Crushed (19 page)

“Well, I’m glad you feel healthy,” he says, “But, for the record—”

I hold up my hand. “If you give me that cliché,
I liked you how you were,
I’ll stab you with this fork. “

He gives me a puzzled look. “But I did like you how you were before.”

I sigh and set my fork down. “No, Devon, you didn’t. I mean, I’m sure you were
indifferent
to how I looked when I was just your girlfriend’s chubby little sister who sometimes made you laugh, but let’s not pretend you were all kinds of admiring.”

His cheeks color. “Chloe.”

“Hey,” I say, giving him a smile. “I’m not blaming you for it. Let’s just . . . don’t insult, me, okay? We both know I’m not the kind of girl that turns guys’ heads. Especially not when Kristin’s around.”

He falls silent and absently spins his water glass on the table. When he looks up, his expression is sheepish. “Is now a good time to copy one of your dad’s pep talks? About how sometimes guys just need time to figure out the good ones?”

I suck in a breath.

He doesn’t mean what I wish he means.

His statement is generic, his expression merely friendly. A friend reassuring another friend that she’ll find someone. Someday.

But it’s the first time that Devon and I have ever talked about stuff like this.

“Let’s leave the pep talks to my parents,” I say, forcing a smile. “They won’t know what to do with themselves if they can’t dole out those little bits of exclusive wisdom.”

Something flashes across Devon’s face. Confusion, maybe? But he recovers quickly, and takes a bite of his fish and chips. “Fair enough. What do you want to talk about?”

I lean forward and steal one of his fries, deciding that for now, for today, I’ll simply appreciate that I have Devon’s undivided attention for the first time in nearly a decade, with no threat of Kristin waiting around the corner with a pouty demand.

“Tell me about law school,” I say. “When do you leave? How often do you shit your pants thinking about it? Are you taking your cowboy boots to Boston? I want to know
everything
.”

With a deep breath, Devon starts talking, answering all my questions, his voice as animated as I’ve ever heard it.

But it’s not his words that have my heart thumping louder than normal.

It’s the thoughtful way he looks at me
in between
the words.

Chapter 21

Michael

I rent a basement in a town house in the heart of “downtown” Cedar Grove, which basically means it’s right off the main drag.

Which is pretty much the
only
drag.

Cedar Grove is mainly a bedroom community, so outside of the club, the Pig and Scout bar, and a handful of chain restaurants, there’s not much “town” to speak of.

The dude who owns the town house rents out the whole thing. I had the pick of basement or first floor (some weird lady who I’m pretty sure is a hoarder lives on the top floor), and I went with the basement because it was cheap.

When I moved in eight months ago, I didn’t know how long I’d be in town, and since I’d hightailed it out of New York without a penny from my father—the man who raised me—the cheaper option had seemed smarter.

But it’s starting to feel small.

And dark.

And honestly? Lonely.

At least it has its own entrance, and the windows at ground level let in a little natural light.

But I don’t fool myself. My current home is little more than a cave. A place to hide.

And never does it feel quite so isolated and barren as at four a.m.

I worked a shift at P&S tonight. Technically the bar closes at twelve, but there were some stragglers, and then Blake talked me into a couple beers and a game of pool after close, so I didn’t get home until two.

There’s been shit on TV, and the thriller I picked up at the used bookstore has taken a turn for the stupid.

As for sleep? It hasn’t come easily in a long while.

Luckily I don’t have to be at the club until eleven today. Kristin’s exile to Seattle has left a hole in my schedule. Bad for my bank account, good for my night-owl tendencies.

I frown as I realize how little I care that Kristin’s disappeared from my life. Hell, I’ve barely even
noticed
. Just a couple months ago my entire week had been based around Wednesday afternoons, when I’d get to see her in her short skirts. Now I barely remember what she looks like, much less why I wanted her.

Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten to know Chloe better, and next to Chloe, Kristin seems so . . .
mundane
. Hell, anyone compared to Chloe seems mundane.

Bored, and annoyed with myself, I flop backward onto the king-size bed that I rarely bother to make and pull out my cellphone. If I’d been born a decade earlier, I probably would have some beat-up manila envelope where I stashed a bunch of creepy newspaper clippings of Tim Patterson.

But since I can’t remember the last time I touched an actual newspaper, or even a manila envelope, for that matter, everything I need to know about the man is saved online.

I haven’t looked at it since the Fourth of July, when I realized that merely sharing blood with the man wouldn’t make me his son in a way that mattered.

Not since I realized that I didn’t feel any magical pull toward him, and he definitely didn’t feel it toward me.

We were two complete strangers. Nothing in common save inconvenient DNA.

So what the hell am I still doing in Texas?

I have a sinking feeling that the answer is as pathetic as this: I have nowhere else to go.

My thumb swipes across the screen, not really absorbing anything more than the headlines and grainy photos.

I’ve looked at these articles so often, I practically have them memorized, but I wonder if it’ll be different now that I’ve met the guy in person.

By the time I get to the last saved article—a fluff piece mostly featuring his wife’s dedication to literacy—I realize that shaking the guy’s hand didn’t give me even an ounce of clarity about how I feel about all of this.

I can’t straddle the line.

Either I’ve got to walk away from Cedar Grove, Texas, acknowledging Tim Patterson as little more than a sperm donor who has no place in my life—and I not in his.

Or I can get some balls and confront the guy.

I don’t need to be invited to Thanksgiving dinner or anything, but a part of me wonders if the guy doesn’t deserve to know that he’s got another son. Because my mom swears up and down that she never told him.

I wince a little when I think of my mom. She calls every Sunday like clockwork. I decline her calls like clockwork, too.

I try telling myself that I’m not mad at her; I don’t feel much of anything when she calls, to be honest, and I worry that makes me the biggest asshole on the planet.

She’s my mom, and other than being a little self-absorbed, she was a pretty good one.

But she’s also the woman who cheated on her husband. Who spent twenty-three years lying to her only son.

No . . . twenty-four years.

As if on cue, my phone beeps with a text message.

Happy Birthday.

Nothing fucking happy about it.

It’s a little past four a.m. here, which means it’s five a.m. East Coast time, and there’s only one person I know who’s regularly up at this hour, willingly.

Mike, Sr.

He remembered my birthday.

And he bothered to do something about it, even though I slammed the door in his face without a backward glance last time I saw him.

I haven’t heard from him since I walked away, and I guess I’ve sort of been figuring I’ve done irreparable damage. It can’t be easy to raise another man’s son as your own. But the way he talked to my mom—the way he talked about me—made me realize it hadn’t been about giving a bastard kid a father figure.

It had been about his own damn pride.

He’d pretty much said as much when we’d gone toe-to-toe that last shitty day before I’d left New York.

I figured even though you hadn’t earned the St. Claire name by blood, maybe you’d earn it on merit. But from what I’ve been seeing recently, that’s not the case.

And, yet . . . he remembered my birthday.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and before I can talk myself out of it, I do the unthinkable.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hello?”

I swallow. His voice is so . . . familiar. Sharp, a little bit curt, and maybe something else . . . desperate.

“It’s me,” I say. Needlessly. Stupidly.

“Michael.”

That’s me. Michael Edward St. Claire
Junior
.

Ha.

“I . . . thanks for the text message.”

There’s a long pause, as though he’s expecting me to say more. “You’re welcome. Was I the first one?”

I snort. “Don’t pat yourself on the back too hard. Normal people are still asleep.”

“I’m headed out to the gym.”

“Yeah, Da—” I break off. “Yeah, I know.”

I lived with the man for eighteen years, and then every summer after that. I sort of know the routine. Coffee. Gym. Coffee. Work. More work. Sometimes dinner. Work. Repeat.

“How’s Texas?” he asks, breaking yet another weird silence.

Why the hell did I call him?

“It’s . . . hot. Humid.”
So fucking different than home.

“So about like Manhattan in August then.”

“Pretty much. Add a few more spurs and a lot more ranch dressing, and it’s close.”

“Huh.”

I’m about how to ask him how he is . . . how Mom is . . . how my old life is, when he cuts right to the chase. My dad’s always been like that. No bullshit, even when it makes things awkward.

“Have you done what you intended to do?” he asks.

I throw my arm over my eyes, squeezing them shut into the crook of my elbow. The gruffness in his voice makes me feel like a little kid.

“Michael. Have you met . . . Patterson?”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice as rough as his. “I’ve met him.”

“Oh. And?”

“I shook his hand. He . . . he had no idea.”

Dad grunts. “Yeah, well. You do look an awful lot like your mother.”

It’s true. Nobody would ever think Devon is anything other than Tim’s son. Me? I reach; I
maybe
have Tim Patterson’s mouth. A little bit of the nose.

I could be anyone’s son.

But only one man has treated me as one. Michael St. Claire hasn’t been the best father on the planet. Not by a long shot. He works too much, cheats on my mom, skewers me for my mistakes but barely notices my accomplishments. . . .

But he’s still my dad.

And he remembered my birthday.

Which, right now, when I don’t have a single friend in the world? Is pretty damn important.

Something nags, though.

The unexpected realization that I do have a friend.

I have Chloe.

And some weird little ache inside of me wishes I told her it was my birthday. Wished I wouldn’t be spending it alone.

“Michael?”

“Yeah?” I ask, realizing I zoned out.

“I asked if you are going to tell Tim.”

I run my thumb down my nose, knowing how important this question is. To my dad. To myself.

“I don’t know yet,” I say quietly. “I’d planned on it, but . . . he seems happy, you know? He’s got a perfect life and I don’t know that I want to destroy it for a mistake he made twenty-four years ago.”

“Nobody’s life is perfect,” he replies.

“Well, they seem a hell of a lot happier than our little family,” I snap.

My dad falls silent. “You’re right,” he says, surprising me. “Your mother and I . . . we haven’t set a good example. And Michael . . . there’s something I think you should know.”

I hoist myself into a sitting position on the bed, the lack of sleep hitting me like a ton of bricks. “You’re going to tell me that I shouldn’t be mad at her, because you cheated on her, too. Right?”

“Right . . .” he says, his voice wary. “And . . . I’m not proud of it.”

“You shouldn’t be,” I snap.

A year ago, he would have busted my balls for talking to him like that, but today he says nothing. There’s another long pause, and then, “Michael, there’s another thing. A big thing, and I hate like hell I have to tell you on the phone, on your birthday, but your mom says you won’t call her back.”

I freeze. “Yeah?”

Dad lets out a long sigh. “Your mother and I have decided to get a divorce.”

I let this rock through me. My first thought?

Relief.

Especially since I had myself all prepared for a
cancer
bomb, or something.

But them splitting? It’s . . . not a surprise.

“Anything?” he says.

I let out a little laugh. “Is it bad that all I can think is
finally
?”

His responding laugh is equally low on humor. “I suppose you’d know as well as anyone that it’s been a long time coming.”

I lean forward, hunching, not feeling quite as unaffected as I want to be. I can’t say my family was a wildly happy one, but at least we weren’t broken. Not to the outside world anyway.

“What was the straw that broke the camel’s back?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “Well, that’s actually another thing you should know.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Jesus, there’s more? Happy fucking birthday to me.”

“Your mother and I have both had loyalty issues. . . .”

“No shit. You think maybe that’s why I’m in goddamn Texas to meet her baby daddy?”

To his credit, Dad continues as though I’m not acting like a total dick. Probably because what he has to say makes him an even bigger dick. “I went too far with my last affair.”

I frown. “Is there, like, an adultery
scale
I don’t know about?”

“Have you talked to Ethan lately?”

Ethan?
What the fuck? Why is he bringing up my former best friend?

“No,” I say curtly, hoping he’ll get the hint that I don’t want to talk about it.

“You guys had a falling-out.”

“Sure, you can call it that. Or you could call it he cut me out of his life without a backward glance.”

And, yeah, it still burns, thanks for bringing it up.

“He ever tell you why?” Dad asks.

I shake my head. What the hell is this? “He didn’t have to tell me. I know why.”