Chapter 2
Brooks
It’s a little after five in the morning when Jennie leaves. I close the door behind her with no intention of seeing her again. It was fun, hot, a distraction. Nothing more.
I slump down on the sofa, naked but for my shorts. My abs are decorated with scratch marks from Jennie’s nails. I lie back and stretch my arms above my head. I’ll try to catch a few hours’ sleep before I get ready to pick up Cady for breakfast.
When she was a kid I would see Cady every weekend, without fail, and as often as she wanted to see me any other time. As she got older—and found boys—she came to stay over less and less. Now, we tend to meet for lunch or coffee, or she’ll come by the gym if she’s in the city. Does it get me down sometimes that I don’t see her as often as I’d like? Yes. Do I fully understand having raging hormones and feeling like the world is on your shoulders as an eighteen-year-old? Yes. In fact, it’s remembering so well that scares me so goddamn much.
I tossed and turned but I must have dozed off at some point because I wake with a start, vaguely aware that in my mind I was sixteen and lying in a bed with Alice, listening to music.
The clock tells me the time is 8:20. I’m not meeting Cady until ten. After mixing up a chocolate K-Z protein shake—courtesy of one of my sponsors—I move back into the lounge. I live in a fairly modest place, given how much money the gym turns these days, but it is a city apartment with a basement garage for my truck and it’s within running distance of the gym. True, my view is of the red bricks of another high-rise, but I’m not around a lot to see the view in any event. It’s a two-bedroom place and I really don’t need more space than that. The living room/dining room/kitchen area is airy. The walls are white throughout. Some are decorated with bright abstract art, mostly picked by Cady. In the living room I have a large flat-screen TV and an L-shaped sofa. Some might say it’s a man’s apartment. They would probably be right.
I grab a guitar from the three set in stands along the living room wall, choosing my six-string acoustic over electric or bass. To be honest, I don’t play electric or bass much these days, even though they were my preferred option when Drew and I had our band in high school. Planting my protein shake in its plastic bottle on the coffee table, I sink into the corner of the sofa with my guitar and start to strum. Soon, I find myself slipping into the rhythm of the Goo Goo Dolls’ “Iris” and start singing along. It doesn’t stop my mind from wandering.
Alice is having another baby.
I know there’s no chance for us. Yet, for some reason, each time she marries, gets a boyfriend, or becomes pregnant, it’s like someone taking a fucking ax to my chest.
I don’t want to feel this way. I want to be over her. But how the hell do you get over a first love, the mother of your child, and the woman you have spent your life trying to impress?
Everything I have done since I was sixteen years old has been about her. For her.
What the fuck is the point? What is the point to any of what I’ve done?
The lingering thought that I should expand and franchise the gym comes to me now. Drew is right, it would be a sound business move. A natural progression, even. But who would I be doing it for if not Alice?
* * * *
The suburb where Alice now lives is like a real-life version of Wisteria Lane. Not that I watch Desperate Housewives, obviously. Cady has the show saved on my DVR, that’s all.
Despite not being too far out of the city, the houses are large—real family homes—and painted white, blue, yellow. A life I couldn’t have even dreamed of giving Alice, not back then.
The subdivision could be idyllic, except Cady gives me the lowdown on the residents. The Georges and the “big affair.” The Hamiltons and their illegitimate child. The fight between the Smithsons last week that led to Mrs. Smithson throwing Mr. Smithson’s clothes out of the upstairs window.
Despite all this, if I’m honest with myself, I’m envious of Alice and her pretentious home in her pretentious neighborhood. I’m jealous that she’s living the life I always wanted to have with her. A family. A family home. Our daughter.
I can’t bring myself to drive up to their house to collect Cady. When Cady was a toddler, I would be forced to carry her to Alice’s door, usually after she had fallen asleep in my car. As she grew up, my ability to withstand my own emotions weakened and my reasons for taking Cady to her front door lessened. For years now, in this suburb and the last, I’ve parked at the end of the street and waited for Cady to come to me.
It’s 9:58. I’m two minutes early and Cady will be five minutes late, at least, so I turn off the engine of my truck and wait, my elbow hanging over the window, the sun warming my skin beneath my T-shirt.
You’re probably thinking this is ridiculous—a broad, muscly man like me, waiting out on the street like he’s running scared. But see, I am afraid. Having to pick my own daughter up for coffee, instead of being there to tuck her in at night, to help with homework, to tell her things will be all right when she’s having a bad day, that’s hard enough. I don’t need to see Alice and really tear my wounds open.
I flick radio channels as I wait, settling on Blake Shelton’s latest Billboard hit. Cady eventually comes toward the car at six past ten—not too bad for her these days. Gone are the times when she would run along the street toward me. Now, she struts in her skater black skirt, her black ankle boots, and a black leather jacket. All despite the fact it’s seventy-seven degrees out.
She doesn’t meet my eye as she moves around the truck and slips into the passenger side. She pulls her bag—black—from over her shoulder in silence and dumps it in the footwell. Then she sits back, clicks in her belt, and sighs as she straightens her thick bangs and usually blond bob.
I brace my hand on the steering wheel and look at her. “Morning, Dad. Oh, hey, morning, Cady. Yeah, I’m great, thanks for asking. And you?”
I watch as her lips fight to keep their belligerent expression, then break into a smile. Eventually, she flashes me those huge blue eyes that are so like her mother’s. “Hi, Dad.”
“You have pink hair.” I point out the obvious.
She shrugs as she smirks. “It’s just a wash. Mom hates it.”
“I guess that means you’ll continue to do it?”
“Maybe.”
I shake my head. “Well, I kind of like it. It suits you. So, you want to get breakfast in the city?”
“Yeah, I’m going to see Zach when we’re done.”
“Zach?”
She shrugs again and I wonder if it’s legitimate for me to strap those shrugging shoulders to the seat. “My boyfriend. He goes to NYU.”
I feel my eyes attempt to pop right out of my head. “A new boyfriend? He’s in college? What was wrong with the other kid, from your class? Where is Zach from? He’s too old for you.”
“Dad, he’s like two years older than me. Chill out. You’re gonna give yourself a coronary.”
“A coron… This discussion isn’t over.”
Like a petulant child, I purse my lips, knock the truck into drive, and pull out of the perfect freakin’ suburb toward the city…and, incidentally, toward Zach, my daughter’s college boyfriend.
I park in the basement garage of my building and we walk to the Butterfly Café, a new place that Cady tells me is “shabby chic.”
“What exactly is shabby chic?” I ask, tucking my white wicker chair under the white table. I nudge the floral planter from the middle of the table to one side so I can see my daughter.
She chuckles. Damn, I love that sound. Always have. “It’s this stuff,” she says. “The whitewash, the paisley prints, flowers. Kind of vintage but modern. Pretty.”
“Right. And that pink hair, is that shabby chic?”
Her brows scrunch and her button nose wrinkles. The sight is like someone holding a hot-water bottle to my chest.
I fight against my laughter. “Why do you have that look? It’s a wash, it’s pink, and it’s a little bit like that Frenchie character from Grease, so it’s vintage. Am I wrong?”
“Oh my God, Dad. On so many levels, just, oh my God. First, the only part of shabby chic that relates to my hair is chic. And, seriously, you know the characters from Grease?”
I do laugh now. “It’s a classic. Plus, your mom used to force it on me.” Just like that, my laugh cuts off and I’m staring at the laminated breakfast menu in front of me, trying not to remember times spent watching Grease through one eye as I was in a lip-lock with Alice.
Cady orders quinoa porridge—her latest fad—and I order an omelet, as she fills me in on her summer break so far. As our breakfast plates are set in front of us with peppermint tea for her and an Americano for me, she gets to the story of her first meeting with Zach.
“He plays in a band and a bunch of us went to the gig, in Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn? You’re only eighteen.”
She rolls her eyes. “It was on campus. Plus, we stayed over. Amber knows one of the other guys in the band.”
I almost choke on my eggs. “You stayed over? With who? With this Zach?”
“Well, there were a bunch of us. It wasn’t like it was just the two of us. Anyway, like you said, I am eighteen.”
Jesus. I feel my head starting to heat. Any second now my gray T-shirt will be showing my stressed-out-dad perspiration under the arms.
I eye her over my coffee cup as I take a mouthful and try to think of how best to handle the situation. “Does Alice know you stayed over?” Yep, I’ll start by hoping Alice has already dealt with it.
Cady shrugs. “She knows I stayed out, yes.”
“Cady, quit the attitude and quit shrugging your damn shoulders at me. And quit using lines on me that I used on your grandparents. You say she knows you stayed out, which is code for you stayed with Zach and she doesn’t know.”
She clears her throat and sits straighter in her chair.
I suddenly feel like my fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Perkins, the way he would raise one brow and tut as he chastised me before sending me to the principal. “Look, he’s twenty and in college. You’re about to go to college. I’m not going to pretend you two won’t…you know.”
Her cheeks burn red as she looks around the café, probably hoping for the fire alarm to sound or for a cab to drive through the front window. I’d be grateful for one of those things myself.
“Dad, seriously. I know about the birds and the bees. We aren’t having this conversation.”
I lean back in my chair and tell her with a look that we absolutely are having this conversation. “Listen, Cady, I’m not going to be a hypocrite. I just want to know that you’re being sensible. Make sure you know the guy and like him. Make sure he’s decent. Don’t disrespect yourself by letting just anyone—”
She pushes herself out of her chair and stands in a ridiculously melodramatic fashion. “Christ, Dad, I do know him. And I know he really likes me, and I like him. And we’re not sixteen.”
As calmly as I can when an eighteen-year-old is shouting at me in a public place, I tell her, “Sit down, Cady, right the hell now.”
I guess I pitched it right, because she does sit. “You sound just like her.”
“By ‘her,’ I assume you mean your mother. Look, I get that you think you know everything right now, and hell, you probably know a lot more than Alice and I knew at sixteen. But we’re both just trying to stop you from making the mistakes we made.”
She drops her wrist to the tabletop, rocking the teaspoon against her cup and saucer, drawing looks from other customers. “So now I’m a mistake?”
I roll my jaw, counting in my head to control my temper. “No, but you are proving that you’re a goddamn child.” I drag my hand through my hair on an exasperated sigh. “You are anything but a mistake, Cady. You’re the only thing I’ve ever done right. But if I could have had you a few years later, when your mom and I… There are some things I would have, should have, done differently. I’m just pointing out that you could learn from me. Have fun but be sensible.”
We stare at each other long enough that I wonder if we’re in an indefinite standoff, or whether I got through to the girl who is just as stubborn as her old man. Finally, her lips break into an almost smile. “Are you going to take me for my birth control appointment?” she asks.
“Do you want me to?” I ask her with a grin, knowing the answer to that question. “Are we going to talk about why you wanted to see me today?”
She shrugs, and I swear I have to bite down on my tongue. “You’re my dad, aren’t you?”
“Actually, I’m aware of that. Every time I see a new strand of gray hair in the mirror, I’m reminded I’m your father. And I love to see you but I saw you last weekend so I wasn’t expecting to see you for, like, I don’t know, a decade.”
She laughs as I finish the sentence in a mock-teenager tone, the kind you might hear in the movie Mean Girls. Again, I’ve watched it with Cady and the fact she has the same name as the lead character is purely coincidence. No judging.
“I wanted to see you, that’s all.”
I watch her, silently, waiting for her to fill the gap. I’ve learned over the years, if I want my daughter to talk, this is how. Kids—sorry, young adults—don’t like silence.
She breathes out heavily. “It’s just, I’m fed up with hearing about the baby’s room, and the baby scan, and the nursery conversion, and what a wonderful family Mom and Richard and the baby will be. I mean, I know I’m moving to the college dorm and all, but…”
“You won’t be pushed out, Cady. Your mom wouldn’t do that. I know it’s hard.” God, do I. “But I know Alice, and Richard, want you to be a part of their family. You are a part of their family.” I reach out and lift her fallen chin until her eyes meet mine. “And you can talk to me anytime, kiddo. All right? You can stay anytime. Plus, when you’re at NYU we’ll be able to see a lot more of each other.”
Her smile creeps onto her lips. “Can I get a free gym membership?”
“You already have it.”
“For my friends?”
“One friend.”
“And food in the bistro?”
I chuckle. “And food in the bistro.” I cover her hand with mine. “I love you, kiddo.”
She rolls her eyes. “Love you too.”
“Good, you can buy breakfast.”
“I don’t love you that much. Anyway, I have places to be.” With that, she stands, plants a kiss on my brow, and quickly navigates tables to slip out of the restaurant. I watch her walk by the glass window. She stops on the sidewalk and looks right at me. Then she shrugs.
Ah, Christ, she definitely got my attitude.