When in Paris... (Language of Love) (38 page)

Although she’s looking at me, I can tell her mind is somewhere else because she has that faraway look in her eyes. “I don’t know. I was just very unhappy back then.” Her shoulders move, almost in a shrug but more helpless-like.

I want to hate her but she’s not making it easy, not with this whole downtrodden demeanor she’s got going and the lost-girl look in her eyes.

“Mom.” I don’t even know what to say beyond that. It’s a lot to digest, this bomb of hers.

She shakes her head as if she understands the words I can’t voice right now.
How could you throw away twenty-something years of marriage like this? How could you, how could you, how could you?

“I told your father the truth when he confronted me with it.”

My dad. My poor dad. This must have crushed him. Devastated him. Suddenly, I feel like a little girl who wants her daddy.

“I’m sorry, Olivia. You can’t know how much.” Her voice breaks and she slaps her hand over her mouth.

Tears fill my vision and that’s when the server shows up with our food. The waitress looks a couple years older than me, her dark hair pulled back in a sloppy bun. She’s got her super-friendly waitress smile on. If she notices our subdued response and glassy eyes, she is tactful. She makes sure as she places my dish of piping-hot lasagna in front of me that I have enough to drink and don’t require a refill.

My mom, as is her way, tries a lot harder to don a face of normalcy. She assures the waitress that her dinner smells wonderful and her service has been excellent. The second the beaming waitress moves off, that mask of normalcy comes off.

I’ve had a minute to think about it and there’s one question I haven’t asked her that I want an answer to.

“Who was he?”

“Honey you don’t know him.”

Does she honestly think I expect to? “I’m not asking because I think I know him, Mother. I just want to know the name of the man you’d jeopardize your marriage for. Our family.” As much as I hurt for my dad, my parents aren’t the only ones affected by their breakup.

“Charles Dower,” she whispers, her gaze on her plate of rigatoni.

The name means nothing to me but I feel better knowing it as something to store away.

Despite the fact that I haven’t eaten since dinner last night, my appetite is understandably not what it was an hour ago. It’s true what they say, ignorance sometimes really is bliss.

I don’t like to cry in public, as well my mom knows. Which is precisely the reason I’m sitting in a crowded restaurant learning about my mom’s infidelity. She did the same thing after dad stopped her from trying to make me the next kid star.

It took me a week to get up the nerve to tell her I wanted to stop. I was tired of missing school and always feeling like the new girl in a school I’d gone to since the first grade. When she complained to my dad, he’s the one who put his foot down. If I didn’t want to perform, no one was going to force me—including my own mother.

She’d taken me out to dinner—just the two of us and after two weeks of the silent treatment—to tell me how sorry she was. She acted like I’d never told her that I didn’t want to be in commercials or go out on all those audition calls she’d been dragging me to for six years.

As I stare down at my plate, I know I won’t be able to stomach a bite. I want to go back to my room and cry.

“I want to leave.” To emphasize my point, I pluck the linen napkin from my lap and lay it on the table.

My mom’s head jerks up as panic flashes in her eyes. She schools her expression immediately. “We can have the food boxed up to take with us,” she says, her gaze flitting away from me in search of our waitress.

All I want to do is be alone. I hope my mother doesn’t think we’re leaving so we can “talk” some more. My head—or my heart—cannot handle anymore. What she’d just told me is enough to keep me a good few years.

“Is something wrong?” the waitress asks, a concerned knot in her brow after she spots me standing over the table, purse slung over my shoulder.

My mom takes over from there, telling her that something’s come up so we won’t be able to stay. Ten minutes later, my mom settles the bill, and we’re heading to her car, to-go bags in our hands. I haven’t spoken a word and the truth is, I’m not sure I can.

The drive home is cloaked in silence thick enough to choke a horse. I’m relieved she doesn’t make any attempt at conversation. I couldn’t stomach it any more than I could my dinner.

A flood of relief courses through me when we finally pull into the driveway. My eyes are glued to the front door, my hand already gripping the door handle and my only thoughts are of the escape I plan on making the second the car comes to a stop.

It’s my mom’s hand on the sleeve of my coat that nearly has me jumping out of my skin, effectively ruining my escape plans. I sit motionless, my back to her, willing her to hurry up and say what she’s about to say.

“Olivia.”

I harden my heart against the tears in her voice.

“I know you’re probably very angry at me.”

You think?

“And I don’t blame you.”

Oh, gee thanks, Mom.

The effort of holding back my own tears scalds my eyes and I’m blinking like windshield wipers during a downpour.

“Olivia, please look at me.”

My heart pinches at her tearful plea. Slowly, I turn to meet her watery eyes. If I thought she looked miserable in the restaurant, her pinched mouth, tear-stained cheeks and overall pallor give her a ghostlike appearance. She looks like she’s about to throw up.

In this hollow voice that chills me to the bone, she says, “Wait, there’s something else you should know.” And with that, she detonates the final bomb.

***

ZACH

I barely have time to kiss my mother hello and drop my bags before my dad starts in on me.

“
What the hell is wrong with you?” His voice booms across the kitchen where he’s taken up his battle stance: legs spread, arms crossed over his wide chest, his face wearing its permanent scowl.

Like I need this shit.

In the five minutes since I walked into my house, I go from already missing Olivia to being thoroughly pissed off.

I give my head an angry shake. “I’m not transferring to Michigan, Dad. I made my choice so you’re just going to have to accept it.”

I’m standing on the other side of the black granite island, hands thrust into my jean pockets, chin up and eyes narrowed. That’s
my
battle stance.

In looks, my brother and I take after our dad, who is tall, square-jawed, blue-eyed and arguably still handsome if you ask the women in the neighborhood. At the age of fifty-two, he still sports a full head of hair, which used to be dark like mine but is now a salt-and-pepper gray.

He looks furious enough to pop a blood vessel. I say let him.

“
Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get you a meeting with Brady Hoke?” he storms.

“
I didn’t ask you to.” I’m trying hard to keep my voice level and stay calm but it’s not easy. My dad has always managed to push every single one of my buttons.

“
You do realize you’re ruining your chances of going professional, don’t you?” His statement isn’t a question, it’s a warning. “You think any scout is going to take you seriously knowing you chose a school like Warwick when you had your choice of any of the Top Ten?”

What a bunch of crap. Warwick is a Division I school and every year at least two of their players are recruited into the pros. But this is my know-it-all father I’m dealing with, and I’ve learned it’s pointless to argue with him.

When I don’t respond, he shoots an exasperated look at my mom, who’s watching our exchange from her position next to the kitchen table in the nook area. She won’t say anything now but she’ll pull me aside and speak to me when my dad’s gone. It usually starts off something like, “He means well” or, “You know he wants the best for you.”

His gaze swings back to me. “Look at your brother. Look at everything he’s achieved, and you know why? Because he listened to me.”

Yeah, that’s what my dad would like to think. Brett lives and breathes football. His drive to go professional has always been ten times greater than mine. And maybe that’s my biggest problem, not wanting it bad enough. Hell, right now I’m not sure I even want it at all.

Resolute, I shake my head, staring him directly in the eye. “You’re not going to change my mind, Dad. And not only am I staying at Warwick, I don’t even know if I want to keep playing. Not sure I’ll stay on the team.”

With that announcement, I might as well have thrust a dagger in his heart.

I hear my mom gasp softly and my dad, well, let’s just say he doesn’t take it well, going from incredulous to more furious than I’ve ever seen him. Which is saying a lot. He treats me to a lethal glare, turns and stomps out of the kitchen. The next thing I hear is the sound of the front door slamming shut and seconds later, the roar of a car engine.

My gaze shifts to my mom.

“
Zach.” She breathes my name on an exhale. “Are you serious about quitting football?”

Removing my hands from my pockets, I lean back against the spotless granite counter. “I don’t know. Maybe. Look, Mom, I think I’m going to stay at Brett’s tonight.”
If I can convince Olivia to come with me.
But my mom doesn’t need to know that.

“
Honey, you know your father. He pushes but he means well,” she says, advancing to my side.

I peer down into her light-brown eyes and take in her pretty face. No, my mom’s gorgeous. I’m pretty sure it’s the main reason my dad married her. Daily exercise keeps her slim, and she looks at least ten years younger than the forty-six years she hates to admit being. My mom could have had her pick of guys but for some unfathomable reason, she chose my dad.

“
What he wants is to control me.”

“
You know that’s not true,” she says in soft reproach.

I arch my eyebrow.
Do I?

“
I don’t know, Mom, I guess I’m just tired of feeling guilty if I don’t do what everyone expects of me.”

She places her hand on my arm, rubbing it comfortingly. “Your dad—”

“
It’s not just dad. It’s Ashley…and you…”

Her gaze sharpens and her eyes go wide. “Me?” she sputters in disbelief, her hand splayed against her neck. “When have I ever made you do something you don’t want to do?”

“
Sharon Montgomery.”

The mention of her name causes my mom’s face to contort in distaste.

“
I’m dating her daughter.” At this point, I just want it out. The sooner she gets used to the idea, the better it will be going forward. Or at least, that’s my hope.

My mom drops back a step, clearly shocked. “What?”

Silently, I steer her to one of the kitchen chairs and sit her down. She goes without protest. There I explain everything, starting from my freshman year in high school and discovering that Olivia was the daughter of the woman she and my aunt despised.

My mother doesn’t deny that she’d made it clear in no uncertain terms that I was to have nothing to do with that family. Loyalty and my own sense of moral righteousness got me through high school. But meeting up with her in college changed everything for me.

“
She’s not her mother, Mom.” And maybe her mother isn’t as bad as we think she is.

My mom swallows, briefly glancing away. “So you really like this girl?” she asks and I can tell from her voice she’d rather I didn’t.

“
I like her a lot.”

After a long pause she exhales an unsteady breath. “If you like her, I’ll try. Just don’t expect me to associate with
that woman
. Good Lord, I don’t know what I’m going to tell your aunt.”

Since I’d expected a fight, I’ll gladly take my mom’s less-than-gracious response. So I won’t be bringing Olivia by the house anytime soon, but I’ve opened the door for it. If I give my mom a little time, I’m sure she’ll come around.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
S
EVEN

OLIVIA

I’m waiting at the front door when Zach pulls up.

“Mom, I’m gone. See you tomorrow,” I yell in the direction of the stairs. My mom’s in her bedroom, where she’s been since we returned from the restaurant.
Thank God.

Before I’ve barely taken two steps outside, he’s out of the truck and jogging toward me. Despite what an emotional mess I am, I can’t help but drink him in. He looks all-get-up sexy in a dark-blue turtleneck, black jeans and a black-and-blue North Face jacket.

“Hey,” he says softly, his expression so tender it causes a physical ache. Bending his head, he kisses me gently on the lips, taking his time about it. When he breaks the kiss, I gulp in some air and try to tamp down my body’s response.