Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“You must have reasons for wanting her, specifically,” I say. “It can’t just be about proving something to yourself.”
“She’s a nice person,” he shrugs. “She’s friendly. She’s pretty. I don’t know. Is it that bad, sending her some flowers?”
“If she’s asked you to stop—”
“I’m not some stalking freak,” he snaps. “If she’s not interested, she can go fuck herself anyway.”
I have to physically turn away from him and look out the window onto the street. Surely, this is one of the most twisted positions a father could be in. I can’t let any man speak about my woman like that, but what if the man is my son? My only child?
“Don’t be cruel,” I say after a pause, composing myself.
“Whose side are you on?” he snaps. “You’re supposed to be my dad.”
“I am your dad,” I growl.
“Then act like it.” He stands up quickly and marches from the room.
I’m tempted to go after him, but I know nothing good will come of it. We’ve had similar arguments before. Less recently, but they happen from time to time. It’s my fault, I know. I was so distant for many years, letting Margot raise him when I should’ve been more involved, but how could I? I was overseas.
He’s left his phone on the table. Am I really going to do this?
If such a thing as the Worst Father of the Year Award existed, I’d be guaranteed first place. Leaning over, I pick up his phone. The screen hasn’t locked yet. From my Special Forces work, I can remember a cell phone number with a glance. It’s lucky. The screen auto-locks just as I commit the number to memory.
Taking out my phone, I wonder if I should call my woman and explain. Don’t think. A voice from the past snaps into my mind. He was an old martial arts instructor half my size and not extremely athletic, but his timing and positioning were superhuman. If he ever thought my attention was waning, he’d pop me with a stiff jab right on the end of the nose.
I take that same ethos now, walking to the bottom of the stairs, looking up for any sign of James. Is it wrong that I’m keener to ensure my perfect painter is okay than my son? Does that make me a terrible person? I’m not sure I’m ready for an honest answer to that.
“Hello?” she says.
“It’s me,” I tell her. “Fletcher.”
“Oh…” A pause. “Hey.”
“Are you okay?” I ask. “I heard what happened between you and James.”
“I’m fine,” she replies. “I just don’t want him sending anything else to the house, that’s all. I’m not interested.”
“Good,” I say fiercely.
“Why is that good?”
Think, think. It’s the opposite of the martial arts ethos. I need to engage the reasonable part of my brain to stop myself from going too far. I need to put my son first. There’s so much I need to do, so much I’m neglecting.
“Because I want you for myself, Samantha,” I snarl, “but you knew that already.”
I wanted you the first moment I saw you, I almost add, but I don’t want to scare her away or for her to yell at me to get away again.
“I need to see you again,” I go on.
“I don’t know. My mom doesn’t approve.”
“Your mom knows about us?”
“Is that a problem?” she responds sharply. “Or did you want to keep us a secret?”
“No, it’s just… James.”
“What about James?” she says, her voice just as sharp. I think of her facing threats to our children with the same ready attitude. She’s going to be such a fierce mother.
“If he knew something was happening between us—”
“So you plan to get me into bed secretly, make sure nobody ever knows, and then slink away? Is that the gist of it?”
“What? No. Where the hell is this coming from?”
“I don’t know what’s happening between us,” she says, “but I don’t want to sneak around. I don’t want you to be ashamed of me.”
“I could never be ashamed of you, Samantha,” I snap. “You’re beautiful. You’re funny. You’re kind.”
“We don’t even know each other,” she says quietly, as though trying to convince herself.
“Then let’s get to know each other,” I reply.
“My mom thinks I should take it slow. She thinks I’m rushing into things. I’ve never even had a boyfriend.”
I swallow. Her comment puts our age gap under a rifle scope of examination. I’ve lived an entire life, had a career, had a child, taken lives, saved lives. She’s still at the start of her journey, but could we start a new journey together?
“Let me take you out,” I say. “A date. No funny business.”
I’m sure I can hear her smiling, but maybe that’s wishful thinking. Her tone gives nothing away. I’m going insane, man. I can hear her smiling, but her tone is the same. How does that make any sense? She’s messing with my gray-haired head.