Wendy gave my arm a squeeze before she left me at Pete’s door.
I went inside and walked over to the window. “Hi there,” I said. “It’s your favorite stepson.”
I pulled one of the chairs over and sat down, rubbed my hand across my eyes. Pete was wearing a red plaid bathrobe I’d never seen before.
“New threads?” I said.
He glared at me.
“I’ve had quite the day,” I said. “You know, Jonathan thinks that I’m commendable because I’ve somehow found a way to move past all the horrible shit you used to do to me,” I said. “That’s funny, isn’t it? Everyone thinks I come here because I actually give a shit about what happens to you, which really couldn’t be further from the truth. I know that seems heartless, and probably makes me sound like some sort of sociopath or something, but it’s the truth. Although, Jonathan and I wouldn’t even be friends, I bet, if it wasn’t for you.”
Pete’s eyes shifted, left to right, then fixed at a point behind my shoulder. “That’s right,” I continued, “all because of you. They were basically my other family because all you seemed to want to do when I was around was to talk shit and kick my ass. Which must’ve been fun for you; I can’t figure out another reason why you would’ve done it. I wouldn’t have been one of those dickhead stepsons, I wouldn’t have tried to flex on you or anything like that, but you couldn’t have been bothered to even give me that chance. Would you like to know what my childhood memories are made up of? They mainly consist of living in fear that you were about to come home or spending my time at Jonathan’s, where everything was so fucking perfect it would’ve made your teeth hurt. Their family ate dinner together every fucking night. Sat down and ate an actual meal that his mom OR his dad made. They took Sunday drives. Jonathan had probably every single toy he ever wanted, and then a bunch that he didn’t want, too. And he didn’t have to hide these toys because he was afraid that they were going to stomped on because his father was mad at him, or just came home from work in a bad mood. He didn’t even know how good he had it.
“In other exciting news,” I said, “I found out that you’re potentially going to be a grandfather. Well, a step-grandfather, I guess would be the correct definition.” I stared at him as I said this; his reaction didn’t seem any different than with anything else I’d told him. He probably thought I was making it up. “While it’d be nice to say I was making this all up, I’m not. Trust me, I wish it wasn’t the case.”
Pete’s eyes went from looking out the window to looking at me. He made a sound that sort of sounded like a cat trying to hack up a hairball. The corner of his mouth twitched. Though his facial expression hadn’t changed that much, I knew suddenly that he was thrilled to see me uncomfortable, happy that I had found myself in such a position.
I forced a smile. “It’ll all work out,” I said. “Anyway, Pete, sorry for the short visit today, but I’ve got to be on my way. You know, there’s a whole world out there, lots of shit going on. I’ll see myself out.”
I could feel his eyes on me as I hurried out of the room, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. Wendy tried to say something to me, but I rushed right out of there, aware the whole time of Pete up there in that goddamn window, looking down at me. I had half the mind to just drive that fucking Camaro of his right into the side of the building, let him watch crash and burn, but I wasn’t ready to go that far yet. Instead, once I had the car backed out of the parking spot, I stomped on the gas, felt the tires squealing underneath me, rubber burning.
At work the next day, Daisy asked me if I wanted to go with her to her favorite bar.
“You have a favorite bar?” I said. Today she was wearing a dark pink skirt that she hadn’t worn here before, and a short-sleeved black blouse, plus a pair of black Mary Jane shoes. Mmm, she looked good.
“I do,” she said with a smile, looking rather proud of herself. “Failte. Have you ever been there before?”
I tried to hold back my groan. Of course her favorite bar was Failte. “Maybe once or twice,” I said. “But not in a while.” I’d probably end up running into Billy McAllister.
“I was thinking of going there after work tonight. Do you want to go with me?”
Well shit, how do you say no to that? Even if it was to a dump like Failte. “You’re awfully hard to resist, you know,” I said.
“Am I?” She was asking honestly, not coyly, which made her even more appealing.
“Yeah,” I said. “You are. Sure, I’ll meet up with you. You heading down there right after work?”
“I think so. Is that cool with you?”
“I’ve got to meet up with Dan at four-thirty down at the Port; I don’t think we’ll be more than a couple hours, though. Why don’t I plan on meeting you there when I’m done? If it’s your favorite place, I’m sure you won’t mind hanging out there for a little bit. I’ll try not to be too long.”
She smiled. “That sounds great,” she said.
“And what sounds even better than that is going back to your place again after.”
She blushed but met my eye, and I could see that she was very much into that idea as well.
Martin Harris was the CEO at Bank of Atlantic, an appropriate place for him to work considering his fondness for the water and all things boating. He’d been HTS’s first corporate client, and he employed us at all of the bank branches throughout the city and the suburbs of Boston. He also used us for his family events, when necessary, and since his brother and, now, niece, were both A-list Hollywood actors—though they came with their own entourage—Martin always called on us for any gathering he threw when they were in town.
And they were coming to town next, in a trifecta of celebration: Martin and his wife’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, the brother’s birthday, and another niece’s engagement (not all on the same exact day, but close enough that one huge celebration could suffice). So Dan and I were down here at the Port, scoping out where the partying would take place: on Martin’s new mega yacht, a four-hundred-and-forty-foot vessel that was basically the equivalent of a cruise liner. It put his prev
ious yacht to shame, which was no small task. But this new yacht—the Paradise Breeze—could hold two hundred and thirty people, was three stories, and included an on-deck swimming pool, fully integrated sound system, and all the marble, leather, and silk you could imagine. They’d go from the Port around the tip of Cape Cod to Nantucket, where they’d spend a few more days, and then they’d eventually make their way back. It was a big event that Martin didn’t want anyone in the media or public to find out about, which was why I wanted to meet up with Dan and go over things well before the actual date arrived.
It ended up taking a little longer than I had planned, but that’s mainly because we’d spent the first half an hour or so just roaming the place, basically eyeball fucking the whole place. When I finally left, I was a bit later than I told Daisy I’d be, but it wasn’t so late that she wouldn’t be there anymore. So I hoped, anyway. Right as I pulled my phone out of my pocket to text her though, a call came through.
Annie.
I debated not answering. I really didn’t want to. As in, there were about nine hundred thousand other things I could think of that I’d rather do than pick up the phone and have to talk to her. But maybe she was calling to tell me she changed her mind. I gritted my teeth and accepted the call.