Emmaline Waters, This Is Your Life Read online

  His smile remains steady. “You’ll think about it, then? That’s great. Take as long as you need.”

  Shit. He’s misunderstood me. I meant to turn him down flat. “Uh . . .”

  “In the meantime, I thought you could move in with me. I’ve got tons of extra space, and Angie can come too. It’ll be fun.”

  The man is full of surprises, this one almost qualifying as a good idea. (Okay, if my living situation weren’t so precarious, I’d probably be tossing this notion overboard too. But sometimes life hands you lemons, and you just have to squeeze them.)

  I sneak the ring back into his hand. “Let me talk to my parents,” I say, my guts starting to gurgle.

  Please, let it be the tuna.

  Chapter 17

  It wasn’t the tuna. And by the time we got to Bungee Ridge, the only thing I felt like doing was swaddling myself in the hotel’s scratchy bedspread and sleeping through what should’ve been the thrill of a lifetime—for Trent, anyway. In a rare show of gentlemanliness, he ditched the jump too, opting instead to search out some chicken noodle soup, which he used to lure me out of bed an hour past checkout time the next day.

  When we got back to Boston—both of us tired and cranky—things plunged even further downhill, thanks to an errant nail that chose to flatten the Lexus’s rear passenger tire. The can of Fix-A-Flat Trent deployed allowed us to limp the rest of the way to my parents’ house before necessitating a tow truck. For twenty minutes, I waited with him on the curb, then thanked him for the trip and delivered a knockout kiss. (I mean, why not? The guy did ask me to marry him, after all!) Without the ring, I made my way inside to await Mom, Dad, and Angie, who’d spent the morning traipsing through pumpkin patches and corn mazes with Aunt GiGi in honor of Halloween.

  * * *

  “Where’s your car?” Mom asks as she breezes into the brownstone. “I didn’t think you were here.”

  I lean into the entryway. “Trent dropped me off,” I explain, catching sight of Dad, who looks exhausted—but not as wiped out as Angie—as he plods inside with my daughter draped over his shoulder, her eyes aflutter with sleep. “Should you be doing that?” I can’t help asking.

  Dad rolls his eyes and mutters, “Relax. I’m fine.” He puts Angie down for a nap, then he and Mom corral me for a “sit down” (read: lecture) at the kitchen island.

  Even though I knew it was coming (in fact, avoiding this discussion was part of the impetus for my spur-of-the-moment getaway with Trent), I bristle. “Listen,” I say, toying with the salt shaker instead of looking them in the eyes, “I know what you’re going to say.”

  Mom snorts. “I very much doubt that.”

  Which is worse? I wonder. Mom’s dismissive mocking or Dad’s stony indifference?

  “I screwed up,” I say, hoping to stem the tide of upset headed my way. Not that I blame them for being mad. They have put aside their lives for the past four years to raise my child. “I should’ve told you guys the truth.”

  Mom purses her lips. “Nice try, Emmaline. One of your quick apologies isn’t going to fix things this time around.”

  Holy fuck, she’s—what’s a word for much pissier than pissed? I search Dad’s face for a hint of compassion but find only a glassy-eyed stare.

  Honest to God, I didn’t plan it this way, but . . .

  Cue the waterworks. (On the upside, though, my blubbering elicits a smidgeon of sympathy from Dad, who lays a supportive hand on my knee.)

  I suck in a few deep, calming breaths before Mom continues with: “You know what the worst part of this whole situation is?”

  My mouth hangs open, as if actual words might start popping out.

  They don’t.

  Still, I have a few good contenders for the “worst part” of this “situation,” namely:

  I’ve betrayed the trust of my child, possibly scarring her for life (or, at the very least, giving her a heap of valid ammunition to use against me during her angst-ridden teen years).

  I’ve duped my selfless-to-a-fault parents, who’ve never made a decision in my lifetime—or Angie’s—that wasn’t based on unconditional love.

  I’ve stolen fatherhood—or the first four years of it, anyway—from a man who is, by all accounts, the good-hearted, standup kind of guy every little girl should have for a daddy.

  I’ve done all of the above for my own self-centered reasons and, as if the misdeeds themselves weren’t enough, I’ve dragged my loved ones through the mud in front of anyone—and everyone—within viewing distance of a computer or a TV.

  Is it just me, or is there a pattern here? When in doubt, blame Emmaline. Clearly, she deserves it.

  “You should’ve trusted us,” Mom continues. “We could’ve helped you communicate with Mark. He’s very reasonable, you know. But instead you lied—bald-faced lied!—to us, just to . . .” Her face scrunches in puzzlement. “What was your reason for all of this, anyway?”

  My vocal cords are paralyzed, but pathetic little sobs continue seeping out of my nose.

  “Hmm?” Mom demands.

  Dad shifts around in his chair. “That’s water under the bridge,” he says, drawing a sharp glance from Mom. “The question now is: What are we going to do about it?” He sighs. “I just wish you’d thought more about Angeline. She’s going to be devastated. But we can’t very well tell Mark Loffel to buzz off. Not after everything you’ve put him through. He wants to know his daughter, and it’s his right.”

  Why does Dad sound like he’s not just guessing at Mark’s reaction? And, also: “How do you know his name?”

  Mom cackles wildly. “Honest to Jesus, Emmaline, you’ve got to get out of that bubble in your head and join the rest of us on planet earth.”

  Well, that was harsh. And evasive. “How do you know about Mark Loffel?” I repeat, picturing Mom with an old-school phone book, making cold calls to every poor sucker in the metro-Boston area so unlucky as to be named Mark.

  “He’s coming over,” Dad announces. “We had a nice chat last night, when he called looking for you. He won’t be seeing Angeline quite yet, though, of course.”

  “Is that why you guys invited me here?” I ask, feeling a wisp of the deceit my parents have suffered at my hands. “To ambush me?”

  “Please don’t ruin this for Angie,” Mom says. “We want to get this new relationship off on the right foot.”

  I’m not sure to which “relationship” she’s referring—mine and Mark’s or Mark’s and Angie’s. My confusion becomes a moot point, though, when . . .

  The doorbell sounds, signaling the end of life as I know it.

  Mom and Dad simultaneously sprout to their feet. “I’ll get it,” Dad says, quickstepping for the hall.

  Mom seizes the opportunity to hammer her point home. “Make this work, Emmaline. For your daughter. She didn’t ask—”

  The sight of Mark Loffel—as disheveled looking (and, yet, somehow tantalizingly sexy) as a wayward drifter—strolling into her kitchen shuts Mom up and, I’m ashamed to admit, piques my curiosity. The only thing I want to feel for the father of my child is cool indifference. So why can’t I stop staring at and—I hope my imagination has run amok here!—drooling over his scruffy five o’clock shadow and sensitive hazel eyes?

  “Hi,” I say with a shy smile, the eyes landing on mine.

  He smiles back, just as coyly. “Hey.”

  Is there a doctor in the house? Because I could use a sack of smelling salts right about now.

  After a quick round of introductions, Dad ushers Mom off to the back of the brownstone for some “rest and relaxation”—or so he claims (more likely, though, they’ll be engaging in a little clandestine eavesdropping).

  Of course, I deserve nothing less than the full repertoire of meddling. “So, uh, wanna sit down?” I ask, gesturing at the island.

  Mark doesn’t budge, his hands planted firmly in the pockets of a charcoal-gray waistcoat. (Did he pick up such refined fashion sense in Europe?) “That won’t be necessary.”

&
nbsp; Ouch. I’m sensing some hostility here. It’s sad, really, considering how warm he was to Angie and me at The Olive Branch. Speaking of which . . . “How’s the restaurant?”

  His nose does an adorable bunny twitch. “It’s good,” he says with a clipped nod, his smile drawing into a straight line. “Busier than we expected.”

  “I liked it,” I reply. “I think I called it ‘a nibble of heaven’—or something like that, anyway, in my article.” My face flushes noticeably, though I’m not sure he’s noticing, his gaze skipping around the kitchen for a non-Emmaline resting place.

  “You wanna get out of here?” he asks.

  Like an ignoramus, I say, “Um . . . what?”

  He bobs his head toward the door. “I’ve got some stuff to do back at the restaurant before we open for dinner. I thought it would be a nice, quiet place to talk.”

  “Oh.” Should I really be riding off into the sunset with a man I barely know, even if he is the father of my child? I mean, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that he’s also a serial killer.

  “So . . . ?”

  I glance over my shoulder, thinking I should inform my parents of my whereabouts, in case the police need help finding my body. “Okay, yeah,” I agree, my voice coming out shaky. “Just let me, uh, grab”—I duck past the stove, to where my belongings are heaped on the counter—“my purse.”

  “Don’t you need to tell someone where you’re going?” he asks, reading my mind.

  “Eh, they’re fine,” I say. “Shall we?”

  Chapter 18

  There’s something magical about being the only one—or two, in the case of Mark and me—souls in an empty, dimly lit restaurant. (Heck, even the grungy old Crowbar gave me that Zen, at-peace-with-the-universe feeling after closing on a hectic night.)

  And today is no exception.

  Mark leads the way inside, turning locks and holding doors and illuminating lights here and there to fight the gloom playing across the dining room. At a cozy table by the fireplace—maybe even the same table Trent, Angie, and I occupied on opening night—he pulls out a chair.

  I take the hint and sit, hoping he’ll say something soon. (I mean, if there were a stray cricket in Boston this time of year, we would’ve heard him chirping loud and clear during the silent ride over in Mark’s banged-up Fiat.)

  “Can I get you something?” he asks, his coat still buttoned to the neck, where—correct me if I’m wrong—I think I spot a ripe hickey. “A drink of water? Or a glass of wine?”

  Who gave him a hickey?

  He undoes his coat, revealing another jaw-dropper: a ratty—as in faded, pock-marked, its fabric disintegrating faster than an ice cube in lava—AC/DC T-shirt that, no question about it, was his garment of choice the night we conceived Angie.

  Which leads me to believe that 1) he’s donned the thing today as some sort of homage to our night of passion and 2) his time in Europe hasn’t quite smoothed the edges of his Boston, good ol’ boy exterior.

  “Um, water’s fine,” I say belatedly.

  He grins. “Be right back.”

  While he’s gone, I take a moment to compose my opening line, the discussion having yet to begin. If I can just get things off to the right start, maybe there’s a dash of hope for Mark, Angie, and me.

  Not at this rate, though. I’ve barely thought up (and discarded as banal or presumptuous) a few ghastly fragments and run-on sentences when he comes sauntering back in with a matching pair of lemon-studded glasses, full to the brims with icy water. He sets them on the table and takes the chair to my left.

  Is he trying to avoid facing me?

  After an uncomfortable pause, I jumpstart the repartee with: “Angie’s great. That’s the first thing you should know. If you had to get a surprise kid—which, apparently, you did—she’s the one you’d want. She’s smart, spunky . . . precocious is a good word, I think. I mean, honest to God”—I slap a hand over my heart—“she can hold a full-blown conversation at three—well, almost four—years old. She loves Barbie and anything pink—but, of course, what three-year-old girl doesn’t, you know? And she hates—I mean, HATES!!!—monkeys. What else . . . ?”

  I gulp some air, but Mark stops me from launching into round two of the All-Angie Show by saying: “Sold!”

  Is he being facetious? Or does he think he’s funny? “Seriously,” I say, “there’s a lot to know about raising a kid.” (Okay, my lecture is a bit ironic, considering how I’ve abdicated my parenting duties to Mom and Dad for the bulk of Angie’s life. But that arrangement is about to change.) “You don’t know what you’re in for.”

  He is in for it, isn’t he?

  “Can I ask you something?” he says.

  My stomach buckles. “Um, yeah. Sure.” A contrived smile. “Ask away.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He sure comes out swinging, doesn’t he? “You read the letter, right?”

  His hand creeps across the table and picks up the glass closest to him. “If I didn’t, I’d be the only one.” He takes a sip and replaces the glass, continuing to cup it like a cool, slippery safety blanket. “That spot you did with Brenda Bixby was brutal, by the way. You sounded like you were gonna pass out.”

  He caught the disaster in the newspaper and tuned in for my network television debut? Interesting . . . “I gave that interview under duress,” I explain. “My boss set it up.”

  He shakes his head, a wave of mahogany hair sweeping over his eye. “Sounds like a jerk.”

  “Well, he hasn’t fired me . . . yet.” I laugh nervously. “That’s something.”

  “Want me to kick his ass? ’Cause I could make that happen.”

  He’s joking, obviously, but the chivalrous offer turns my insides to mush. Maybe this guy isn’t as scary as I’ve cracked him up to be.

  We drift into silence for a stretch, but eventually I take a risk and face him. “This is so weird, isn’t it? Me and you and . . . a daughter? We have a daughter together,” I repeat, the words (still!) not adding up. I can only imagine the shock Mark is experiencing.

  Or not.

  Without warning, his legs swing around, his knees crashing into mine, his hands groping for my lap. That’s right: HIS hands! MY lap! I think I’ll scream.

  “You’re prettier than I remembered,” he murmurs, the air electrifying around us.

  Oh, no. Not again. That silver tongue of his cooked our goose—or is it geese?—last time around.

  I put on a demure smile; meanwhile, he leans in, his hands finding my hips, his mouth melting over mine.

  And there’s that tongue again.

  If my arms weren’t suddenly—and inexplicably, I swear!—winding around his neck, I’d cross myself and, for good measure, throw in a quick Hail Mary. Not that it would help. Not that anything—prayer or otherwise—would stop me from devouring a delectable specimen like Mark Loffel, who just so happens to be the other half of my child’s DNA.

  Speaking of DNA . . .

  I have a sneaking suspicion—could it be the way his fingers are fumbling under my sweater for an inroad to my leggings, or how his razor stubble is scraping across my lips, making them feel like they’ve been stung by a thousand bees?—that we’ll be combining our DNA again, ASAP.

  Which would be excusable, maybe, if we’d swilled a bottle of merlot at 2 a.m. But, no: we’re as sober as pall bearers. And it’s midafternoon. And we’ve barely done any talking at all.

  And he has a hickey.

  And I (sort of) have a prefiancé.

  But tell that to the hormones coursing through my veins like a runaway virus. Come to think of it, I do feel a little feverish. Maybe I’ll just slip out of this sweater. . . .

  * * *

  On the way home, I asked Mark to stop at a gas station for some snacks, but instead I bought 1) a liter of water and 2) a pack of the “lightest” cigarettes I could find, with the idea that, hopefully, they’d take longer to kill me.

  In front of my apartment, we said an awkward
goodbye, still avoiding the elephant in the Fiat—a.k.a. the fact that we had, once again, succumbed to temptation—even though we’d yet to hash out the ramifications of our last fateful tryst.

  Needless to say, the walk of shame through Dr. Jacobs’s browning front yard was extra shameful.

  * * *

  “This came for you earlier,” says Jung, passing me a small FedEx box as I slink into the apartment.

  Is it just me, or is she abnormally upbeat today? I give the box a shake and say, “Thanks.”

  I’m about to disappear to my room to compile a list of excuses for my irresponsible behavior—top among them my powerlessness in the face of ancient biological drives, not to mention a wee bit of nostalgia for the wild night Mark and I made Angie—when Dex pops out of the kitchen. “I thought I heard your voice,” he says, shooting me a wide grin. “Welcome home.”

  Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, as my old pal Shakespeare would say. “Um . . . huh?”

  Jung grabs my arm and drags me down the hall. “We need to talk for a minute, okay?”

  Apparently, I don’t have a choice in the matter. “What’s up?” I ask, plunking down on the edge of the bathtub. (We’ve nearly ended up in the shower, where, coincidentally, Dex does his best work.)

  “Please, please don’t be mad.”

  My eyebrows pull together. “About what?”

  “Dexter is taking your room,” Jung says with a wince. “Sorry.”

  She calls him “Dexter”? “What do you mean he’s ‘taking my room’?”

  “Like, living here. His parents are moving to Florida,” she explains. “Dr. Jacobs said it was okay.”

  Now that she mentions it, I remember seeing a for-sale sign on the lawn next door. “Where am I supposed to go?” I ask rhetorically.

  “Can’t you stay with your Mom and Dad?”