Love Rekindled (Love Surfaced) (10 page)

“Shit.” He’s as stunned as I was. Well, I might have almost fainted. I am the father after all.

“Yeah.”

“You tell anyone else?” He moves the model over to the side and stands. Grabbing two beers, he slides one across the table.

“It’s eight o’clock. No thanks.” He twists his open and downs a hefty sip.

“Brad Ashby, Dad. Doesn’t seem to fit.”

I pick up a piece of his model and throw it at him. “Fuck you, man.”

He laughs, catching it in his hand.

“I’m kidding . . . kind of. And don’t throw my shit.” He sits down, placing the beer next to him. “What are you doing about it?”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Raise her.”

“With Taylor?”

“That’s the question of the night. I hope so, but we have a lot of shit to work through.”

“I’ll say. She never told you? That’s cold, man. I get it, you cheated, but she purposely deceived you.”

“So did I, in a way.” I move my hand to the back of my neck and squeeze, relieving none of the pressure plaguing it. “If I could go back in time—”

“Everyone thinks that. FYI, you can’t.”

One corner of my lip lifts. “I know, jackass. I’m not a moron.”

“Just making sure. Didn’t want you looking for some time machine. As far as not being a moron, you did cheat on a girl you loved.” He raises both his eyebrows at me.

“Fuck off.”

“Gladly. Leave me alone then.”

My head falls to the table with a thud. “How am I going to raise my daughter? What if Taylor doesn’t forgive me, or worse, doesn’t love me?”

“Those are all good questions and ones you need to find the answers to.” He pats my head. “It’s time to grow up, Bradley.”

He slides his chair out and he moves into the kitchen. I’m not sure what I expected Dylan’s advice to be on my descent to fatherhood. Damn sure, I can’t bring my family into this yet. My mom would descend like a vulture, showing up on Taylor’s doorstep.

“When are you out?” I murmur into my arm.

“Bea and I are sharing a moving van. We’re driving out the Saturday after Thanksgiving.” He leans on the counter, crossing his ankles. Is that another damn tattoo on his leg?

“You can cool it with the ink,” I say, wondering why he wants to mark his body constantly.

He shakes his head and walks across the room.

“It doesn’t make you cool anymore. Imagine when you’re a wrinkled old man,” I holler and he shuts his door. I swear I can’t get a reaction out of him to save my life. I think Tanner and I conditioned him too well when we were younger.

More important than Dylan’s tattoos is the fact that I have to find a roommate or be out by then too. Dylan said he can get out of the lease because of the transfer clause, and it would work for me too. But where would I go? Home? I don’t think so.

I knock on the door of the small, white house, and hear screaming and hollering before a million little feet stomp to the door. A middle-aged woman with short dark hair opens it, bearing no smile.

“Hi, Mrs. Allen, I presume?” I wave my hand in the air, but still no uplift of her lips.

“You must be Brad.” She pushes the door open, reluctantly letting me in. “She just woke up from her nap.”

I glance at my watch. Five o’clock and she’s sleeping. Must take after her daddy.

The children swarm around my feet, some grabbing at my jeans and others standing quietly, staring up at me with curiosity.

“Sorry,” she says and claps her hands. “Children, go into the playroom. Your parents should be here soon.”

They scurry off into a room to the left. I rock back on my heels, waiting for her to retrieve Emerson, but she continues to stand there. Her eyes rack over my body, but not in a sexual manner. Her lips curl and disgust washes over her face.

“Don’t come into town and break their hearts,” she says, and it takes me a second to realize she’s speaking to me.

“No, ma’am.”

Who is this woman and how well does Taylor know her?

“Taylor left the key in Em’s bag, so you can let yourself into the house.”

“Thank you.” I nod and smile, but she doesn’t.

“She’s taken very good care of that girl while you’ve been galloping around God only knows where.”

I nod again. “I know. They are both quite amazing.”

“There’s no quite about it.” She turns around before I can correct myself.

“Jesus,” I whisper.

“We don’t use the Lord’s name in vain under this roof,” she says, never turning around.

“Sorry,” I murmur, not even sure if she heard me.

What seems like a lifetime later, she comes out of some back room with Emerson in her arms. Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are watering.

What did this lady do to my baby?

“She’s usually emotional when she wakes up. Give her a little time and she’ll be back to her old spunky self.” She turns her attention to Emerson. “Won’t you, baby girl? Yes, you will,” she coos like a toddler herself.

Mrs. Allen holds Emerson out for me and she easily comes into my arms, laying her head on my shoulder.

“Hi, Emerson,” I whisper as her small hand rests over my heart, piercing it with love. At least that’s how I imagine the scene.

“Thank you, Mrs. Allen.” I shift Emerson in my arms to pull out my wallet. “What does Taylor usually pay you?”

A wry laugh escapes her. “Taylor pays me monthly, boy. Maybe you could buy some diapers or food for them, since you’ve been gone for two years.”

Obviously, when Taylor was tossing the whole single-parent role around, she forgot to mention she choose it.

“I will.” I take the highroad before Roosevelt’s only sheriff gets called for a domestic disturbance. Nice Jesus lover she is and all.

With my daughter in my arms and her diaper bag swung over my shoulder, I leave the cold confines of her daycare. I place Emerson in her car seat and she leans her head to snuggle with the elephant in her hands. Thank goodness I decided to buy the car seat first. It took me all day to figure out how to install the thing in the truck.

Emerson is quiet in the backseat as darkness fills the street. She has to be hungry, and I know there’s a list of directions on how to care for her at the house. Pain echoes through me that I need directions on how to take care of my daughter. Shouldn’t a father just know how to nurture his child? Anger surfaces at the fact that Taylor stripped me of that, but then I look in the rearview mirror and find Emerson beginning to smile.

“Hey, do you want to go to the store?” I ask, and she claps.

“Taget,” she says, and I nod.

“Sure, we can go to Target.” I passed it on the way into town. It’s closer to the pool house. I wonder how many times we’ve missed each other, since I’m sure we’ve both shopped there.

I drive the twenty minutes to the Target and Emerson’s personality is alive and shining as I unbuckle her. A mom and her son park at the same time and we follow them into the store. Her eyes keep diverting to us, and I smile to appease her. When we enter the store, I follow her movements. Grab a cart, wipe it down with the cloth, then put the child in the bucket part, and buckle the seatbelt. Her son happily begins to rock back and forth after being strapped in. Easy enough.

I put Emerson in the cart, but she refuses to bend her legs. I reach down to help, eventually winning the battle of wills. While reaching for the two straps, she tries to stand up.

“No!” Her little hand smacks mine over and over again.

“Emerson, you have to be strapped in,” I say calmly.

“No!”

The mom looks at me and shrugs. Guess I’m not that attractive anymore when my child isn’t behaving.

“Come on, Emerson,” I say, pulling the two sides together. Each time I get them close, she twists and I lose the grip. “I’ll buy you a toy.”

“No!”

“Candy? You want some candy?”

“No!”

“If you sit down and I can strap you in, I’ll get you whatever you want,” I beg, trying to ignore the scrutinizing eyes directed at us from all areas of the store.

“Me stand.”

“Not unless I want your mom to kill me.”

“Kill?”

Shit. “Don’t say that.”

“Kill,” she repeats and my face heats with embarrassment.

“Excuse me.” A young girl comes over in her red shirt and khaki pants.
Great, she’s going kick me out.

“Sorry, she doesn’t want to be strapped in.”

“I see that.” Her eyes look me over, curiosity etched in them. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

She points to her nametag.

“Cindy, okay. Why do you care who I am?” Emerson is busying herself with the strap she so adamantly doesn’t want across her stomach.

“Why do you have Em?”

“You know her?” I ask, and she stealthy steps between me and Emerson, pushing the cart behind her and away from me.

“Yes, and Taylor. So, I’m asking again, who are you?” She looks past my shoulder, so I follow her line of sight to find a security guard five steps behind me.

“I’m Brad, Taylor’s friend and Emerson’s father,” I spout, upset that this whole scenario is happening to me right now.

“You’re her father?” She looks questioningly at the security guard, who I could probably take down with one punch. He’s not much older than Cindy. “I thought Sam was her dad,” she says.

Great, another one for Team Sam.

The security guard comes over. “They are on their way.”

“Who’s on their way? Jesus, tell me you didn’t call the police.” I run my hand through my hair and my teeth grit together.

“We don’t know you and Em seems upset.”

“She’s throwing a fit because she doesn’t want to be buckled in.” I point to her and everyone’s eyes shift to her. She’s still enthralled with the belt, now trying to strap herself in.

“It doesn’t appear like that, sir.”

I dig my phone out of my pocket, click on Taylor’s name, and hand Cindy the phone. “Here.”

She looks down at it and then holds it up to her ear.

“Hi, Taylor. This is Cindy Gregory. I’m working and there’s this man here stating he’s Em’s dad.”

I wait, my eyes on Emerson the whole time as the pimply security guard stares me down. As if he could intimidate me.

“Oh, okay.” Now her eyes appraise me in a whole other way. As though Taylor caught herself a fine stud or something. “I thought Sam was her dad.” Another pause. “Okay, I’ll have Billy call them right now. Just watching out for Em.” Cindy smiles at me, her one finger twirling a lose strand of her blonde hair. “Yeah, gotcha. I’ll tell him.” She laughs. “Bye.”

Cindy hands me the phone. “Billy, call off the police. He’s legit.” Billy walks away, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Sorry about that. I live down the street from Taylor and thought you were a kidnapper or something.”

“Okay. Mind if I get my shopping done now?” I motion toward Emerson, who almost has the buckle fastened.

“No, but Taylor said she’s sorry,” she says, and a smile creases my lips.

“Sorry, huh?”

She chomps on her gum. “Yeah, sorry.”

I nod. “Thank you, Cindy.” I place my hand on her shoulder to slide her away from the front of the cart. “I’ll be doing our shopping now.”

“Yep, have at it. There’s a sale on diapers,” she calls out, but I help Emerson finish the clasping and we cheer as though she did it all by herself.

“Let’s go check out the sale,” I tell the small girl and lean over the rail of the cart. Her small hands rub along the prickly one-day beard growth. My heart has never felt as full as it does in this moment, and that’s without her mother admitting to herself we belong together. She’ll get there in time, though, because I know I’m supposed to be right where I am.

I mosey around the story, enjoying my time with Emerson. She fiddles with the belt, I buy her a pretzel, and we buy those diapers on sale. Finally, I make my way to the toy section. Emerson instantly starts pointing to toys, repeating want over and over again. She wiggles her body, swinging her legs through the openings, trying to pry herself from the restriction of the belt.

“Hold on.” I unclip her and pick her up. Reluctantly, I place her feet on the floor and she scurries over to a bin of stuffed animals. She sits down, pulling each one out on the floor. She’s so excited, it makes me excited for her.

Crap, I’d buy her the whole lot if I didn’t think Taylor would shoot me. Then my mind flashes to two lost years. Years when she grew into this amazing little girl, and I missed it. I sit down next to her and she climbs into my lap. Could my life be any better in this moment?

She picks up little princess characters with pink crowns and purple hair. Each one is adorned with a sparkly dress and fancy shoes sewn on.

I pluck each one that’s different and put them in her arms.

“I get?” she looks up at me, those small teeth shining, eyes bright with question.

“Yep.” I kiss her forehead and she pulls them into her body, hugging them tight. I scoop her up and place her back in the cart with her array of new friends.

As I make my way to the check out, I intently watch her play with the dolls, and there’s this proud feeling bursting inside me because she loves something I bought her. She doesn’t know who I am, and as much as I hate to admit it, she probably does think Sam is her dad, but damn this warm feeling in my heart just grows more intense the more I’m with her.