2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Victor
Navigating through Savannah’s airport in July is like running the gauntlet. I dodge tourists left and right and hop over rolling luggage when people cut me off. My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, and I step to the side, away from all the people, to see who’s calling. I sigh when I see Jared’s name on the screen.
I’ve just deboarded the plane and haven’t even had a chance to pop by the restroom yet, let alone don the emotional armor that it takes to have a conversation with the nineteen-year-old son I had no idea existed until almost a year ago.
Steeling myself, I tap the screen to accept the call. “Hey, buddy,” I say cheerfully.
He snorts derisively. “Buddy? Are you serious? I’m not eleven years old.”
I hold back a sigh, struggling to maintain a breezy tone. “What’s up?”
“Just wondering when you’ll be back in town. While you’ve been on vacation, I’ve been busy working on stuff for Hank Heron Appreciation Week. It’d be nice to get some help.”
Closing my eyes, I slowly inhale and exhale. “I wasn’t on vacation, Jared,” I remind him. “I had a speaking obligation at the American Heart—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says petulantly. “We have a lot to do. When will you be back?”
“I just landed in Savannah. I’m still at the airport, but I’ll be—”
“Good. When you’re back, contact Sean at the mayor’s office. He’ll let you know where you’re most needed. You’ll also need to ask him if there’s anyone who doesn’t have a partner for the Friendly Beach Passport activities.”
“I thought you and I would be working together?” I say, hating the pathetic tone of my voice. My question is met with silence. Did he hang up on me?
I wait a few moments before clearing my throat. “Son? Are you still there?”
“Don’t call me son ,” he snarls.
His words slice through my heart, sharper than a dagger. “Sorry,” I murmur.
He sighs. “Maybe you should just stay in New York.”
“I’ve already landed,” I point out. “And Friendly is my home now. Not New York.”
“I didn’t ask you to move here, so it’s not fair for you to expect me to turn my life upside down to accommodate you,” he grumbles.
“I’m not trying to turn your life upside down, Jared. We’re the co-founders of the Hank Heron Foundation. We agreed to do this together, remember?”
It’s amazing how much can change in a year. Last summer, he was more open to getting to know me. He wasn’t exactly eager, making it clear that he already had a father-figure in his life, his mom’s husband, Bishop. He also has his Uncle Tuck. But he didn’t slam the door in my face at every turn like he does now. I was hopeful that we could have a relationship. If not a father/son relationship, at least a friendly one. Wishful thinking.
When his summer break ended and he returned to college, his mood changed. I know a big part of that had to do with his long-term girlfriend, Mandy, moving to France for the school year. For Christmas, I gave him a roundtrip ticket to Paris to visit her. He’d been thrilled with the gift, but apparently, the visit hadn’t gone well, and they’d broken up while he was there. One more thing for him to blame me for…
Since then, things between us have been on a downward trajectory. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to pull us back to a level playing field.
“So?” Jared responds. “That doesn’t mean we have to spend every waking minute together.”
“We haven’t spent more than a few hours alone together in the year I’ve been in Friendly,” I say, opting for honesty and vulnerability. “I just want to get to know you, Jared.”
“You gave up the right to know me when you abandoned me at birth.”
With these words, the last shred of my patience snaps. “I didn’t abandon you. I had no idea you existed. As soon as I knew, I quit my job, sold my house, and packed up everything, turning my life upside down to move to Friendly, Georgia.”
“It’s your own fault you didn’t know about me,” he argues. “You used Mom and then you dropped her like a hot potato.” His voice shakes with fury.
“I did not!” I should end the call. Nothing good will come from having this discussion, but I feel compelled to defend myself. “Your mother and I had a completely consensual summer fling. We both agreed that it was temporary. Just for the summer—”
“Don’t you dare impugn my mother’s honor,” he bellows.
“ Impugn her honor ?” I shove a hand impatiently through my hair. “Good grief, Jared. You sound like you’re going to challenge me to a duel.”
“Maybe I should,” he mutters. Ouch. On some level, my son wants to shoot me.
All the anger leaves my body in a whoosh, replaced with nothing but a deep and hollow sadness. He’s a teenager , I remind myself. His brain’s not fully developed.
I take a deep breath, trying to regain a sense of composure. “Besides the fact that it’s illegal, a duel wouldn’t help me achieve my goal of having a relationship with you. That’s all I want, Jared.”
“Well, we can’t always get what we want.” Silence descends again, and this time, I know he’s hung up.
With a frustrated sigh, I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder with a bit too much force, narrowly missing a passerby. A part of my brain acknowledges that the woman is stunning, with wavy chestnut hair, big, blue eyes framed with long lashes, and a pouty little mouth. Unfortunately, she dodges my bag like it’s filled with plutonium. At the same moment, a man dragging a massive suitcase behind him crosses her path.
She trips over the wheels of the suitcase, sprawling across the floor like a baseball player sliding into home base. A woman in stiletto heels attempts to jump out of the way, barely managing to avoid stomping on the brunette’s pretty face and coming down on one of her outstretched hands instead.
The brunette wails in agony. The stilettoed woman clutches her mouth in horror, kneeling to check on the other woman.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Are you okay?”
Tears spill from the brunette’s eyes as she shakes her head. “It’s over. It’s all over,” she sobs.
“What’s over?” The woman in the stilettoes looks uncomfortable, glancing around for someone to help her.
“Everything,” the brunette blubbers. “Every. Single. Thing. There’s no point in going to Mexico now.”
I spring into action. “I’m a doctor,” I say, pushing through the crowd that’s started to gather around. The stilettoed woman smiles at me gratefully, but the brunette just glares at me.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“What’s it to you?” she demands, blinking angrily through her tears.
Okay…
“I’m Dr. Margolis,” I say gently, “May I remove your glove to get a better look at your hand?” She continues to glare at me with an unmistakable look of hatred in her eyes, but she nods. Pulling gently at the fingertips, I slide off her glove. Grasping her hand, I probe it gently to ascertain if there are any broken bones. Fortunately, there aren’t. “There appears to be a minor contusion, but no broken bones. And the skin is intact. The shoe didn’t cut you.”
She stares at her hand as if seeing it for the first time in her life. “Everything is ruined,” she whimpers.
“It’ll be fine,” I assure her. “A contusion is just a fancy word for a bruise. See the red spot? That will darken into a bruise over the next few hours, but it’ll be gone in a week or two. So, no harm done.”
She jerks her hand away. “No harm done?” Her voice is as shrill as a car alarm. “Are you serious?”
I frown. “Well, there’s some harm, but the bruise will heal before you know it.”
Tears stream down her face as she stares at her hand. “It’s over. It’s all over.”
“If you’d like a second opinion, I can take you to the hospital for x-ray confirmation, but in my medical opinion, it merely requires an ice pack to keep the inflammation down.”
Her blue eyes snap to mine. “Why couldn’t you watch where you were swinging your bag? You’ve ruined my life,” she wails dramatically.
I suppress a sigh. How many irrational people do I have to deal with today? From the corner of my eye, I see the stilettoed woman backing away slowly before turning on her heel and sprinting down the corridor. Can’t blame her for that.
I smile kindly at the brunette. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have looked first. I was on a frustrating call and swung my bag a bit too hard. I’m very sorry for startling you and causing you to trip, but I assure you, you’ll be fine.”
“Look at my hand!” she shouts, bordering on hysterics. “I can’t go to Mexico like this.”
“You can certainly still travel,” I tell her, my forehead crinkling in confusion.
She clutches her face in her hands and continues to blubber. “Ruined,” she whimpers again. “All ruined.”
I throw up my arms in exasperation. “My goodness! You’re acting like someone chopped off your arm with a machete. It’s a minor contusion.”
I instantly regret my words. I pride myself on my bedside manner. But really, this woman is too much.
She brushes tears from her eyes. “Just get away from me. You’ve done enough damage.”
“At least let me help you up find some ice,” I insist.
“I never want to see you again. Go away,” she says through gritted teeth. “Before I decide to sue you.”
Sue me?!
I stare at her beautiful face for a moment, trying to decide if she’s serious. Judging by her narrowed eyes and clenched jaw, she is. With a nod, I stand up. I hold out a hand to help her up, but she crosses her arms.
Shaking my head, I turn away and practically sprint out of the airport. There’s only so much battering a man’s soul can take. And with the way this day is going, it’ll be a miracle if I make it home alive.