Chapter 5 #2
“Well, my life has been an endless series of stumbling into shitty situations.”
“Then stop stumbling. Keep your head up. Walk taller and with purpose.”
I roll my eyes. “You act like luck has nothing to do with it.”
“Luck matters.” He spreads butter on his Pop-Tarts. “As luck would have it, I showed you mercy. This could be life-changing for you.”
“Doubt it,” I mumble, stealing one of his Pop-Tarts on my way out of the kitchen.
I knock twice before opening Callie’s door.
She meets me in the middle of the room and takes the tea from me. After a slow sip, she smiles. “Much better.”
I wipe my face for any crumbs while focusing on the wall filled with framed photos. Real people photos. Not Mona Lisa-style paintings.
There’s a photo of Callie at a beach with a young boy. There are other pictures of the boy, but older. I glance over my shoulder at her.
“Your son?”
She nods before easing into her chair.
“Oh, he’s married?” I point to the wedding photo.
“Was,” she says as I continue to study the photos. There’s one with her son and a little boy.
“You have a grandson?”
She stares out the window. A tiny smile touches her lips as she nods and blots the corners of her eyes.
Shit. I’m making her cry. There must be a family rift. What do rich people fight about?
“I grew up in the system since age three. So if I have kids, they won’t have grandparents. I hope your son knows how lucky his kid is.”
She fiddles with her wedding band, gazing past me to the wall of photos.
“People say children who suffer abuse often abuse their own kids,” I say.
Callie’s gaze shoots to me.
I shake my head. “But that’s bullshit. I’ll never lay a hand on my kids. Just the opposite. I’ll probably end up in prison for killing anyone who tries to lay a hand on them or says one negative word about them.”
“You’ll make a good father.”
I sit on the bench at the end of her bed and blow out a deep sigh. “You know that girl from the gallery? The bike tour girl?”
Callie nods.
“I had ice cream with her last night.”
“Oh yeah?”
“It didn’t go well. I mean, I thought it was going great.
I wore some of the new clothes you bought me.
I paid for the ice cream. We discussed the scar on her lip, which, as my roommate suspected, is from a cleft lip.
But I said nothing bad about it. It’s unique.
I mean, I know no one wants to have a birth defect, but she’s basically the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.
Perfect, really. Which means the scar is kind of perfect too.
Anyway, things were good. I offered to drive her home.
She wasn’t comfortable with that, so I suggested another date, and then she asked me why I wanted to date her.
That’s where it all went to shit.” I bow my head and run my fingers through my hair.
“She doesn’t even know I’ve done time,” I say. “That’ll probably be a real deal-breaker, anyway. I just fumble my words around her, and I can’t think. Not quickly. And when I couldn’t give her an immediate answer, she left.”
“You’ve been in prison?” Callie squints.
How does Rupert not tell his wife that he’s hired an ex-convict?
“Uh … yeah. I stole something for someone, and I should not have. And I assaulted someone, but it wasn’t really my fault. But it happened after my first time in prison, so no one believed me. But I know just the word prison is pretty alarming. Just look at how you reacted.”
She slowly shakes her head. “I’m not really reacting. It was just a question. But I understand why it’s not an easy thing to tell people, especially if you’re trying to impress someone. You’ll figure it out. Now …” She stands. “Let’s take a bike tour today.”
Is she serious?
“I’m wearing jeans and leather loafers without socks.”
“Follow me.” She breezily saunters past me, out the door, and down the long hallway to the other side of the house.
“Oh, Jesus …” I cringe as we pass through a bathroom where Mr. Rawlings is buck naked in the shower, his backside to us so he doesn’t notice the intrusion. He’s whistling a tune, and it smells like vanilla. Is that a loofah in his hand?
In his closet, she picks out biking shorts and a shirt one would wear in the Tour de France. Then she plucks short white socks from a drawer and slides a pair of white tennis shoes from a shelf.
No. I’m not wearing this old guy’s clothes.
“We’re not the same size,” I say instead.
She frowns and shoves everything into my chest, forcing me to take them, then she leaves the closet, shutting the door behind her with me still inside it.
“Jail would be better than this,” I grumble, changing into the ridiculous costume because that’s what it is.
It’s Halloween bullshit. No one wears this on a city bike tour.
The padded shorts are too big for me. The only thing that fits is the shoes.
June will take one look at me and know her decision not to grant me a second date was correct.
The door opens.
Nooo!
Full-frontal Rupert stares at me. I try not to look, but his dick size clearly isn’t the issue with his marriage.
“It’s genetics, young man. I’m sure you do the best you can with what God gave you.”
I lift my gaze to his stupid smirk.
“Want to tell me why you’re in here, wearing my clothes?” He steps into the closet, and I retreat to keep a safe distance.
“Your car was just a decoy,” I say. “My goal all along was to get into your closet to steal your Tour de France gear.”
He barks a laugh while pulling on his boxer shorts. “I like your sense of humor. But seriously, where is Callie taking you?”
“City bike tour,” I say, quickly gathering my clothes and sidestepping him to get to the door.
Pulling on his dress pants, he squints at me. “That’s unexpected. Did she say why?”
I’m more comfortable talking to Callie about my personal life. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t give me shit. She feels safer to me.
“Well?” he prods, buttoning his dress shirt.
“When we were at the gallery yesterday, the tour guide stopped by to use the restroom.”
“And she invited you and Callie on a tour?”
“Sure.”
“Christ, kid. Out with it.” He sighs, tucking in his shirt.
“The tour guide has a thing for me.”
He opens a drawer and picks out a neatly rolled tie. “Hmm, she has a thing for you or you have a thing for her, but she’s out of your league, so my wife is playing matchmaker?”
“Didn’t you marry out of your league?”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “But I don’t think you’re as charming as I was at your age. It’s your generation.”
“Well, I don’t think girls in my generation are looking for charming guys.”
“No?” He faces the full-length mirror and ties his tie. “What are they looking for? Thieves?”
I want to wipe that smirk off his face, but that wouldn’t end well for me.
“Big dicks?”
I don’t have a good comeback because I’m too busy wondering what girls are looking for in guys. If I take sex out of the equation, I’ve got nothing. And June wouldn’t even kiss me, so I’m sure sex is off the table for now.
“Be yourself,” he says. “It leaves less to live up to.”
Myself. Who would that be? Sounds like some spiritual shit. Soul-searching. Whatever. Maybe I should stick to easy hookups.
“Should I start with my criminal record?” I ask.
“I might wait a bit before unloading your résumé. You want her to listen with an open mind because she’s gotten to know you. What’s her name?”
I shrug.
He turns, eyeing me in a way that makes me squirm. I hate how good he is at doing that to me.
“June. Her name is June.”
He sits on a dark gray padded bench at the end of his dresser and pulls on black socks. Then, he slips his feet into shiny black shoes. “You’ve met a woman named June in June. Feels like a sign. You should tell her that. Women like it when guys feel things like fate.”
“Sounds cheesy as fuck to me.”
“It would. You’re twenty-five. Basically, you’re a dick with a job. You like cars, booze, and pussy.”
Nope. Not gonna talk pussy with a guy who’s old enough to be my father.
“But any girl worthy of chasing will not be impressed by those pastimes.”
“Okay.” I press my lips together and give him a sharp nod while backing my way out of the room. “Thanks for the talk. I’ll give all your expert advice careful consideration.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you will.” He steps into the bathroom and fixes his hair in the mirror.
I find Callie downstairs in a biking getup that matches the one I’m wearing.
Seriously, kill me now.
People will either think I’m dating a cougar, or they’ll think I’m taking a tour with my mom—in matching outfits.
An orange jumpsuit is looking better and better to me.