Chapter Ten

Georgina

 

 

I have to be out of my mind. I have to be. I have a brain tumor. That must be it—there’s no other explanation. I can’t believe I let Blake take me to my dad’s house.

As soon as he came to a stop, I got off Blake’s motorbike as fast as if it were made of molten lava. “Okay, thanks, bye. See you later.”

Blake took my helmet and then took his time strapping it to the rack at the back of the bike.

“Georgina?”

I cringed, then spun around with a big smile on my face. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Is that a friend of yours?”

Blake was taking off his helmet. Don’t take off your helmet! Go, go!

I fluffed out the innocent flowery dress I wore and tried to somehow hide Blake and his bike behind me. We’d stopped at my place on the way and I’d showered and changed in record time. Julie was making toast in the kitchen when we’d gone through, and I saw her give Blake a surreptitious onceover as her face turned red. Damn straight he’s gorgeous, I’d thought.

I’d left them talking about some sci-fi show they both watched and took a moment to do my makeup. I knew it seemed odd to put on makeup for my dad, but I had to look good for him. I had to look healthy. There was no way I was going to beat Blake’s thirty-second dressing record though. I was impressed he’d managed that.

Then it struck me that that meant he hadn’t showered since we had sex. And now he was here. Talking to my dad.

Blake extended a hand from where he still sat on his bike. “I’m Blake. It’s great to meet you.”

“Mr Stone.” Dad brought his hands up in front of him, holding them as a surgeon would when keeping them sterile. Only Dad’s hands were covered in red gore and slime.

Dad shook his head at me. “Honey, I’m still disposing of the last boy who took you on such a dangerous vehicle.”

Blake leaned closer to me. “Is he serious?”

I sighed a long, exasperated sigh. “He’s been peeling beetroot.”

“Come on in then,” Dad said, turning and leading the way into his house. “I want to get to know the man that my daughter would put her life in the hands of.”

I turned to Blake, deadly serious. “Go, go now. Save yourself.”

Blake swung himself off the bike. “What are you talking about? I like him already.”

“You are seriously not walking in there. We do not have a meet-the-parents type relationship.”

Blake’s grin turned truly mischievous.

He followed my dad inside, and all I could do was chase after them.

Dad’s house was a strange combination of a Greek-style exterior and a Canadian lodge-like interior. It was low and sprawling with whitewashed walls and decorative wrought-iron bars on the windows outside, and inside, it was dark and lush with wooden paneling and the scent of smoked foods. It was almost as much of a mess as Blake’s house had been. Dad never had gotten any better at cleaning. Only the kitchen was kept immaculate.

Dad led us in there through the saloon doors, and we got to work. It was big enough for all of us, even given Blake’s size. The granite counter tops were already laid out with fresh produce, mixing bowls and chopping boards in use, and my stomach started grumbling at the smell of baking pastry. Dad gave Blake what I knew to be a blunt, old knife, and asked him to finely dice some tomatoes. I warned you.

“Interesting ride you arrived on,” Dad said.

“Blake built it himself,” I jumped in, trying for some reason to defend him. Blake shouldn’t even be here.

“Quite poetic,” Dad said, his knife working easily to slice neat rounds from the beetroot, “to build the thing that will ultimately kill you.”

“They really are safer than most people think,” Blake said.

“That’s what every bike rider says before they lose an arm.” Dad pointed his knife at Blake to make a point. “I trust my daughter to make her own decisions in her life, but I’m telling the both of you right now she’s too precious to lose like that.” He turned directly to me. “You’re too precious.”

My whole body froze for a second while I did everything in my power not to burst into tears. I forced myself to brush it off and let out a weak, whining, “Daaaad, stop it.”

“Sorry, honey. Your life. Your decisions.”

Blake’s brow was furrowed, beaded with sweat, and his knife slipped as he failed to slice the tomatoes. I wondered why he was even trying, and how long he’d persist before giving up. It was such a small thing, but conniving in its simplicity—to give a person who was trying to make a good impression in front of a professional chef a tool he could only fail with. Dad once promised me he’d never be the kind of father who would do things to scare away any boyfriends I brought home. That he would always trust me to follow my heart and make the right decisions. Not that I ever brought any home. But I guessed bringing one home on a motorbike was going to test that promise. Not that Blake was my boyfriend.

I grabbed a real knife from the block and slipped it to Blake, a move Dad watched with interest. I turned away quickly to busy myself with crumbing the lamb cutlets.

While stacking marinated goat’s cheese between the beetroot slices, Dad said, “Bike building—is it your profession or pastime?”

“Hobby mostly, although I sell a few to get new parts to make more. I just love the process of putting together broken pieces into something new. But I mostly work as a roofer since I left university.”

“Since you left?” Dad’s eyes went to mine, and I knew what he was thinking. Here was the reason I was skipping classes. It would have been easier to let that go on than tell the truth. I never got a chance to toss Blake under the bus though because Dad added, “So you two didn’t meet on campus?”

“I thought she wasn’t—” Blake’s face contorted as my foot met his shin.

“Yeah, he was working on one of the older buildings.” I talked right over Blake. His face was one big question mark that I ignored. I was standing there, outright lying to my dad in possibly very unconvincing lies, and Blake knew it. But I’d had to come up with something quick.

A subject change was the only way to go now. I picked a spoon up and tasted the tomato sauce simmering on the stove. “This is great, Dad. Have you been using that smoked garlic again?”

He looked up from where he’d been carefully rolling the beetroot and cheese stacks in crushed walnuts. “Smoked salt.” He grinned, always proud when I picked a flavor in his dishes.

“Yum. Should I start taking things out to the table?”

“I just have to fry the cutlets and mac and cheese, then we’re ready to go.”

I took the finished dish off him and headed to the door. “Blake, can you come help me set the table?”

He dropped the knife next to the mangled tomatoes with clear relief. He hadn’t had much luck even with the better blade. “Sure.”

As he followed me out, I whispered, “You know he doesn’t need those tomatoes for anything we’re eating today, right?”

“Your dad is awesome,” he said, without a hint of sarcasm. “So, why are you lying to him?”

Reaching the dining room, I pointed to the cabinet. “Grab any plates and cutlery, we’re not fussy.”

Blake stood, ignoring the directions, giving me a no-nonsense look.

I rambled, “Just wait until you try Dad’s mac and cheese. It’s the creamiest, most delicious mac and cheese in the world, and when it’s done, he sticks it in the refrigerator overnight to set and gel. The next day he slices it thinly, breads it and drops it into a deep fryer. He covers it with a rich, slow-simmered tomato sauce to serve. I swear once you eat his version you will be ruined for life. Nothing else ever comes close to it.”

Blake didn’t break. “He doesn’t know you dropped out?” he hissed.

“Shut up! He’s got ears like a fox!” I hissed back.

“Georgie, can you come into the kitchen please?”

Kill me now. There was no use arguing, so I put the plate down in the middle of the table and went.

Dad stood over the stove, deep-frying the pasta in a wok as the lamb chops fried in a cast-iron pan beside them at the same time. “He seems nice. Is this a serious thing?”

I shot a look at the swinging saloon doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. “Shh, no! He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just friends. Barely acquaintances. He just gave me a ride because my car battery was dead. You’re the one who invited him in—don’t forget that.”

“You could have invited him. I’m happy for you to bring boys home.”

I smiled at how he said boys, but didn’t like the frown that stayed on his face.

Then he asked, “Does he know?”

“No. Don’t you tell him, either.” I rested my hip against the kitchen bench. “Dad, do you know how bad it sucked to wonder if guys were looking at me because they thought I was cute or because they were staring at my wig?’

His fingers touched my hair. “The wig is gone.”

“Do you want me to take anything else out?” Blake stood behind the kitchen doors, peeking over them. He looked uncomfortable, but also determined. It was obvious that he had come to rescue me, and Dad chuckled under his breath as he said, “Yeah, let’s get this food out. Dessert is coming up well. I hope you like fruit tart and ice wine.”

“Ice wine from Canada?” Blake asked with a grin.

“Is there another kind?” Dad raised one bushy black eyebrow—a skill I didn’t inherit, or I would have, too. Blake didn’t seem like an ice wine guy.

“No, sir.”

Blake opened the door for me as I walked through carrying a bowl of salad. We headed back for the dining table, but Blake stopped in front of the wall where Dad had my childhood artworks and school photos framed.

A pit of nausea opened up in my chest.

He smiled as my photos progressed through infancy, childhood, teens, and then he paused when he reached my fifteenth year.

I stared at my fifteen-year-old self, at the wig that was always slightly askew on my head, and the pasty skin of my swollen face. I looked so different there to how I did when I was younger, my hair color and style at odds with before and after, dark shadows under my eyes aging my young face.

Blake didn’t say anything, but his expression said it all.

“Bad flu. Bad hair day.” Lying had become my go-to. I walked past him, past the hateful reminders of my teenage years, but he didn’t follow me. I turned around and snapped, “Please stop staring at that thing!”

Dad came in then, his arms loaded with plates of food, and we all sat at the table.

We ate, and talked, and Dad seemed to be warming to Blake—a turn of events I was not sure I liked very much. I didn’t need the two of them ganging up on me.

I had hoped that the conversation would stay out of dangerous waters but it headed back that way as soon as we had dessert on our plates when Dad asked, “Why did you leave university?”

At first I thought he was talking to me, and I nearly choked on my wine.

Blake replied, “I thought that some physical labor would help me put things in perspective.”

“That’s an interesting reason to drop out.”

“Dad, this is personal!” I protested.

“It’s all right,” Blake replied. “But I didn’t drop out.”

Dad frowned. “You said you left.”

“Sorry, I should have said finished. But I’m considering going back to do my master’s, so I guess it still feels temporary.”

“What subject?” I blurted, curiosity overcoming me. I knew so little about Blake. Which is how it’s meant to be. He’s not my boyfriend. Don’t get attached.

“Economics.”

I sucked the last of the wine out of my glass and reached for the bottle. Blake is smart.

“I almost went that direction,” Dad said. “I love how numbers play together. Good options for careers there too, especially with a master’s.”

My world was spinning. Blake has career options.

“There’s a certain science in cooking which I love too, but with cooking you get something to eat as well.” Dad patted his belly. “Got to watch how much you eat, though, when you’re no longer young and fit like you.”

Blake is good-looking. Blake is healthy.

I stared at my plate, the tart there with its flaky and perfect crust cradling the rich ripe berries, and wanted to scream. Blake had so many options ahead of him.

Blake has a future.

And I was here, selfishly stealing time from him. All I had was The List. I had to finish it. As fast as possible. I didn’t have a future. I didn’t have time, and I couldn’t sit here a second longer pretending I did with someone who had so much to live for.

I pushed my chair back and grabbed Blake’s plate off him while he was still eating.

“We have to go,” I announced. “We have that thing.”

“What thing?” Blake asked, trying to grab the plate back and missing.

Dad passed the whole remaining tart dish to Blake, and damn, if the traitor didn’t grab it, sink his fork into the sweet dessert, and keep right on eating, with a sly wink to my dad.

“That thing,” I said through tightly clenched teeth.

“Is it so important that he can’t finish some dessert?”

“Yes!” God, Dad was practically doting on him now. He did love people who appreciated his cooking.

Blake shoveled one last chunk into his mouth, stood, and said, “Thanks for dinner, Mr. Stone.”

“Call me Tom.”

They stood there, giving each other a tender bromance look, so I grabbed Blake by the arm and propelled him to the front door.

Dad walked us out, giving me a kiss on the cheek, tickling me with his beard. “I like him. Be safe.”

I bit my lip, then kissed him back. The door closed, and I caught up with Blake out on the sidewalk.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine. I just want to do the next thing on my list.” I was out of breath and had to lean against the motorbike for a minute. “Right now.”

“Don’t you think that would be a bit awkward in your father’s driveway?”

“You know what I mean.”

“We’re nowhere near a beach. It would take ages—”

“The one after that then!” I snapped. I couldn’t wait. I had to cross something off. I had to do something.

His eyes were soft, and he leaned close to me. I flinched away. I could see the curtain moving in my Dad’s living room, in the house where I had grown up, where my mother had died. My dad was watching. Watching what he thought was a new relationship. Imagining what might be a future I would never have.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Blake said. His breath touched my cheek when he spoke those words.

I wanted to believe him. Death doesn’t give you many options though. You live well for the time you have or you die with things undone.

Blake twined a finger around a strand of my hair. “Why is this so important to you?”

His question made me angry. My reasons were none of his business. I closed my eyes and it all hit home …