He gives me one last kiss and playfully smacks my behind before he leaves, and I find my phone and order a pizza before returning to the dishes.
Every morning, Madden has me work a few hours in his shop before it opens. I stock shelves. Take inventory. Clean whatever needs cleaning. Make appointment reminder calls. Basically most of Missy’s job … which I don’t think she’s too happy about, but she hasn’t complained yet. Besides, she knows it’s only temporary.
I start my new job on Monday, and by the time I get my second check, I’ll have enough to put a deposit on a studio apartment just outside Olwine, five miles from here and five miles from work.
As soon as the kitchen is clean, I light a vanilla mint candle and take a seat on the couch, thumbing through some old text messages.
It’s strange going this long without talking to my parents, but I can’t say that I miss them. At least not yet. I’m sure this is destroying my mother though. I’m still shocked that my father did this to her. Either way, I’m trading in shock for excitement.
Good things are going to happen, I can feel it.
I’m about to put on some music when my screen turns black and Graeme’s name comes up on the Caller ID.
I haven’t spoken with him in weeks—I don’t even know if he knows what happened with Mom and Dad.
Clearing my throat, I answer. “Hey.”
“Brighton,” he says.
“What’s up?” I sit up. The sound of city traffic fills the background. It’s an hour later where he is. He’s probably just getting off work.
“Heard Mom and Dad made you move out. You doing okay?”
“Yes. I’m doing well. I start my first job on Monday. Going to be doing medical research,” I say. “Ethical medical research.”
“Nice. You’ll get to put that pre-med degree to good use.”
“Exactly.”
“Listen, the reason I was calling was because I’m thinking of doing Doctors Without Borders again … was thinking this fall? Honduras more than likely. Thought maybe you could come along? Like old times? I know it’s short notice, but I’ve got a classmate from Rothschild who’s going to be in the city for a few months and he said he could cover my practice, so …”
Fall is a short couple of months away. I won’t have more than a few days of paid leave accrued by then.
“Graeme … I’d love to,” I say. “But I don’t know if I’ll be able to get the time off work.”
“I understand.” His upbeat reply is laced with disappointment. “Just thought I’d ask. That’s always been our thing.”
“Yeah.”
A car horn sounds behind him.
“You doing okay though?” he asks. “Mom said you were living with a boyfriend?”
There’s a hint of a chuckle in his voice. I'm sure the unexpectedness of this amuses him.
“I am,” I say. “But only until next month. Then I’m getting my own place.”
“Good for you, Brighton. I’m really proud of you.”
At least someone is …
“Listen, I’m meeting Cara for dinner, so I’m going to cut you loose, but let me know if you need anything, okay?” he asks. “And you know my door’s always open if you ever need to get away.”
“Thanks, Graeme.” I end the call and sit my phone beside me, only to have it slide off the couch cushion and bounce onto the floor.
Reaching down to retrieve it, my hand brushes against something hard. A book or a journal of some kind sticks out from under the loveseat. How I missed this before when I was cleaning is beyond me, but I slide it out and take a closer look.
It’s a sketch pad, the cover worn and cracked.
I flip to the first page and find a detailed drawing of an old muscle car. The next page is some elaborate tattoo design where all of the pictures blend together as one, almost like a mural. The following pages contain various sketches, each one better than the one before it. There’s a rose. A portrait of a young woman. A bejeweled skull. Practice tattoos, maybe?
I page through the rest, admiring the raw talent, when I notice something in the lower left corner of each and every page.
A name.
Dallas.
In the two months I’ve known Madden, never once has he mentioned anyone by the name of Dallas, and judging by the fact that this notebook was tucked away, hidden from plain sight, I don’t think he planned to.
I’ve known two Dallases in my life—one male and one female.
This Dallas could be anyone.
An old friend?
A former business partner?
A family member?
An ex?
With nothing but time on my hands and curiosity coursing my veins, I grab my phone and perform a quick internet search of the name “Dallas Ransom” on the off chance this person is somehow related to him … like a brother or even a former wife.
No Results.
Weird.
I close the sketch pad and place it back under the sofa exactly how I found it.
Thirty-Two
Madden
* * *
Sleep evades me tonight, so instead I lie here watching Brighton, her creamy skin basked in moonlight from the open window beside her, a peaceful, dreamy expression on her beautiful face.
It’s funny how life can be moving along, perfectly hum-drum and uneventful, and then you get the mail one Saturday morning and everything changes.
I haven’t heard from my father in years. In fact, the last time he wrote me, it was my twenty-first birthday, a few years after he’d been locked up. I wrote him back and told him never to contact me again.
I should’ve tossed the damn thing in the trash, but instead I opened it, curious to know what the asshole felt the need to say to me after all these years even if I knew it was going to piss me off regardless.
And of course it did.
My old man had the nerve to ask me to come visit him.
Nothing more, nothing less.
No I’m sorry or I miss you or I love you or how’s your sister … just a simple request that I come visit him.
I ripped the letter in half several times before throwing it in the garbage on top of a rotting banana peel. Brighton was still in the shower and by the time she came out, she was none the wiser and I’d had several minutes to cool down.
As far as I’m concerned, the bastard is dead to me. And that’s what I tell people when they ask about him. I say, “He’s no longer with us.” They all interpret it as if he’s dead, no longer living, but it’s all the same to me.
Brighton rolls to her side, her back to me, and she brushes her cheek against her pillow, releasing a soft moan in her sleep. She does that sometimes. Little moans here or there. It’s the cutest, sexiest thing in the whole fucking world.
Tomorrow marks two weeks since she moved in, and I have to admit that it hasn’t been as bad as I thought it’d be.
Sure, there are times when we both need our space, but we make it work. She’ll go to the coffee shop or the library and I’ll go for a drive, and at the end of the night we’re back in bed, unable to keep our hands off each other.
I roll to my back. Staring at the ceiling, my mind drifts back to my father’s letter. Sometimes I think about him. Not often. Just sometimes. And I always wonder how he spends his day. If he’s made friends. How he passes the time. If anyone’s kicked his ass yet for running his mouth.