A pang of guilt twisting in my stomach, I took another sip of coffee to hide the reflexive tensing of my muscles. “Oh, she’s fine.”
I hadn’t done anything to feel guilty about. Every time thoughts of Raquel surfaced in my mind, I’d pushed them aside. I didn’t entertain hope for a renewed connection. I was committed to seeing things with Charlotte through, I was committed to her.
And yet, I felt guilty.
“How was your date Saturday? It was Saturday, right?”
“She had to cancel. We’re going out tomorrow instead.” I leaned back and moved my coffee cup out of the way as Rebecca approached, my breakfast in one hand and my father’s in the other.
“Oh. That’s too bad. You taking her to The Front Porch again? Thank you, Rebecca.”
Rebecca nodded once tightly, then scurred away.
I picked up my fork. “Yes, sir. I switched the reservation.”
“Y’all go there a lot.”
“This’ll be the third time.” I didn’t volunteer that this would also be our third actual date in the months we’d been together.
We’d tried going on a picnic, just the two of us, but her sitter canceled at the last minute and we’d ended up taking the kids along, choosing a park with a playground instead of the private, romantic location originally on the agenda.
I’d tried taking her on a hike three weekends ago and her momma—who was set to watch the kids—decided she wanted to come too when she’d heard our plans. It had become a Mitchell family outing ending with an extended family barbecue at the trailhead.
“Why not take her to Knoxville?” he asked, cutting up his eggs.
“The drive is too far. She only has the sitter for three hours.”
“How about if your momma and I babysit? Then y’all could go as far as Nashville if you wanted. Take the whole day.”
I perked up at that. “Really? That’d be great. I can certainly ask.” I liked Charlotte. She was funny. Not many people are funny. Even when she was surrounded by her kids and family and all that chaos, she was always hilarious, positive, upbeat. And she did her best to try and make me feel seen and special. This troubled me.
Here she was, a single mom of four, worked full-time, managed her house and kids and everything all on her own, and she was worried about making me feel seen and special? That didn’t sit right.
“A couple needs time alone, especially a courting couple,” he said around a bite of bacon and fried eggs. “It’s hard enough to woo a woman when there’s no time limit on your evening out.”
I knew my father liked Charlotte, so I knew he was commiserating with me, not complaining about her circumstances or lack of availability.
“But you’re creative,” he added. “I’m sure you’re finding other ways to sweep her off her feet.”
Finished chewing a slice of pepper, I nodded. “I am.”
“Like what?” He peered at me, gaze suddenly sharp.
My hand halted, another slice of bell pepper halfway to my mouth. “Seriously? You want me to talk to you about this?”
He nodded. “Humor me.”
Huh.
He had never—and I mean never, not even when Zora Leffersbee and I were faking an engagement, and he adored Zora—asked me about my romantic prospects other than how the woman was doing and wishing us well.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. After Zora ended our arrangement and ran off with the man she was actually in love with, he’d sat me down and asked me how I could expect the people of Green Valley and this county to take me seriously if I didn’t take myself seriously. That’s how he always made his point, he asked questions with only one right answer.
He needn’t have asked the question at all. I’d tried returning to my previous habits, but they didn’t seem to fit anymore, like trying on an old pair of shoes from high school. It all felt too small, and I’d felt . . . tired. Tired of pretending, tired of being passed around, tired of no expectations. I wanted something that at least felt real, something that felt deeper.
Something like the taste of that night I’d shared with Raquel.
Of course, I didn’t tell any of this to my father. I’d just said, Yes sir, and left it at that. By and large, my father was more comfortable discussing the details of a gruesome crime scene than talking about anything related to feelings or emotions or relationships. He was very much a man of his generation.
And now he wanted to talk about me and Charlotte?
“Well, let’s see.” I placed a pepper back on the plate and scratched the short hair covering my jaw. “I went over on Saturday anyway, and we had a movie night with the kids.”
“Then what?”
“Sunday, I watched the kids so she could run some errands. And then we went to Kimmy’s soccer game together. I’d made dinner while she was out running errands, so we all ate that after the game, and I helped her put the kids to bed.”
“And then?” He put his fork down and leaned forward.
“Well, then I left.” Obviously.
“I see.” His sharp look turned hard. “What else?”
“Yesterday afternoon we talked, and she told me she’s been having trouble with one of the bathroom sinks, so I went over there late, after work, and—”
“She wanted you to come over late?”
“Yes, sir. I wouldn’t have gone if she didn’t—”
“Okay, okay.” He waved away what I was about to say. “You fixed the sink?”
“I did.”
“It didn’t need any parts? You didn’t have to wait and go to the hardware store?”
“No, sir. It was just a loose pipe. I tightened it and then I was finished.”
“And did you stay? After?”
I stared at my father, getting the sense he was hoping I’d give him a particular answer. “No, sir. Course not. It was very late.”
Breathing out loudly, he leaned back in the booth, wiping his hands on a napkin. “So?”
“So?” I stared at him, bemused. Had he been expecting—hoping for—a different response? “So she needed to get the kids up for school in the morning, and I had an early breakfast with you.”
What was he fishing for? Did he want me to tell him I’d spent the night with Charlotte? For the record, we hadn’t slept together. We hadn’t even made it past first base, when would we have had the chance? And I’d be damned if the first time we did anything other than kiss was at midnight during a weeknight when I was half asleep and exhausted after a ten-hour shift that had turned out to be thirteen once all was said and done.
Also, my parents hadn’t raised me that way. They’d raised me to be a gentleman. I hadn’t always been a gentleman, and my father had told me as much. He’d been right at the time, and I’d reformed. I liked that I’d reformed. I appreciated drawing these hard lines in the sand I no longer crossed.
And now he was disappointed that I was acting like the man he wanted me to be? What the heck is going on?
He sighed, then pressed his lips together in a grim line, glaring at the back of the booth behind me. “You know I love you, son.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And I’m proud of you. You’ve always been an exceptional deputy—and I mean that, though I don’t often say it.”