’s statement. I hadn’t known his father died when he was a child. I guess I just assumed his parents were divorced, same as mine.
For some reason, this makes me look at him in a new light.
He catches me staring again and winks.
“It was nothing.” Barb flushes while she smiles over at my father with a look of adoration. “I just did what I had to.”
“You didn’t have to do anything,” Dad supplies, and I think about my mother’s shoddy work ethic, wondering if this was a dig at her.
I fiddle with my fork while they make eyes at each other, feeling like a spectator to a sport I know nothing about.
As much as I hate to admit it, I can understand what my father sees in her. Not only is Barb beautiful, but she’s independent and hardworking. She took the shit life threw at her in her stride only to turn it around and make a better life for herself and her children. She proverbially turned lemons into lemonade.
It’s the complete opposite of how my mother lives her life.
“To answer your question”?Barb turns her attention back to me?“the hours can be tough, but they actually work out well with the kids. I usually work three twelve-hour shifts and then I get three days off. Navigating holidays can be tough, though. Luckily, I got Thanksgiving off this year, but I’ll finish up a shift midmorning on Christmas, which means I’ll be a zombie while the kids open their gifts, but the pay is great and I love the work, so it’s worth it.”
“The hardest part will be holding the rugrats off while we wait on Mom to get home,” Chris says with a grin.
“Yes, but you’re so good at that.” Barb laughs at her son, and I glance over at him. For a moment I see him in a new light?as the man who lost his father as a child, helps his mother, values family, and is exceptionally close to his siblings. But then he catches my eye and smirks like he knows what I’m thinking, and he’s the same old Chris again.
I roll my eyes, cheeks burning as I turn back toward his mother.
I so badly want to find some kind of fault in her, some reason to dislike Barbie Collins, but so far, I’m coming up empty-handed, which makes the imminent demise of her relationship with my father kind of sad.
“Where do you guys live?” I ask.
Knowing Chris’s family is close to AAU, I wonder if he and I ever met prior to this in passing?at a high school football game or a local festival, perhaps. It’s weird to think about.
“Just outside Traverse City in Garfield Township,” she answers.
“Best place around,” Chris pipes up.
I can’t disagree. Living in a suburb outside Traverse City would be ideal. It’s one of the most picturesque cities I’ve been to. At the head of the east and west of , a thirty-two-mile-long bay of that includes the gorgeous , they have access to the water as well as everything city life has to offer. Lockport is a thirty-minute drive with far less to occupy residents other than hanging at the gossip well.
“And how did you two meet?” I ask, patting myself on the back for being such a good sport.
Look at me, daughter of the year, a delightful young woman and the opposite of rude .
I shoot Chris a dirty look as if to prove my point, feeling pretty smug about myself when my father launches into the unnecessarily long story of how they met, at the local coffee shop situated between the hospital and my father’s architectural firm, because the coffee pot in his office was broken.
“Cute,” I mutter, turning my attention back on my plate, only to discover I’ve lost my appetite.
By the time dinner ends, I’m running on fumes. Playing nice is, apparently, exhausting.
We move into the living room for dessert where I take one of the leather armchairs by the large stone fireplace, soaking in the warmth of the crackling fire while Chris settles into the one opposite mine. We glare at each other in a silent staring war no one wins until Barb bustles into the room with a tray of cheesecake, and Chris’s eyes light up, homing in on the dessert.
My father follows behind, a tray with four steaming mugs in his hands which he sets down on the coffee table while Barb slices and doles out the dessert. It’s oddly domestic, and it strikes me once more how different my father seems around her. He’s calmer, content in a way I haven’t seen since I was a child.
“Do you still take cream and sugar in your chai?” my father asks, glancing up at me.
“If it doesn’t taste like Christmas in a cup, I don’t want it,” I say.
Beside me, Chris scoffs while my father glances at him, grinning as he hands him a cup of what I presume is coffee by the nutty aroma wafting toward me.
I find it interesting my father has only met Chris once before, yet he knows how he takes his coffee, but he had to confirm how I take my tea.
I push the thought aside, along with the bitterness coating my tongue. It’s not like I’m around much these days. A lot can change in a short time. Take my father for example. Never in a million years would I have imagined him dating this meathead’s mother.
On that thought, I take a bite of cheesecake, mostly to keep my mouth busy so as not to open it and get myself in trouble.
Flavor floods my tastebuds, forcing me to stifle a moan.
Damn, that’s good .
I eye Barb from my chair, wondering if there’s anything she isn’t good at. Compared to my mother, she’s freaking Betty Crocker. The last time my mother tried to make a dessert, it was Christmas my senior year, and she promptly burst into tears when she pulled the cake from the oven and the middle sank.
I slide my gaze to my father, who exchanges a secret smile with the woman beside him, and the contents of my stomach curdle.
It’s not that I don’t like Barb. Quite the opposite, actually. If anything, I feel sorry for her because this thing between them will never last. I give it another couple of weeks before he gets bored and moves on to his next victim. It’s been his pattern ever since his split with my mother. Sometimes, I wonder if she broke him.
I finish the last of my cheesecake in silence while Barb and my father make small talk, then wash it down with a sip of my spicy-sweet tea when Chris grunts beside me, and I glance over at him.
His eyes are closed, head thrown back in ecstasy as he inhales his second slice of dessert. The boy is a veritable garbage disposal with a sweet tooth that could rival Cookie Monster. I’ve seen Brynn bake him a dozen cupcakes only for him to inhale them in under twenty-four hours.
My gaze slides down his chest and my lip curls. Yet somehow, he still has hard pecs and washboard abs. It’s unfair, and I hate him a little more with each bite he crams in his face.
The last bite of cake disappears as he shovels it into his mouth, and when he opens his eyes a moment later, he reaches toward the coffee table for thirds.
“Glutton,” I hiss.
“Ascetic,” Chris snaps back.
I frown at him as he leans back into the leather chair, grinning as he starts in on his third dessert.
Turning so he can’t see me, I set my coffee cup down on the side table, slide my phone from my pocket, and Google “ascetic.”
“A person who practices self-denial. Ascetics may abstain from worldly pleasures, fast, and spend time meditating . . .”
My mouth smashes into a thin line before I glance over at him. “I’ve never meditated a day in my life,” I say with a lift of my chin.
Well, unless you count yoga.
“Maybe you should try it. You’re wound up awfully tight, Lettie.” His gaze dips down my body before he licks his lips, catching a glob of whipped cream. I follow his movements, unnervingly enthralled by his plump, soft pout. “Unless there’s another way you’d like to unwind?” he says, with a wink, snapping me from my disturbing gawking.
“Pah-ha-ha,” I belt out. “In your dreams, Collins,” I mutter under my breath at the same time my father and Barbie finally realize there are other people in the room besides the two of them and turn to face us.
“We’re so glad both of you could be here today,” Barb says, beaming. “We know how demanding your schedules are.”
I shrink a little in my chair. Compared to Chris, I have a wealth of spare time on my hands.
My father reaches out and grabs one of Barb’s hands and squeezes as something unspoken passes between them. “But the truth is I didn’t just want you to meet Barb today, Charlotte. We have some other news we’d like to share.”
My gaze bounces between them, noting the way Barbie squares her shoulders, her blue gaze flitting anxiously from me to her son and back again when it hits me. “Oh god. You’re pregnant,” I blurt.
Barb pales, and my father rears back. “What?” he half-shouts, then runs a hand down his face, muttering a curse. “No!” He waves his hands. “Charlotte, we’re not pregnant.”
The relief at those words is instantaneous. Beside me, Chris runs a hand over the back of his neck, the color returning to his skin, and it makes me feel somewhat better that I’m not the only one relieved.
“Okay, so if you’re not pregnant . . .” I trail off.
My father’s hazel eyes bore into mine. “We’re getting married.”
A chuckle bubbles in the back of my throat, spewing from my lips and morphing into a full-on cackle.
“Good one.” I clutch my stomach. Tears spring to my eyes, and it’s about the same time I’m wiping them with the back of my hand that I realize I’m the only one laughing. In fact, no one else is even smiling.
Dad’s normally stoic features tighten with anger while Barb stares at the ground at her feet, looking like she wants to sink beneath the floorboards.
Beside me, Chris’s wide eyes are trained on his mother.
I swallow over the pit in my stomach as my stomach roils. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack,” Dad deadpans.
I grip the arms of the chair, grateful I had already set my tea down because I’m quite certain I would’ve spilled it. “But you barely know each other.”
“And I knew your mother all through high school, then dated her all through college. Look how that turned out,” Dad shoots back.
I flinch, taking the hit personally before I recover and turn to Chris. Surely, he has more common sense than the adults sitting across from us. Surely, he sees how crazy this is.
“Chris . . .?” A little help here?
His icy gaze intensifies as he stares over at his mother. “You’re sure? This is what you want?”
She must give him some unspoken sign of confirmation I don’t recognize because in the next second, his stupidly full lips I was admiring just moments ago split into a wide grin as he rises and crosses the room, drawing both her and my father into a giant bear hug. “Then I’m happy for you guys. Congratulations.”
My mouth gapes.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been at a loss for words more than I am at this moment.
“Wait, what? That’s it?” I ask as he sits back down in the chair beside mine. “You’re okay with this?”
Chris just shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
I think I’d rather the baby news. At least that I’d understand. They were careless. They made a mistake. But this . . . this is much more calculated.
“Some people know within seconds of meeting the one ,” Chris says, his gaze oddly focused on my face in a way that makes me squirm.
I pick my jaw back off the floor because apparently Chris has lost his marbles, too. I already knew he was a little off his rocker, so I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but I am.
I turn toward my father, my vow to be kind forgotten with my desire to be right. “Dad, your last relationship before Barb lasted two weeks. Two.” I hold out two fingers to emphasize my point. “And that was one of your longer relationships over the years. What was her name again? Kittie? Kiki?”
“Keira,” Dad snaps. “Look, I admit I dated a lot over the years, but sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find a princess.”
I snort, unable to hide my cynicism. I played nice already and look where it got me. “Right. Does Barb know about your history? About all the frogs you’ve kissed, and done who knows what with?” I mutter the last part under my breath, unable to look at her because I’m sure the direction of this conversation is devastating. It would be for me.
“I’ve told her everything about my past,” my father says, shooting me a knowing look. “I’m not ashamed of it.”
I shake my head, unable to believe my ears. If he’s told Barb about his past?all of it?then he’s surely told her about my mother.
I wonder how he portrayed her; what reasons he gave her for why they split.
Suddenly vulnerable, I cross my arms over my chest.
“Your father and I have both endured our share of difficulty,” Barb chimes in, her voice soft. “But we love each other, and we make each other happy. I didn’t think that was even possible after Chris’s father died, so now that I’ve found it, I’m not going to pass it up.”
“And how much have you dated since your husband?”
Barb shifts, her gaze sheepish as it flicks from my father to me. “Just your father.”
I bark out a laugh and pinch the bridge of my nose, unable to believe this is even happening. “So, my father’s a playboy and you’re essentially on the rebound. How could it not go wrong?” I mutter, more for my own benefit than theirs.
“Hey,” Chris motions toward his mother, “she is far from being on the rebound.”
“We’re adults, your parents,” my father reminds me. “We don’t need your approval, or for you to agree with our choice, but we would like your blessing.”
I huff out a breath at his audacity. I had a front-row seat to the demise of his relationship with my mother. I witnessed all the fights and the anger and the resentment. Then I watched as their nasty divorce dragged on and my father proceeded to date everything with tits and ass in a five-mile radius while my mother wallowed in a pit of despair. And now he wants me to be happy for him?
“Whatever,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Have at it. Get married. Get divorced. I don’t give a damn.”
Just don’t expect me to be there.
My father’s shoulders slump, relieved at what he perceives as my acquiescence.
“Have you set a date?” Chris asks.
Barb bites her lower lip while my father runs a hand over the back of his neck. “We’ve set a date for the spring. You’ll both be on break and football will be over. We thought it would be the best time, because we’d like you both to be in the wedding.” Dad glances between us. “As best man and maid of honor.”
I choke out a startled sound. This just keeps getting better and better.
How the hell am I going to tell my mother? She’ll be beside herself. Broken. Devastated.
Somehow the repercussions of my father’s behavior always fall to me. I’m the one that has to tell her. I’m the one that has to bear the weight of his actions. And I’m sick of it. Tired of being the middleman and the one to suffer from their choices.
“No.” I stand from my spot in the chair.
“Excuse me?” My father blinks up at me, and I don’t dare glance over at Barb.
“I said no. You wanna get married again? Fine. But you’ll do it without me, because I had a front-row seat to the first performance, and trust me when I say, I don’t want an encore.”
“Charlotte . . .” He stands, reaching toward me, but I take a step away and shake my head. “You can’t be serious. You’re acting like?”
“This is a mistake?” I interrupt.
“Please,” my father pleads, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. “Will you just think about it?”
“I have to go. Mom’s waiting, alone ,” I add, my tone sharp. “She’ll want to know how things went, and I’ll get to be the lucky one to tell her.” My gaze lingers on his, catching the regret that darkens his eyes.
I make a move to leave, but he blocks me. “You’re not responsible for her happiness any more than I am,” he says.
A dry laugh crackles in my throat like splintering plastic. “Is that what you tell yourself?” I clench my jaw, nostrils flaring. “What am I saying?” I shake my head. “Of course it is. You left her. She needed you, and you left.” My voice breaks. “But I don’t have that luxury,” I say, and then I brush past him without so much as a second glance.