The split second of hesitation, the guilt that bleeds into his expression, has me regretting my question. Because it all becomes clear.
Even before he reaches into his pocket.
“Get out.” The steely tone has him freezing in mid-motion, the neatly folded paper halfway out of his pocket, pinched between his two fingers and thumb.
A check. More specifically, hush money.
He continues to withdraw the check and unfold it, yet he can’t bear to meet my eyes. Staring down at the piece of paper in his hands, looking defeated, he murmurs, “I have to do this.” I’m not sure if he’s saying it to me or to himself.
I straighten, drawing my hands from my pockets, and stand tall. My fingers curl as I fist my hands.
“I don’t want your goddamn money.” His head snaps up at the fierce intensity of my tone. “I never wanted it.”
Fury grips me and it takes tremendous effort to get the words out. “You might be able to pay your way with others, but not me. So, you can”—I lift my chin, gesturing to the check—“shred that because I already have a father.” I press my lips thin before managing to finish with words I force from between clenched teeth. “And it’s not you.”
“But this could help you with—”
I tug open the front door with so much force, I’m surprised it doesn’t fly off the hinges. “Go home, Mr. Barton.” My stony stare settles on him, and he swallows audibly before nodding and tucking the check back in his pocket.
He steps to the door but pauses at the threshold, turning his head slightly, yet still not meeting my eyes. “For what it’s worth, Hollis, I’m sorry.” Then he’s gone, leaving those words in his wake.
I shove the door closed and lean my forehead against the cool surface, letting my eyes fall closed. I’m not sure how long I stay like this, willing myself to get my emotions under control. It shouldn’t hurt, the dismissal from a man who was never a father to me. It shouldn’t.
But it does.
It serves as yet another indication, a glaringly bright sign that I’m not—nor will I ever be—good enough for the Bartons.
Never.
Magnolia
Tomorrow night is the engagement party, and everyone seems to be teeming with excitement.
Except me.
That realization inflicts tsunami-like waves of guilt, but I can’t deny it. Because I want one person to be there, and I’m not sure if he’ll come.
I pick up my phone and pull up the last text message I received from Hollis. It was a photo from Wisconsin, where he’d traveled for another auto expo and auction.
Hollis: Greetings from West Bend, Wisconsin, Shortcake.
He’d forgone the “I miss you” in his texts ever since my graduation day. I can’t explain it, but the absence of those three words lingers even now.
I draw in a deep breath and type out a message to him.
Me: Are you around?
I’d only seen him briefly when he’d been directing cleaning crews and other workers who removed the furnishings from the house now that his mother has passed. I’d walked over, much to my mother’s dismay, to offer my condolences, but with all the bustling around us, it hadn’t been conducive to much talking.
I can’t deny the moment I stopped a few feet away from him in his driveway, the sight of him made my stomach flip. In a simple cotton short-sleeve T-shirt, his tattoos were on display, an intriguing mix of black ink and more colorful designs covering the top of his forearms and spilling onto the backs of his hands. They mesmerized me, and I found myself dismayed by my thoughts of wanting to see his bare torso and investigate the patterns peeking out from his tanned chest, unencumbered by clothing.
It was a fascinatin’ difference, that’s all, I tell myself again. Such a contrast from the boy I once knew to the man today.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text.
Hollis: Yes, ma’am.
Me: Can we talk for a minute?
I stare down at my phone, waiting anxiously for those three dots to appear. They never do. I wait and wait until my screen times out and goes dark.
A moment later, it lights up with an incoming call.
“Hey,” I answer quietly.
“Hey, Shortcake.” Even his voice sounds different. It’s more gravelly, rougher than it used to be. I lean back on my bed and close my eyes.
“It’s so good to hear your voice,” I confess.
There’s a hint of a smile in his tone. “Same.”
I press a hand against my chest over top my racing heart. “I wanted to see if you’d be around tomorrow.” When he doesn’t immediately respond, I rush on. “I know it’s last minute, but tomorrow’s the engagement party, and I’d really love for you to be there.” My words are hurried, spoken so fast that I’m nearly breathless by the end.
When he doesn’t say a word, I prompt, “Hollis?”
He clears his throat. “Sure.” The single-word response sounds slightly tortured, and I wonder if he doesn’t want to come and share my special day with me.
The thought of that sears my heart.
“I’d love for you to be at the weddin’, too. If it’s possible with your schedule, of course.” I hate how stilted this conversation is. It’s downright painful.
“If you want me there, I’ll be there.” His low, husky tone holds undeniable affection, and it warms me through and through.
“I do.”
“So, what kind of weddin’ will it be?” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice. “A backyard one with Grandpa Joe officiatin’, like you always planned?”
I let out a soft laugh. “Kind of.”
Mother has taken the reins and increased the guest list, to my dismay. It’ll include far more people than I ever wanted or intended, the bulk of whom will be there for my parents, not me. But, as the saying goes, you have to pick your battles.
“As long as you get your convertible with the tin cans at the end, right?” The tenderly spoken reminder has me welling up with tears and emotion clogging my throat.
“And cherry Pop Rocks.”
“Can’t forget those.”
We fall silent for a beat.
“I should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be brutal. So much beautifyin’ and so little time.” My attempt at injecting humor into my tone falls flat.
“Go rest up, beautiful. ’Night.”
Dismay ricochets through me at the thought of our call coming to an end. “Hollis?”
“Ma’am?”
The words spill out before I can even give it thought. But I can’t regret them. I haven’t spoken them to him in so, so long. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, Shortcake.”
He quickly ends the call, leaving me with the startling realization that he didn’t say the same words we’d repeated to one another countless times over the years.
But not like that.
Hollis
THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY
I walk into the party a short time after it was scheduled to start, ensuring the large crowd would serve as a buffer of sorts. They would demand her attention, and that would hopefully mean less awkwardness.