“I wish it hadn’t happened either. I always wanted you to fall in love, not be alone, but I never would’ve wanted you to go through something like this. Not even for me and Dennis.”
“Well, I brought it on myself. I’m a victim of my own poor decision making. No one else to blame. Now, I just have to move forward and be smarter.”
“Do you really think we can be smart when it comes to love, Vi?”
A knee-jerk answer pops into my mind—YES—but I hesitate to speak it aloud, mainly because I really don’t believe it anymore. So I give her the truth instead.
“I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure.”
“I think the only thing we can control in love is how we act. I think the rest is all left up to the heart. Like Dennis. He chose to forgive me. Over and over and over because he loved me. And it paid off because his heart was in it. I think as long as your heart’s in it, everything will turn out just fine.”
“I wish I believed that, Tia.”
“Maybe one day you can,” she says simply. I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing. When the silence stretches on, Tia continues. “Well, at least now you don’t have to worry about going to those awful meetings. You are officially free on Thursday nights.”
That sounds like a good thing unless, as in my case, you avoid free time like the plague.
“Yep. Free as a bird.”
After we hang up, I feel that freedom like a thousand-pound weight dragging at my feet, threatening to pull me under. Already this week, I’ve cleaned the house, washed all the curtains, rearranged the pantry, organized my shoes, and cleaned out the fridge. And I’m going to clean and polish my floors this weekend because I’ll have to move the furniture.
I look around my house and realize I have nothing to do. I can’t even invent something to do. It’s all been done. The only place I haven’t torn through like a tornado is Dad’s. But maybe it’s high time I take some of my constructive energy over to his place. That would benefit us both.
Without even stopping to give it more thought, I rush to my bedroom, change into cleaning clothes, and hit the door at a run. Free time is the enemy!
I hit the road as soon as I load the backseat of my car with chemicals, gloves, and brushes. It’s as I’m driving the couple of miles to Dad’s that I happen to think about how long it’s been since I’ve had a call from the tavern. I’m about due, it seems like. Maybe I can be there to keep him company and dissuade him from drowning his woes in a bottle tonight.
Because of my load of cleaning paraphernalia, I pull around back so I can go in the laundry room door. I cut the engine and grab an armful of supplies and haul them up the steps to Dad’s back door. I use my elbow to bang on the screen. I listen for the telltale sound of his heavy footsteps trudging to answer. Only the trudging never happens. My father never comes to the door.
Setting down my chemical arsenal, I go back down the steps and around to the front of the house. I had been so preoccupied upon arrival, I hadn’t even noticed that my father’s truck is nowhere to be found. With a deep sigh, I walk to the dying shrub to the left of the front door, fish out the spare key that’s tied to a string that dangles inside it, and open the front door.
I replace the key before closing the front door and walking through to let myself in the back, my enthusiasm dampened considerably by the likelihood that this night will end with me going to fetch my obliterated father from his favorite dive. With a sigh, I tell myself to buck up. I wanted something to keep me busy—well, I’ve got it. Between cleaning this giant man cave and then babysitting for the remainder of the night, I should have zero time to think about Jet.
I’m elbow deep in bleach when I realize fate had a different plan for the evening. I hear banging from the other room. That has to be my father.
Men are so noisy!
Holding my dripping hands up, I walk from the kitchen into the living room to greet Dad. He’s standing at the front door, banging dirt off his shoes, sending little particles of caked clay all over the tile of the entryway.
“Dad! Don’t do that in here! Do it in the grass,” I fuss good-naturedly.
“Oh, sorry sweetheart,” he says sheepishly, setting his shoes to the side and tiptoeing away from the dirty zone, completely ignoring my suggestion. “What are you doing here?” he asks, walking past me to grab the broom and dustpan from the tiny closet just inside the kitchen.
“Cleaning. I hope that’s okay. I figured you’d be here.”
He doesn’t offer any kind of explanation, doesn’t tell me where he’s been, nothing. He just smiles.
“I guess I should’ve called,” I say, trying a different tack.
“You never have to call, Vi. You’re always welcome in this house, whether you’re cleaning it or not.”
I swallow my humph.
Mindful of my wet, gloved hands, I turn to head back into the kitchen, throwing casually over my shoulder, “What have you been into tonight?”
“Ummm, not much. Just . . . you know, a little of this, a little of that.”
I frown. That’s very vague. Not like my father at all.
“What’s this and that?”
“Oh, nothing you’d be interested in,” he says cryptically.
“Of course I’m interested, Dad,” I reply, even more curious now.
“I hate to bore you. Hey, have you had dinner?” he asks, quickly changing the subject.
I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly eight, and he knows I never eat after seven thirty. Peeling off my gloves and tossing them onto the counter, I head back into the living room. I stop beside the sofa, crossing my arms over my chest.
“All right. What’s going on?”
My father looks up at me, his most innocuous expression in place. “What do you mean?”
“You’re acting all . . . sneaky. What have you been up to?”
“I told you—”
“You told me exactly nothing. Now what gives?”
“Vi, I—”
I gasp, something just having occurred to me. “Oh my gosh! Dad! Were you on a date?”
His laugh is genuine, which gives me my answer before he speaks. “No, Violet. I was not on a date.”
“Why is that funny?”
“It just is.”
“Then where were you? Why the secrecy?”
I watch his smile die. “I don’t know if you’re ready for my answer yet, hon.”
My frown deepens. “What’s that supposed to mean? What could you possibly have been doing that I wouldn’t be ready for?”
“It’s not so much what I was doing as much as who I was with.”
A million scenarios run through my mind, only one of which is even slightly bothersome. “As long as it wasn’t a hooker, I don’t think I’ll care, Dad. Just tell me.” After a heartbeat, I add, “Unless it was a hooker.”
“Violet Leigh, what’s the matter with you?”
“What? It’s a legitimate . . . fear.”
Dad shakes his head and walks past me toward his bedroom.
“Seriously?” I say.
“What is it now?” he calls from what sounds like his closet.
“You’re just gonna walk away like we were done?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact it is,” I snap, becoming as aggravated as I am curious.
A knock at the door interrupts our discussion, and since Dad’s in his bedroom, I go to answer it. I yank open the door in agitation, not even pausing to look through the peephole.
But I wish I had.
Although I doubt it would’ve prepared me.
Standing on the doorstep, looking as surprised as I feel, is Jet.
We stare at each other for at least a full minute before speaking. And then, when we do, we both speak at the same time.
“What are you doing here?” we ask simultaneously.
Neither of us bothers to answer; we simply resume staring quietly at each other. Then finally, after such a long pause that my nerves begin to jangle, I break the silence and ask again, “What are you doing here?”
“Ummm, I . . . your father left this in my car.” Jet hands me a cell phone that I recognize as my father’s. I’m pretty sure no one else in the history of the world has a plastic iPhone cover that looks and feels like Astroturf. Leave it to a landscaper . . .
I take the phone from his fingers, even more confused. “Why was my father in your car?” Jet doesn’t answer. He just watches me. Cautiously. I prompt him, “It’s not a trick question.”
“I know it’s not. I just . . . I didn’t . . .” Jet stammers.
I feel like strangling him when he just trails off and doesn’t continue. “You didn’t what?”
Jet sighs. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“Know what?” I ask, taking a step back, my defenses suddenly on high alert.
“It’s nothing bad, Violet,” Jet explains, his tone making me feel like a silly girl.
But then I get a little defensive. How dare he act like I have no reason to be skeptical. Once burned . . .
“Don’t pretend like that’s a foregone conclusion. You don’t exactly have a sterling record of full disclosure.”
He has the good grace to look sheepish. “You’re right. And I deserve that.”
I feel guilty for my dig, even though I really shouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” I offer, closing my eyes and rubbing the back of my hand over my forehead. “It’s been . . . I’m a little . . .”
I don’t finish. I don’t know how to explain to him that he turned my life upside down. Twice. And that I’ve been a mess for weeks.
“Don’t apologize,” Jet says softly. “You have nothing to apologize for.” I glance back up at him. His eyes are a deep, soulful blue that makes me ache right behind my ribs, all the way through to my back, like I’ve been shot. His lips pull up into a sad smile, and he continues. “Just let him know I dropped it off.”
With that, as if no other explanation is required, he turns and walks away.
I watch Jet until I can no longer see him. I feel torn. Part of me wants to go after him, to call out to him and ask him to come back. Or at least to wait. For what, I don’t know.
Another part of me, however, is still stinging. And still hopeful that one day . . . one day . . . I might be able to get over him.
Maybe . . .
When I hear an engine start somewhere down the street out of my line of sight, I close the door on the night. And on Jet.
Rubbing my thumb back and forth over my father’s phone, I’m still standing at the door, lost in thought, when he comes out of his bedroom.
“Who was that?”
I look up to meet his puzzled green eyes.
“Jet.”
He doesn’t look surprised or worried or . . . anything really, he just asks, “What did he want?”
I hold up his phone. “He said you left this in his car.”
Dad pats his right leg, as if automatically feeling for it in his pocket. “I hadn’t even realized I dropped it.”
I don’t move, so my father walks to me and takes the phone from my fingers, sliding it into place in his pocket. We stand, staring silently at each other for a couple of minutes before I speak.
“Do you have something that you want to tell me, Dad?”
He shrugs. “Not really.”
“Well then maybe you’ve got something that I want you to tell me.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”
“When were you with Jet, Dad? And why?”
“I was with him tonight, not that it’s any of your business.”
My mouth drops open. I’m incredulous. “Are you kidding me? How is it not my business?”
“Since when is every friend I have your business?”
“Since that ‘friend’ is a guy I used to . . . to . . .”
Dad holds his hand up. “Stop right there,” he says, closing his eyes and cringing. “I don’t want you to finish that sentence.”
“I wasn’t going to say that, Dad!” I feel my face flame. “I just don’t quite know how to characterize our relationship.”
“Good. I might have to kill him if you’d said—”
It’s my turn to stop him. “Don’t say it, Dad. Why don’t you just tell me what you were doing with Jet so we can put this whole conversation behind us?”
“What if he doesn’t want you to know?”
Again, my mouth drops open. “Why would that matter? I’m your daughter!”
“I know that, hon,” he says kindly. “But I know how you are. I know how hard you can be sometimes.”
“What? When am I ever hard?”
“I’m not complaining, Vi. I’m just saying that you’ve had a lot of years of bad examples and it’s understandable that you’d have a tough shell by now. But sometimes, a parent has to do what he thinks is best for his daughter. Whether she approves or not.”
“And just what is it you think you’re doing for me?”
“Not me, per se.”
“Dad, just cut to the chase. Tell me what’s going on before I get mad.”
He watches me for several seconds, his eyes searching mine. “He’s been taking me to AA meetings for the past few weeks.”
Of all the things I might have dreamed, imagined, or even guessed that my father might say, his answer was nowhere in the mix.
I have only one response. “Why?”