Kept (11 page)

Tears pushed for release.

“I think it was too much,” Garrett whispered. His voice quieted further. “The mom stuff.”

“Honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about it being Mother’s Day.” Tracy pulled back and peered into her face. “You want me to take you home?”

Home was where Mom was. But Miska nodded. Anywhere but here.

The smell of tomato and garlic permeated the restaurant. While the waitress filled Dad’s plate a second time, Miska noted all the families celebrating at Lou Malnati’s.

“Another piece, Miska?” Dad asked.

“No, thank you.”

The waitress left.

“Don’t get me wrong, Dad.” Saying that still felt strange. “I love Lou’s pizza, but if I were a mom, I wouldn’t celebrate Mother’s Day here.”

He chuckled. “Where would you go?”

“Somewhere quiet and dark. Someplace where you’d need a babysitter.”

“Which is how you end up with another baby for the sitter. Have a man in mind?”

She shrugged.

“If you’re single, it can’t have been for long.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re a Tomlinson. A Petrosian, really.”

“A what?”

“Peh-trow-zhee-en. It’s the Armenian in you. Petrosian women are never lonely long.”

“I’m Armenian?”

He sent her a puzzled look. “What did you think you were?”

“Mom was Dutch, Irish, English, and German. So Dutch, Irish, English, and German.”

“Not me. I’m Armenian and Hungarian.”

She sank back in her chair. Did she even know where Armenia was? “Wait. Explain how we ended up with an English surname.”

“My grandfather was first-generation Hungarian American. His name was Tamas.”

“Tuh what?”

“Tuh-mosh. He hated it—it marked him as an immigrant. So he changed it. Tamas became Tomlinson.”

“But Tomlinson is a real name. I did a report on it in middle school.”

He smiled over his forkful of pizza. “He had a crush on a girl whose last name was Tomlinson. Guess he never got over her.”

“And the Petrosian?”

“Armenian. You look just like my mother—and my aunts.” He set his fork down and studied her. “How are you doing? I should have remembered earlier that you were the only one without a mother today.”

She’d spent all her tears. “Zane and Wade are in the same boat.”

“They’re men. It’s different. And they’re caught up in their own… issues.”

That was putting it nicely. “Have you talked to them?”

“Some.” He sighed. “Zane’s cordial. We’ve met for drinks a time or two. He’s the one who gave me your number. But Wade—I don’t think he knows how to talk to me. Are they angry with me?”

She shrugged. “They never talked about you.”

He studied the room behind her. “They were bad, weren’t they?”

“They were.” There was no sense softening the truth. “It’s the main reason we don’t see each other much. Through high school they were always using me to get to some girl, and girls befriended me to have a sleepover at my house. If you know what I mean.”

He stared at his plate, mouth twisting.

“Why does that bother you? How is it any different than what you did?”

He looked up, eyes lit with surprise. Didn’t he see himself for what he was? What he’d been?

“They’re not good men, Miska.”

She shrugged. “They’re my brothers, your sons.”

“It pains me because at some level their behavior is my fault. Mine and your mother’s.”

“Mom’s fault?”

“Miska.” He flashed a fatherly smile. “I don’t mean to make your mother look bad. She was a single mom doing the best she could.”

“You have no idea.”

He blinked at her.

“How would things be different if you’d done it right?”

“Miska, please.”

“Humor me. What if you’d stuck it out with someone?”

“For starters, you and the boys wouldn’t exist. It would be Jody, Adrienne, Alec, and me.” He chuckled. “And probably a few others.”

“So we were a mistake.”

“No. Never.” He crossed his arms. “Children are the good that come out of bad situations. You, your brothers, your half-sisters and brothers—all gifts.”

Some gift if he’d chosen to neglect them. “What would you say if I were in a similar situation?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I were dating a married man. Would you say that was a mistake—”

“Yes.”

“You don’t think anything good could come from it?”

“No.”

“What if his marriage was already dying? What if we really connected and were happy together? Couldn’t that be the right thing?”

“Never. If you’re seeing a married man, end it.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“I’m not. I was the married man. None of those relationships had a chance because I didn’t respect—”

“Mark respects me. I know he does.”

Dad studied her. “Except everything’s rushed. Secretive. You have to meet on the sly, and there are certain people and places he wants you to avoid. So
he
doesn’t get caught. And it’s always sex. Just sex. You talk some, but most of those rushed moments together are just sex.”

“No.” She lifted her chin. “We talk a lot. Skype, phone, texts. When he comes to town, there’s lots of talking too. He makes me happy. I make him—”

“He’s no good, Miska. You send a married man packing.”

“Or maybe you hang on to love when you find it. Maybe his first marriage was wrong and
we’re
the ones meant to be.”

He grabbed her fisted hand. “Then you have that conversation. You find out if you’re right. And if he’s not serious about you, then you kiss him good-bye. Right? Okay?”

Against her will, she nodded. The one thing her parents agreed on—and she’d done the opposite.

Stomachs satisfied, they walked to her building, a strong lake breeze whipping her hair. Cars honked and sped past while pedestrians crossed into and out of Grant Park.

Inside her building, they waited for an elevator.

Dad’s fingers trailed across a paneled door. “Did you know,” he said, “that this building used to house
Encyclopedia Britannica’s
offices? I dreamed about working here.”

She flashed him a smile.

An elevator dinged, the doors opened, and a familiar, older couple stepped out, talking over their shoulders to people behind them. Garrett and Tracy followed.

“Miska!” Tracy engulfed her in a hug, her faint floral scent following. “How are you?”

Miska flashed her a smile to let her know the morning was no longer an issue. “Just fine. How are you all?”

Dillan walked out of the elevator, behind him the brunette who’d spoken in his ear that morning.

Up close she looked several years younger. What was she doing here?

“We showed Garrett’s parents the condo. Oh, Shari, Dave—” Tracy touched the older woman’s arm. “This is Miska, Garrett and Dillan’s neighbor. Miska drove Dillan to the ER.”

Shari’s mouth formed an
oh
, and her eyebrows rose. “Thank you so much. We couldn’t believe the pictures Garrett sent. So much blood.”

Miska could feel Dillan’s embarrassment. “It’s not a big deal. I was happy to help.”

The brunette spoke. “We’re pretty sure he would have bled to death if you hadn’t been there.”

Garrett elbowed Dillan. “Told you.”

Dillan sent Miska an uncomfortable smile.

Shari pointed toward the brunette. “You haven’t met our daughter. She just got home from college.”

The brunette held her hand out. “I’m Jordan. As in Michael.”

Miska smiled as she shook her hand. A sister. “Of course. Who else?”

Dave Foster broke in. “I wanted to name the boys Butkus and Ditka, but Shari said no.”

“Thank you, God,” Garrett muttered to the ceiling.

“So what are you up to?” Dillan asked, his eyes flicking toward her dad.

Miska introduced her dad who shook hands with everyone. Small talk continued for a few minutes. The Fosters were off to the Art Institute before heading home. Miska wished them a good time before saying good-bye and calling another elevator.

Once inside, the doors shut, Dad spoke. “Seems like you’ve got good neighbors there.”

“So far.”

“That tall one—you know him very well?”

“A little. Why?”

He shrugged. “He was watching you.”

A tingle zigged across her shoulders. “So?”

“So I think he’s interested.”

“Not Dillan. He doesn’t date much.”

“Then I would take him seriously. A guy like that focusing on you—”

“Dad.”

“Trust me, Miska. I know men. He’s interested.”

Could that be? Quiet, serious, Mr. No-Emotion Dillan Foster? She watched the floor buttons light up and tried to ignore the thrill that wafted through her.

Dad’s words stayed with Miska. Was Dillan interested? If so, what should she do about it?

Because in eleven days, Mark would be back in Chicago.

Other than his apology text, which she’d replied to, she’d heard nothing from him. Then again, he’d had a big series at home against the Cardinals and was starting a long road trip on the West Coast.

So what, if anything, should she do about Dillan?

She couldn’t lie to herself—the man intrigued her. And like Mom said, one never knew…

The memory decided for her. She’d make lasagna and invite him over. See where things went.

On Monday, Miska woke to a downpour and lightning. She dressed, brushed her teeth, and pulled her hair up before heading to the seventh-floor gym.

Garrett was just leaving, his shirt sweat-soaked, hair threatening to drip on her. “Miska,” he said, his voice full of sunshiny cheer. “How have we not crossed paths here?”

“Blame the weather. I prefer running outdoors.”

“You and Dillan both.” He shook his head as he left.

Miska chose a treadmill beside a window and warmed up before setting an incline. As she ran, she watched the wind whip rain through the small space between the buildings, watched lights turn on behind lowered shades—

“Snooping?” Dillan asked beside her.

Her feet faltered, and she grabbed the rails.

Chuckling, he turned on the treadmill beside her. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re not brave enough to run in a thunderstorm?”

“If I can’t dodge the raindrops, I probably can’t dodge the lightning.”

She smiled, pleased that he’d chosen the treadmill beside her. “How’s the arm?”

He started at a walk, fiddling with the speed. “Better, but I won’t be keeping up with you.”

“Wimp.”

He pointed out the window. “What
is
that?”

She looked.

The incline on her machine grew.

She turned back to see him messing with the controls. “Hey!” She swatted his hand away.

“Wimp.”

She laughed as she fixed her incline.

“I saw you leave yesterday. Everything okay?”

The warm feelings faded. “I’m fine. It was—I didn’t expect all the Mother’s Day stuff.”

He nodded.

“Some days are great and I can think about her with no problem, and then other days, like yesterday, can be a nightmare.”

He nodded again.

Either he was a terrible conversationalist or a great listener. “Mom was this short, blonde thing. Full of energy, always happy. She decided the morning my dad left that she wasn’t going to let single parenthood keep her from living a full life—and it didn’t.”

“What’d she do for a living?”

“She was a finance whiz. Some friends started a computer business and she got in early, sold at the peak. She was a magician with money. We never wanted for anything—which is so different than Adrienne’s life. Obviously we don’t talk about our moms.”

He nodded, adding a sympathetic smile.

“What about your parents?”

“My dad’s retired. He worked for the state and still consults for them. Mom stayed home with us kids. Now they spend half the year in Florida. Jordan spends her winter break there.”

“Can’t say that I blame her.”

“I need my seasons. When we go down for Christmas and I’m packing my shorts and swimsuit, it just feels… off.”

“Something’s very wrong with you.”

He pointed to his new cast. “My arm. Broke it.”

She flicked his shoulder, relishing his smug smile.

Miska spent another forty minutes beside Dillan. For the first time, conversation came easily. They talked about high school and college, family pets and vacations, how good the Bears would be in the fall, and whether or not the Bulls and Blackhawks would make it to the next playoff round.

It was a great start to what would certainly be a great day.

In her condo, clean and dressed, Miska returned to her editing. She was deep into the book when her phone rang on the end table.

She glanced at it. Mark.

It rang again, and she debated what to do. He’d apologized and she’d accepted, but other than his short text, there’d been no communication.

Despite everything she’d told Dad, he wasn’t safe yet.

She picked up the phone and answered, letting distraction color her voice. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Mark. How are you?”

“Oh, hi, Mark.” She saved the document and set the laptop beside her on the couch. “How are you?”

He cleared his throat, then cleared it again. “Just woke up. Think I’m catching a cold.”

Poor baby. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Did I call at a bad time? You got a few minutes?”

“I’m in the middle of an edit. What do you need?” There. Polite but not too cold.

“I’ve been thinking. I didn’t like how things ended the other day.”

“Me, either. I don’t like being accused of something I didn’t do.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just—after what Darcie did, I don’t trust too easily.”

You mean after what you’ve done
. “I’m not Darcie.”

“I know.”

Silence fell. Miska let it continue. He’d called. He had things to say. She wasn’t going to make it easy.

“I just wanted to tell you in person that I’m really sorry.”

His words broke her resolve, and she grinned. “So when are you coming over?”

“What?”

“You said ‘in person.’ We’re not together.”

“Oh.” He gave a sheepish laugh, and something rustled in the background. “Told you I just woke up.”