Chapter Twenty-Four

TUCKER

“Fucking pizza,” I mutter, pushing the box to the side. Four fucking nights in a row of the stale shit. Who ever said you can’t get sick of pizza is wrong. I’m all cheesed out. Three weeks living off hotel breakfast, soggy sandwiches, and pizza at night has left me more irritated than when I was told I had to report to Pittsburgh for some bullshit management training. Honestly, I think Julius is required to go to these courses for his business but sends me instead to complete his dirty work.

And what makes it even worse? I’m too fucking far away from Emma.

I had everything planned out on how to fix this shit between us, but my quick departure screwed everything up and the last thing I want to do is try to fix this over the phone. So instead, I’ve taken this time to journal.

I know . . . journal.

I’ve never picked up a pen and thought about writing down my feelings, but that’s what I’ve been doing, every night. Writing it all out, bleeding my emotions through my pen and onto the paper. And do you know what I’ve come to realize since I’ve started journaling? The emotional attachment I have to Sadie has a lot to do with how she took care of me when I needed someone to love me, to watch over me, and not with the love we once shared. Funny how long it took me to realize that.

The baby, well, my need to travel down the opposite path my mother paved for me is overwhelming. The baby gave me an opportunity to love something other than myself, to show the world that despite my upbringing, I can be a man, a provider, a responsible and loving parent. But Sadie helped me. We weren’t ready, and maybe this time I’ve spent building my career will help make me an even better father when another opportunity presents itself.

The silence between Emma and me has also been for her benefit. I needed to get my head on straight. I want to be the man she deserves, the man that will provide for her, the man that gives her all of his heart without anything standing in the way. Because I know with one hundred percent certainty. That’s what I want. Her.

My phone rings, pulling me away from Hayden’s hockey game that’s on the small flat-screen TV in front of me.

Racer.

“What’s up, man?”

“I missssssss you!” he cries like a dickhead in the phone. “I need an Oatmeal Creme Pie in my mouth.”

“You know you can buy them yourself, right?”

“I would but I’m saving my money.”

“You’re such a cheap fuck.”

He laughs on the other end of the phone. “I fucking know it and wear that title with pride.”

“Please tell me you’ve at least stopped taking toilet paper from the Port-o-potties.”

“Why the hell would I do that? If I have to go in there to take a piss, I’m at least going to get something out of it.” He laughs as if he just thought of something. “Oh shit, Julius went into one of the shit boxes today and came out raging in red, pants unbuckled, yelling about there never being toilet paper. I fucking fell over laughing. Smalls got it on his Snapchat. Did you see it?”

“I don’t do social media, you know that.”

“Fuck, you’re such a grandpa.”

“Is there a reason for this phone call, or did you call just to dick with me?” I put my phone on speaker and lay it against my chest as I put both my hands behind my head and watch the muted game play out.

“Didn’t know I had to have a reason to talk to my best friend.”

“Best friend, huh? Laying it on thick. What do you want, man?”

“I don’t want anything, but there is something I need to talk to you about.”

“I knew it.” I chuckle into the phone. “What is it? Did you fuck up another fireplace? Slam your head through a wall? Slide down another fucking banister only to pop the railing off?”

“First of all, I slid down a banister once and learned my fucking lesson. Second of all, I don’t fuck up fireplaces and you know it, so stop being a little bitch about my stone-laying abilities. And this has nothing to do about work. It’s about Emma.”

I sit straight up, the hairs on the back of my neck rising to attention as nerves take up residence inside my stomach. “What about Emma? What’s wrong? Is she okay?”

Fuck, I should have called her. I should have been talking to her. What if something happened to her and I never found out? I would never forgive myself.

“She’s fine. I actually got a call from Adalyn today.”

“Adalyn? How does she have your number?”

“We exchanged numbers at the dinner party.” Christ. “She was worried about what’s going on between you two and concerned that Emma might do something irrational.”

“What are you talking about?” I start pacing the hotel room, unsure of what to do with this built-up tension.

“Adalyn said she’s thinking about moving to Boston for a job.”

What the hell?

“Boston?” I run my hand over my face. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“Dude, I thought you were going to fix things with her. Did that change? Adalyn said you haven’t talked to Emma in three weeks. What the fuck? Are you trying to lose her forever?”

“No. I was just trying to get my head straight. Figure my shit out before I went after her.”

“That’s great and all, but not talking to her at all is hurting you and her more than you realize. You have to do some major damage control. When are you supposed to come back?”

“Not for another two damn weeks.”

“Jesus, what the hell are they making you do out there?”

“Learn how to speak nicely to employees,” I deadpan, thinking about the idiotic classes I’ve taken so far. “How the hell am I supposed to do this when I’m so far away? Talking on the phone doesn’t seem like enough, it almost seems like a cop-out.”

“Yeah, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Nothing isn’t an option anymore, and the phone isn’t what she deserves. I need something more.”

Racer chuckles in the phone. “The determination in your voice is making my heart flutter with romance.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I mumble, still pacing the floor. How can I fix this? She can’t fucking run off to Boston and out of my life forever.

I think back to our earlier conversations, about how she based a man off their first kiss, how she had to be swept off her feet with one single press against the lips. Well, since I’m not there to do that, I’m going to have to think of other ways to sweep her off her feet.

“I’m going to need your help, man,” I say into the phone as ideas start to formulate in my mind.

“It’s going to cost you.”

I know he’s kidding. The dickhead would do anything for me, but I still ask, “How many boxes are we talking?”

“I’ve missed that curly-headed broad. I’m thinking ten boxes of Oatmeal Creme Pies, five Nutty Bars, five Zebra Cakes, and two Cosmic Brownies, because let’s not go too overboard.”

“Yeah, not too overboard,” I reply sarcastically. “Should I include a toothbrush for you to avoid cavities with all that sugar?”

“Might not be a bad idea. Get me some floss too. Gums need love too, Tucker. Gums need love too.”

I laugh, a little bit of tension easing out of my chest, but not much. “Thanks, dude.”

“So what do you have planned?” He’s serious now and I can just picture him, pen in hand ready to write down the plan.

“I need to put some things together. I’ll be sending you a package tomorrow. Call me when you get it, because I’m going to be very specific as to how we make this happen.”

“Sounds complicated. I might need ten boxes of Nutty Bars.”

“You’re lucky you’re going to get five; don’t push it, man.”

“Sorry, but who’s helping who here?” Racer teases.

“I have no problem asking Smalls . . .”

“No,” Racer yells into the phone. “I want to do it. I’m involved now, you can’t take that away from me.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Do me a favor, man, reach between your legs and check for your balls. They still there?”

“Oh . . . are we getting kinky now? I’m not prepared for phone sex. Give me a second.” He clears his voice and talks in a deep, rich tone, “How you doing, baby? Want me to stroke my gonads for you?”

I hang up and chuckle, not giving him a chance to further whatever fucking disastrous conversation that would have been. With a renewed sense of direction, I grab my wallet, stuff it in my back pocket, and head out to my car in the parking garage just as I get a text message.

Racer: It’s offensive to me that you would hang up just as I start to stroke my penis.

Fucking idiot.

Tucker: Thin ice, man. Smalls is on speed dial.

Racer: Don’t you fucking dare! This reconciliation is in my hands . . . that and my penis.

Tucker: I must be a total moron to have gotten you involved.

Racer: Moron or genius? We will just have to wait and see.

I guess we will.