Obviously feigning innocence, she turns to me with raised brows and says, “Oh, Mr. Fowler, I’m sorry but I’m on personal time, now.”
With that, she pulls open the passenger door and slides into the seat. What, I hurt her feelings, so now she goes to parties and hangs out at night with strange men? Jesus, Rowan.
I honestly can’t tell if it’s rage burning through my veins, or concern for her. Maybe a twisted combination of both. I’m not her father, I’m not her boyfriend, I have no claim over this woman and no right to be angry about her living her life. But god damnit, I’m furious.
TWENTY
Rowan
I shouldn’t be trying to make Colt jealous like this, but it felt so good to see the look on his face when he saw me climbing into that rideshare. I’m still buzzing with the feeling of it when I step out of the car and make my way toward the auto shop’s parking lot, where my car is waiting for me.
I’m sure if he knew my car had broken down again, Colt would have gone all macho-man hero and insisted he either drive me or reimburse me for the cost of ordering a ride, but I won’t take a single thing more from him. If you can throw your money at me without issue, but clam up when something emotional starts to get real, that’s a you problem, buddy. Go therapy or something.
I carefully pull up next to Dad’s car on the driveway. It’s parked in a straight line tonight and I almost grimace at the smidgen of hope that it gives me that maybe he’s sitting at the table with his hair brushed, sober, wearing clean clothes.
Opening the door, I already know that’s not the case. The TV is blaring and I can hear him shouting at it. At least it’s not just me, I guess. I creep past the living room andmake my way up the stairs to peek in at Macie’s room, where she’s busy working on her homework with her sitter.
“Thank you,” I say to her meekly. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t like people to come into the house, even ones that I’ve known my entire life. It’s embarrassing to have them here, seeing, hearing, and smelling the man my father has become. I try to keep up with the house so it doesn’t crumble around us, but I can only do so much. Things get away from me. Sometimes I’m in too much pain to get out the vacuum or the bleach wipes and it just has to wait.
After the sitter leaves, I tell Macie to get ready for bed, and I do the same for myself. I run a nice, hot bath and let myself soak until my fingers go pruny and the water turns cold, then I head to my room to throw on some pajamas. On my way back to the bathroom, my dad stops me in the hall and smacks a torn envelope at my chest.
“Get it done by Wednesday.”
He stumbles back down the stairs while I open the envelope to see that he’s just handed me the mortgage bill, which he apparently expects me to pay, yet again.That’s fine, I tell myself.I’ll drop off the check on my way to my meeting with the lawyer and the social worker.
“Love you, Dad,” I mumble after him.
Once the coast is clear, I grab onto the railing and make my way down the stairs, rounding the corner into the kitchen, and I take stock of what I can make for breakfast and lunch tomorrow.
We mostly have a small stash of ingredients like eggs, flour, and a little bit of milk, which I give a good sniff to make sure it will be safe to use in the morning. I find a half loaf of bread tucked away in the fridge – where it doesn’t belong.
“PB & J it is,” I mutter to myself.
I had to pay the mortgage last month, too, and it eats up almost everything I make. Usually, I can manage a decent store run or two that don’t leave the pantries looking sobarren, but one person covering the bills for three on an assistant’s wage isn’t really ideal. Especially when my cash tends to disappear, too, only to wind up at the local dive bars.
Macie’s lunch doesn’t take long to make. I throw together two sandwiches, heavy on the peanut butter for extra protein, and cut them into triangles – crust off, of course – then get them into her lunch box and set it in the fridge. I’ll make pancakes or waffles in the morning.
We’re so close to getting out of here, I can taste it. I just have to hold out until I get the call.
TWENTY-ONE
Colt
This was a stupid idea.
‘Get back on the apps,’ Davis said. ‘You need to get laid,’ Davis said. I love the guy, but since when do I take fucking love life advice from him? The man rotates women more frequently than I swap out a pair of socks.
“Colt?”
The woman sitting in front of me is beautiful, I’ll admit that. Her dark brown hair compliments her green eyes and her smile is absolutely radiant. The cut of her dress gives me just enough of a peek at her cleavage to tease me, and I’m thoroughly enjoying the view from across the table.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, “I didn’t catch that.”
She laughs, brushing off my apology, and tells me, “I was just asking what you like to do for fun.”
“Oh. I play a lot of golf.” I’m not going to tell her about the art collecting. I’ve learned my lesson that bringing it up usually results in dates trying to somehow weasel their way in so they can get at my bank account. Besides, I keep most of my collection at my home, and I don’t plan on inviting her there. Again, lessons learned, and all of that. “And yourself?”
