Chapter 17
~Daley~
Sipping the rich red wine the waitress brought me, I’m still not entirely sure how I got here.
Deacon has a way of making things feel natural and inevitable while the rational part of my brain flashes warning lights in the background.
I ignored those lights earlier, and taking in his handsome face, his eyes a little more silver than grey in the flickering light of the candle that sits on the table between us, his hair still a bit damp from the shower he took after practice and his cologne invoking memories of our night together in Las Vegas, I can’t bring myself to regret it.
Later on, I’m sure I’ll come up with plenty of reasons why this was a terrible idea. Right now, I just want to enjoy this.
In the car, I brought up the situation with his teammate and ex-wife to make it clear that I knew about it so we wouldn’t have to dance around the subject. He impressed me by answering my question frankly, and it only made me more curious about how the whole thing affected him.
“Did you used to come here with your wife?” I hear myself asking.
Well, that’s one way to bring it up. No points for subtlety, Daley.
Deacon coughs as if clearing something from his throat, or maybe just choking on his surprise at my tactlessness. “I know you’re trying to keep this platonic but that’s an extreme level of mood-killer.”
My cheeks flush even as I shrug my shoulders, feigning indifference. “You said being relentless is your best and worst quality. Mine is getting right to the point.”
I’d like to say it comes from a lifetime of working in science, inhabiting a world where things are black-and-white, right-or-wrong, but honestly, it predates even my interest in my chosen field.
My grandmother told me a story once about how I questioned my pastor father about the nature of miracles at three years old.
I don’t remember it, but I’m sure I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful; I only wanted the facts.
“I think that’s probably more good than bad,” Deacon muses. “Nothing worse than someone who won’t say what they mean.”
“You don’t have to worry about that with me,” I promise. Or threaten? Maybe both. “But you’re avoiding my question.”
“I thought I was doing a pretty good job of that, too.” Deacon squeezes out a laugh, a little tighter than his natural one. “Yeah, I brought Megan here once. She didn’t care much for it. Didn’t fit her criteria for a good restaurant.”
“What are the criteria?”
I take another sip of my wine before placing the glass down and leaning forward, arms folded on the table in front of me.
The movement has the side effect of propping my breasts on top of my arms, and Deacon’s gaze drops to my chest before he seems to remember himself and his eyes dart back to my face.
“Her criteria or mine?”
“I’m curious about both, but let’s start with hers.”
He considers the question, grabbing hold of his glass of water and swirling the liquid around as he thinks. “Aesthetically-pleasing is at the top of the list. It has to look good in pictures.”
My eyes wander the room we’re in. Nothing flashy, perhaps, but it’s warm and welcoming. The view over the garden is lovely. “This doesn’t qualify?”
Deacon’s snort is an answer on its own. “She has her own standards, but the number one sin this place committed is its privacy. What’s the point of going out if you aren’t seen?”
From the way he asks the question, it’s clear he doesn’t agree with that sentiment so I don’t bother stating that I don’t either. He already knows that; it’s why he brought me here.
“And what about you? What makes a good restaurant for you?”
He leans forward, holding my gaze across the table. “Good food, good service, good company. Simple as that.”
Again, his subtext comes through loud and clear: tonight, he expects to have all three.
Before I can say anything in response, he changes the subject. “Since we’re not holding back and you already know about my messy personal life, can I ask you a question?”
I don’t know all about his personal life, but I can’t argue with his basic premise. “Sure. Only one though, so make it a good one.”
His smile lets me know he recognizes the teasing in my words. “What’s the situation with River’s father?”
Ah. That question. We did touch on it very briefly the night we met, but obviously, he’d like a few more details.
“There really isn’t much to tell. He’s not in the picture and hasn’t been since River was born. River has never met him, never had any contact with him. He’s not a factor in our lives at all.”
Deacon’s eyes don’t leave me, still curious. “What was the situation, then? Were you married? Dating? A one-night stand?”
It’s a nosy question, but so was mine. I can’t complain.
“Kind of dating? I thought it was more serious than he did, it turned out. When I got pregnant, he freaked out and gave me an ultimatum. Several of them, actually. That’s when I realized he wasn’t the man I thought he was and cut all ties. I’ve never spoken to him again.”
Deacon’s lips pull into a frown. “But he paid you child support, right? You at least had that contact?”
My laugh lacks any humour. “No. By that point, I didn’t want a thing from him.”
“But he owed you…”
“I didn’t want anything,” I cut in, repeating my words more firmly. “I wanted a clean start.”
Deacon’s frown doesn’t ease. “What kind of ultimatums did he give you? Give me details, Daley.”
My exhale blows past my lips in a slow, steady release. It’s been a long time since I went into the details with anyone, the real nitty-gritty of what happened in those chaotic days when my whole world collapsed around me.
Thankfully, the waitress brings in our food then, buying me a bit of time to collect my thoughts. My mouth waters at the smell of my butternut squash ravioli before I can take a bite.
Deacon stays silent while he digs into his spaghetti and I spear one of the prawns accompanying my meal. He doesn’t push me to answer but he’s not backing down either. He really wants to know.
Well, why not tell him? I’m not trying to impress this man since nothing can happen between us. Maybe it’ll scare him off for good.
I ignore the sting in my chest at that thought.
“I was 23 years old and in the first year of my graduate program at college. Molecular biology.”
Deacon’s fork stops halfway to his mouth, a clump of spaghetti falling back onto his plate as he gives me his full attention. “That’s impressive.”
“Hold the admiration until I’m done,” I warn him wryly. “I got a position in the lab of a well-known professor on campus who was doing research in a field very close to my area of interest. It was a dream job.”
“Sounds great,” he agrees, placing his fork all the way down, his food apparently forgotten.
“I put in a lot of extra hours. I lived in the lab, pretty much, and the professor spent a lot of time there too. Often, it would just be the two of us.”
Deacon’s nostrils flare, the only sign he gives that he sees where this is heading. Faster than I did, it turns out.
“One night, he invited me to stay for a drink with him after we finished working. It became a regular thing. Eventually, we started sitting closer. His hand would brush my leg, or he’d hook his arm around the back of my chair.
I convinced myself we were only being friendly until the night we kissed.
After that, things heated up pretty quickly. ”
A muscle ticks in Deacon’s jaw. “How old was this guy?”
I raise my eyebrows at him while cutting myself another piece of ravioli. “I thought age doesn’t matter to you.”
The pasta melts in my mouth, the perfect mix of sweet and savoury, and my eyes close in pleasure.
“Oh my God, that’s amazing.”
When my eyes open again, Deacon watches me, torn between smiling and scowling. “It matters in this case because he had authority over you. It’s different.”
Since I agree with him, I don’t argue. “He was 47.”
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “How long did it go on?”
“A little over three months. Just a couple of weeks before the end of the year, I found out I was pregnant and told him so. To say he didn’t take it well would be a huge understatement.”
My words sound dispassionate as they leave my mouth and drift across the table towards him, intentionally so.
Once upon a time, I couldn’t talk about that conversation without crying or screaming or both.
Eventually, I learned to remove myself from the heart of the scenario.
Now, I recite my lines like an actor telling someone else’s story.
All of this happened to 23-year-old Daley and that sweet, naive young woman no longer exists. Anthony’s hurtful words don’t have the power to affect me anymore and neither do the lies he told.
Deacon shovels a forkful of food into his mouth but I don’t think he even tastes it before swallowing so he can speak again. “What did he say?”
“First, he accused me of lying about being on birth control in order to ‘trap’ him. I never lied,” I clarify, just so he’s clear.
“For whatever reason, the birth control didn’t work.
Then, he insisted I have an abortion. That might have been the choice some women would have made, but I’d been brought up in a very religious household and it wasn’t ever really something I considered.
I was young, healthy, and in love. We didn’t plan it, but I didn’t see why it couldn’t work.
I liked the idea of having a baby, even unexpectedly. ”
“And then what?” Deacon presses.
“When I refused, he said if I went ahead and had the baby against his wishes, he’d blacklist me for any future placements in my field. He had all the connections, all the prestige, and he was my only reference. He could destroy my career in an afternoon if he wanted to.”
Deacon’s expression turns thunderous, a storm brewing in his grey eyes. “Did he?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I told him where to go, I left the college and never went back.”
“Shit, Daley.” He blows out a breath as if the pressure needs an escape valve before he blows. “After all your hard work? That isn’t fair.”
“No, it isn’t, but I had a choice to make and I made it.
” I get the rest out in a rush before he asks.
“Next, I had to figure out how to make it work. I had no money saved up and couldn’t stay in the city with no job.
Couldn’t go home to my ultra-conservative parents being unmarried and pregnant.
Thankfully, my mom’s parents came through.
They lived on a ranch up in North Dakota, where my mom grew up, and when I called them, my grandpa was in the truck the next day to come pick me up. No questions asked.”
The distance I’ve managed to maintain from my story lessens at the thought of my grandparents and the way they saved me and River, helping me land on my feet instead of falling flat on my face. My throat tightens as their weathered faces flash across my memory. I miss them every day.
“There are no biotech jobs in rural North Dakota, and I never finished my degree anyway, but I started up a tutoring business to help high school kids with their science classes. I could work from home while River was little, and it still pays the bills. It isn’t what I thought I’d be doing, but I get a lot out of it.
Most of all, I got River out of it, so if I could go back to that day and make the choice again, I’d choose the same thing every damn time. ”
I take another bite of my dinner to mark the end of my story and Deacon follows suit. Silence settles between us, but it doesn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable. Maybe that’s just because the food is distractingly good.
“Do you think they’ll give me this recipe?” I ask after savouring a few more mouthfuls and Deacon smiles.
“Not a chance. I’ve begged them to show me how to make their ragu. They won’t budge.”
Just like that, the conversation shifts back into neutral territory, as if I haven’t just shared more with this man I barely know than I’ve told most of the people in my life over the past 18 years.
Deacon has a way of making things feel natural and inevitable. I just have to remember where to draw the line.