He’s sitting with his profile to me, but Travis’s expression of annoyance and anguish is clear even without getting a good look at him.
The man that’s with him is older, maybe fifty-five or so. He’s dressed in a suit, hair slicked back, taking up room in the space not only with his large frame but the air of importance that clouds around him. He looks like a man that’s used to getting what he wants and doesn’t care who he tramples in the process.
I know it’s his father the same way I knew that Travis was meeting up with him from Conrad’s cryptic words. I see his wounds maybe better than I see my own.
I approach slowly, pulse increasing with every step. They’re talking low enough I can’t make out the words, but even without hearing them I can tell the conversation is stilted.
The two men notice my presence at the same time. Travis wears a myriad of expressions when he realizes it’s me: surprise, happiness, regret.
“Hi,” I say without a trace of yesterday’s anger. Seeing him here, the lengths he’ll go to for me, makes it hard to feel anything but love.
“Hannah.” Travis stands next to the table. He hugs me, clings to me actually. His voice is barely above a whisper as he asks, “What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by the rink and Conrad said you were here.”
“You were looking for me?” A flash of hope crosses his face.
“Of course.”
“But you weren’t answering my calls or texts.”
“I was mad.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll talk about it later.” I pull back enough to look at his father.
He’s standing now too, and the similarities are eerie. Same dark hair and dark eyes. Even the same uneven smile.
“Hi. I’m Gene Bennett,” he says as he extends a hand.
I stare at his outstretched palm, but don’t take it. Instead, I look back to Travis. His chin dips in a small nod as if confirming what I’d already pieced together. This is his dad.
The pull to look at him again is too great. I need to look at the piece of shit that hurt Travis so deeply he believes that it’s his fault he doesn’t have a relationship with him. I truly cannotfathom the things he’s done. Not to anyone, but especially to Travis, his own son.
“I’m Hannah,” I say, stepping closer to Travis. I wish I were taller to physically block more of him. “His wife.”
“I figured as much.” He waves toward the empty seat next to Travis’s. “Please. Join us.”
“You don’t have to,” Travis says to me. “I won’t be long.”
“No. I’d love to.” I leave no room for arguing with me. There’s no fucking way I’m leaving Travis alone with this guy.
The three of us sit, and we’re temporarily reprieved from conversation while the server brings me water and asks if I’d like anything else.
“No, thank you.” I’m only here for Travis.
“So, Hannah, how did you and my son meet?” Gene asks me. He leans back in his chair, the picture of cool indifference.
“I moved into the house next door.” I leave out all the other details because frankly, I want to tell him as little about me as possible.
“And when was that?”
I already know what he’s getting at. I haven’t known Travis long. What’s ironic is not that long ago I would have been as skeptical of our relationship as him. But I already know I love his son more than he does, so he can fuck right off.
“Only a few months ago.”
Travis’s knee is bouncing next to mine, and his breathing is too fast to play off as nervous energy. He’s stressed, physically pained by being in this man’s presence. I rest my hand on his thigh and squeeze gently. His leg stops, and he brings his hand down to intertwine our fingers.
