Chapter 1 #2
I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look away from my view of the birthday turned engagement party. I’ve been nursing the four fingers of tequila that I brought with me to the table, but I pick it up and throw back what’s left in the glass. I wince from the burn in my throat. “See what?”
“License and registration.” He huffs. “The rock on your finger with its own damn zip code. That’s what.”
My gaze finally slides over to him. I lift my arm and extend it between us, tilting my hand down as if an overweening presentation will color him impressed.
Dad has never been able to hide a single emotion on his face.
I inherited the same trait, and it took a lifetime of practice to master the art of feeling without showing.
For the last twenty minutes, I’ve been scared to study his expression because I didn’t want to discover a single trace of disapproval.
The last time that happened, he didn’t just object. He damn near lost his mind.
Even though Marcus has moved things along at lightning speed, and Dad has struggled to shove me out of the nest in the past, I have to believe that things won’t end with a mushroom cloud exploding over my head this time.
Dad takes my hand and leans in like he knows the first thing about examining jewelry. I keep my eyes trained on his as he glances up. His calloused thumb traces over the top of my hand before he releases it to polish off the remainder of his beer.
Figures he’d balk at the ring.
No use for fancy bullshit is one of his favorite Dadisms. Direct quote.
“Sure is pretty,” he mumbles. The bottom of the bottle taps against the tabletop, and he picks at the label. “Might wanna dig the old dirt out from under your nails before showing it off, though.”
My lips part, a sarcastic quip at the ready. The way he’s avoiding eye contact and tightening his jaw stops me from letting it fly, though.
My nails aren’t freshly manicured, but they’re perfectly clean. Not a spec of dirt in sight. I curl my fingers into an anxious fist.
My confusion lingers before the sobering realization of his meaning hits.
A burst of images flashes through my mind, unwelcome and impossible to block out.
As fast as they show up, I work to shove them right back to the corner I once banished them to—the one they refuse to stay in for much longer than a week.
Breathing in through my nose and straightening my posture doesn’t help calm my racing pulse, but I repeat the actions anyway.
Rather than jumping into a long-winded battle, Dad and I quietly face the room of people instead of each other. My focus lands on Marcus, so effortlessly social, as he floats through the space with a grin you’d have to slap from his face. We lock eyes for a moment, and I swallow hard.
I could get up and join him, but it would only be a fleeting distraction. The cryptic advice from the person I trust and respect more than anyone else in this world still overshadows the rest of my thoughts, refusing to let me default to avoidance.
“Since when did you become so intellectual?” I ask quietly, crossing my legs.
Dad shrugs in my peripheral vision. “Not as dumb as I look.”
“Right. Well, neither am I.” I’m doing my best to steer the conversation in a happy direction, but my face hurts from pairing each word with cheerfully raised brows and a smile.
Supporting my statements with physical evidence is a carefully practiced routine at this point.
“It feels kind of good, you know? Mature, adult decision-making. The kind I’ll thank myself for in fifty years.
” He nods but doesn’t speak, so I continue. “I thought you liked Marcus.”
“Nice kid,” he confirms. “Got a lot going for him.”
“Exactly.”
“You think it’s a good match?”
“Of course I do,” I lie, feeling a storm of unexpected emotions.
Part of why I said yes was because I thought my dad would be ecstatic. So, why isn’t he even smiling?
“So, you’re in love with him, then?”
“I’m—”
If he thinks his rapid-fire questions can so easily catch me off guard, he’s . . . damn right.
My brain scatters. It’s tricky, phrasing answers in a way that will put him at ease without straight-up lying to him again, but the truth feels too dangerous to admit fully.
Behind me, someone opens a door on the side of the shop, letting in a draft that’s almost frigid enough to shock me back to my senses. Almost.
Dad holds a hand up and tilts his head once he realizes I’m struggling to reply. “Just a little food for thought.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Marcus slides behind me, blocking the cold air and saving me from offering up a defense and exposing myself in the process.
I tip my head back to look up at him. “Hey.”
He leans down to wrap an arm around me. I remain still while he gently squeezes my shoulder in his openly affectionate way. Dad and I meet eyes again. I clear my throat as he accepts a fresh beer from Marcus. It’s never a good sign when he tips the bottle to take a swig that slowly.
“Sorry for stealing your birthday thunder, pops,” Marcus offers. “Drinks on me.”
“I bought the drinks,” Dad points out, still holding my gaze despite speaking to Marcus. “And don’t call me pops.”
“My bad, old man. Getting more sensitive by the year, I see.”
Marcus laughs at his own joke, and it reminds me that no matter how much of a hard ass my dad pretends to be, giving him shit right back is the surest way to win him over. Marcus fine-tuned that skill a long time ago. Dad finally releases me from his stare and looks up at Marcus, slightly offended.
“Old,” he repeats with a scoff. “I’m only forty-two. All I’d need is decent lighting and thirty seconds to whip your bony little ass.”
“Early forties? Damn, Rafe. Square up, then.”
I can hear the smile in Marcus’s voice. Meanwhile, Dad leisurely stands from his seat.
“Easy.” Marcus backs up. “I was totally kidding. Please don’t kill me.”
After picking up his drink and cocking a brow, Dad smirks. “Thought so.”
He gets a kick out of scaring him. Sometimes I wonder if he’s the same with me. I don’t blame him, because so far in my adult life, I haven’t managed to get much right.
I’m hoping the queasy feeling in my stomach isn’t proof that the choice I just made is no different. Desperately hoping.
Marcus takes my hand and pulls me to my feet for a hug. Rather than letting it last too long, I slip out from under his arm and walk up to Dad. His jaw shifts as I nervously brush a spot of dust from his sleeve.
“Are you waiting until the party is over to congratulate me with happy tears?” I ask in a whisper.
“Sure,” he answers, not bothering to whisper in the slightest. “Let’s go with that.”
What? This can’t be right. I close my eyes, press my lips together, and force a massive breath into my lungs.
I look over my shoulder to find Marcus tipping back his beer while carefully eyeing me. My skin prickles. I’m tempted, however mortifying it might be, to throw my arms out and ask myself what the hell I’m doing out loud.
Whoever is currently writing the guide to life for girls who’ve trapped themselves in a bottomless pit of distress, better hurry their ass up and publish it soon. I’d pay a ridiculous amount to get my hands on it.
“Come on,” Dad suggests, lifting my arm to loop it through his.
I follow alongside him as he leads me toward the tipsy group of people who’ve abandoned their plates of cake to two-step until the sun rises. Dad sets his bottle of beer on the nearest empty table, and I turn toward him.
“You trust me?” I ask.
“Not particularly.” He chuckles when I smack his shoulder. “I’m messin’ with you. If I didn’t trust you, your little boyfriend would be sporting a shiner for the next week.”
“Fiancé,” I correct him. Oh, that didn’t feel like just a word coming out of my mouth. It felt like boiling lava seeping from the cracks of a recently active volcano. “I know what you’re thinking, okay? It’s a little complex to explain.”
He grunts, but his lack of argument puts me a bit at ease. We stop in the middle of the crowd. I feel nine years old again, learning to dance while beaming up at my hero. Dad takes his hood off, then places one hand on the back of his cap and the other on the brim to adjust it.
“I’m not sayin’ another word,” he promises. “Learned that lesson.”
My worries lessen even more. I know this is going to keep me up all night, and there’s no way I’ll be able to make it through tomorrow without trying to iron out my hesitancy with Marcus, but at least Dad is letting it be for now.
I’m not sure I could handle another one of his riddles with double-meaning.
I lift my hands, placing one on his shoulder and the other in his right palm.
Picturing us dancing like this at my wedding puts a soft smile on my face.
It quickly vanishes when I envision myself looking for my groom across the dance floor.
Rather than spotting Marcus, my husband is a very different man.
A painfully recognizable and very, very different man.
My forehead drops to dad’s chest. “Shit.”
No one ever taught me how to handle carrying around a bruised heart. For once, I just want someone to tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.
“Yeah,” Dad says, his palm moving back and forth across my upper back, soothing me. “Sleep on it.”
“Okay,” I whisper, just as the song changes.
It only takes a second to recognize the drumbeats and the fiddle that follows soon after. He snorts a laugh. I roll my eyes, pretending not to hear the irony of “Straight Tequila Night” spilling through the speakers.