Depths (26 page)

Deo lets out a long breath and bangs his head back against the porch railing. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I guess you probably didn’t want me to know about your old man. Listen, my lips are sealed. Not even Whit knows, and she’d have to do dirty, dirty things to me to get me to tell her,” Deo says with a wink.

“My dad?” I say, my brain still fuzzy and shell-shocked. “He went to see my dad?”

Deo blinks three times. “Oh. Uh, shit. There goes my big mouth again. Yeah. He did, and I’m sure he has a good reason for not telling you.”

“Like he didn’t tell me he was looking for a new job?” The anger in me is vicious.

My dad. He went to see my dad? When? Why? What happened? How the hell could he keep this from me?

I’d had this idea in my head that Cohen was one-hundred-percent ‘what you see is what you get,’ and right now, this instant, I feel like I don’t know a single thing about him. The anger and betrayal is swirling in my stomach, and I just can’t be here anymore.

I start toward the car when Cohen flings the screen door open and comes stomping out.

“Are you ready?” he asks quickly. He already has his car keys in hand.

Deo meets his eyes for a split second, and they must communicate telepathically, because Cohen stops walking down the driveway and looks at me.

“Maren? You okay?” He stoops down a bit so that he’s eye level with me.

“Just take me home,” I try to glare at him, but I’m too full of too many emotions to put the effort into being pissed at him. I mostly just feel numb. And disappointed.

“See ya, bro,” Deo says as Cohen opens the passenger side door for me. “And Maren?” I turn and Deo holds his hands at his sides, like he’s asking for mercy. “Remember, he’s crazy about you.”

“I’m sorry I dropped that today, I wasn’t going to say anything to them until I had an offer in the bag, but damn Lydia—”

“What about to
me
? When were you going to say something to
me
?” It’s the first things she’s said since we left my parents’ house, and honestly, I don’t have a spectacular answer.

I wanted to tell her, but I felt like I needed something more concrete. I wanted to have a good, stable job, then ask her to come and stay with me. To move in with me. It sounds crazy. It sounds way too fast, and I’m too damn nervous to explain all of that to her and scare her off.

I downshift, slowing the car to make a turn, then reach over to rub Maren’s shoulder.

“You’re going the wrong way,” she says, her words biting out.

We just need to be together, to be alone. We need to talk, we probably need to fight. We hopefully need to crack the headboard having makeup-sex after. I glance over at her, pissed but so damn sexy, it tears at me.

“No, this is just a shortcut to my place.”

She whips her head my way, and her eyes are fiery. “I said to take me home, Cohen. Take me home.”

Whoa.

“Maren, I get that that wasn’t the best first meeting of the parents in the history of time, but trust me, we get over stuff quick in my family. By next Sunday, they aren’t even going to mention that. Their first reactions are always to freak out. But once they think about it, they’ll be happy for me. I’m positive. Don’t worry.”

I reach a hand to touch her because I want so badly to fix this. But I decide to wait for some reaction from her, some indication that wants me to touch her again.

Silence.

I take another swing, desperate to get things back to right. “Plus, this way I get you home and to myself quicker, anyway.”

Nothing.

The warning look that Deo gave me before we climbed in the car suddenly makes much more sense. Something went down between them when I was still inside battling with the parents. She knows.

“Maren, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

She shifts in the seat. Away from me.

Fuck.

“How could you go and talk to my dad? And then keep it from me?” She shifts in the seat, irritated by the seat belt holding her in, pressing down on her sexy little skirt with frustrated swipes of her hands. When she looks back at me, her eyes are snapping. “I know we slept together, but that doesn’t give you a right to stomp in and talk to my dad, who I didn’t even get to introduce you to yet! You don’t get to make my decisions for me, Cohen. I can take care of things myself.”

“I know that.” It’s crazy how I imagine my voice staying calm in my head, but when it comes out of my mouth, I’m practically shouting. “You are one of the most generous, caring people I know. I talked to your dad because I knew you’ve tried before, for so long and didn’t make any headway. Okay?”

She crosses her arms. “No. Not okay. I have no idea what he’ll be like when I get home. Trust me, Rowan tried the tough love crap a million times, and it always made it worse. Which I would have told you if you’d bothered to discuss it.” She pushes her hands to the side of her face, her dark hair falling over her fingers. “You should have talked to me first.”

I grab the steering wheel hard. “I may have helped, you know.”

She leans her forehead on the window. “I guess.” She doesn’t sound like she has any hope that I might be right.

“I wanted to help, Maren. It’s not like I have some hidden agenda. I wanted to help you do all the things you told me you wanted. I swear, I’m on your side.” I manage to take my voice down a few notches when I say this, and it seems to take the wind out of this argument’s sails.

She turns to look at me, and I hate the way she looks so exhausted, her eyes ringed in dark circles, her skin pale. I guess all I noticed when I went to pick her up was how gorgeous she looked. It sucks, because I honestly thought I was helping lighten her load, but I just may have made things worse.

“I appreciate you trying to help.” Her words sound wooden. “But I can handle this. I want to. I don’t want anything anyone else to destroy my relationship with my dad. I can do this on my own.”

“So, you can do all of the helping, but no one can ever offer you a hand? That’s insane, Maren.” We’re pulling up to her complex’s parking lot, and I wish I’d driven slower. I wish I’d stalled more at my parents’ house. I want more time, and now I may not get any.

She puts a hand out and grabs mine, pulls it to her mouth, and kisses it. “I know it sounds crazy. I deserve that, I guess. But it’s the way I need it to be right now. So, you need to back off. Okay?”

I want her to pull me closer. I want her to wrap herself around me, tell me she chooses me over her boozing dad, tell me that she’s thankful for what we have and doesn’t plan on letting me go.

But she gives me a sad smile, the kind of smile that makes my heart seize.

Fuck.

Is that a good-bye smile? Not yet. Holy fucking hell, please not good-bye.

She licks her lips. “I’ll call you.” She switches from foot to foot, and I hate that she’s nervous. I hate that there’s not a damn thing I can do.

I nod and grip the steering wheel hard. I hate to have things out of my hands. I hate to have things unknown. I hate that my only real chance at keeping Maren is letting her go without me.

“You better call,” I say and try to smile at her. “I’ll be waiting for you. Whenever you need me. Remember that.”

I don’t know if I’m just imagining that her eyes are full of tears as she rushes back to the shadowed, dim apartments.

I sit in the parking lot for more than half an hour, staring at my phone like I can will it to ring with her number on the screen. Finally, I go home to wait some more, hoping like hell I haven’t screwed this all up.

“Dad! I’m home!” I swing the door wide open and look around, but he’s not in the recliner, and my lungs freeze. I know what this means, because I’ve played out the nightmare a thousand times in my brain. To prepare myself.

My first instinct is to call Cohen, because I don’t want to find my dad’s body alone. But I can’t waste the seconds. What if I can still save him? Do I remember CPR? I run down the short hall to the bedroom where Dad has a bed he hardly ever sleeps in, but it’s empty. I’m about to rush to check the bathroom when I turn on my heel, my brain whirring.

My hand taps on the wall, painted a glossy, harsh yellow. When my fingers find the light switch, I flick it on, the room comes into focus, dirty and exposed. My eyes do a quick sweep, but I can’t make sense of what I see.

The bed is made. As usual.

The closet is ajar, and I can’t see anything hanging in it.

Is he…he wouldn’t have…

I tiptoe to it and take a few gulping breaths before I push it open and collapse against the frame with relief. It’s just emptier.

The side table is missing the framed photo of the four of us from the Christmas I was eight. It’s Dad’s favorite picture. My heart is pounding so hard and loud, I feel a few gasps away from fainting. When I cross the narrow hall and turn on the bathroom light, rage and confusion and laughter all fight for a place in my chest.

The remnants of my dad’s gnarly gray beard are in the sink, the garbage can, on the floor, and even stuck to the always-mildewy tiles. His shave kit and toothbrush are gone.

I make my way back to the living room, but something catches my eye. There’s a phone bill envelope with a note on it lying on the scratched kitchen counter.

Hey Pumpkin Pie,

You know I love you more than anything. I’m no good at saying good-bye. I was also scared I would keep making excuses if I tried to do this while you were home. I can’t promise anything. These programs don’t always work. I’m an old guy, set in my ways. But your boyfriend came by. He’s right. The paperwork you need will be in the mail once the shrink they got to work on my head stamps it all. That will probably be on Monday. Take care of yourself for once. Your old man will make it fine.

Love,

Dad

Next to the envelope is a business card for St. Monica’s By the Sea, an addiction rehabilitation center.

I slide to the floor and sprawl out on the linoleum, the neon light buzzing overhead.

So.

My dad did exactly what I wished he would do for years.

Why do I feel…so drained?

I tilt my head back against the old almond fridge and want to cry. I think. But my tear ducts have gone dry. So has my throat. So has my brain and my heart.

Dad left me?

I always imagined when it happened,
I’d
be the one leaving
him
. I had run the entire scenario through my head a million times, because I knew it would happen at some point, so it was like doing a test run in my brain to make sure I didn’t break down when it really happened.

I’d drop him at the facility, and there would be crying on both sides. And hugging. Lots of promises, lots of apologies, and forgiveness. I imagined him crying as they led him in, because my father is chronically over-emotional. And I imagined sitting in my car, forehead on the steering wheel, bawling my eyes out from relief and sadness, hoping I wouldn’t get crushed again.

It’s not that I wanted to see my father in pain. I guess I just wanted to know that I played a part in helping him. I wanted the release of all this horrible crap that’s built up in me for years. I wanted, maybe, a ‘thank you’ from my dad and the knowledge that he didn’t bear me any ill will.

If he could just jump up and shave that damn beard and arrange everything himself, get himself to the center, get documents collected, what the
hell
was I doing all this time? What was my purpose all the nights I scrubbed vomit out of the carpet and dragged his boots off his feet when he passed out?

Why did my tears and sacrifices mean so little, and Cohen’s one talk, the specifics of which are still just one big mystery to me, catapulted this entire change?

I get up and grab the roll of paper towels and Fantastik from under the sink, then march into the damn bathroom. I spray until every surface is covered, until the smell of the chemicals is choking me. But no matter how much I wipe everything down, no matter how many times I run the paper over it, there’s no end to the little bits of gray hair.

How
selfish
can one person be?

How
shitty
is it for him to have left me here, alone, cleaning up his damn mess?

How
sad
that I’m stuck here, on my hands and knees in this disgusting little apartment with nothing to show for the last few years, and he’s gone without even a good-bye?

I don’t even realize I’m sobbing until the tears hit my hands, sliding over the knuckles that are turning pink and raw from the harsh chemicals I’m using to clean.

I feel gritty from the inside out. I feel like nothing can make me good or whole, and I just want to erase everything I’ve gone through and forget. Start over.

Then I hear a mad thumping on my door, like some lunatic is trying to break in.

I jump up, tears still falling off my face, and my fight mode bursts to life. The sad, pathetic ‘give-up’ feelings that felt so real a moment ago are replaced by a ferocious sense of survival.