“What are you doing here?” She sniffles, blowing her nose into a beat-up tissue.
“I wanted to talk. Why are you crying?”
She starts to cry harder, and I fumble for a moment, not knowing what to do. I’m shit when it comes to women and emotions, so I wing it and sit down on the open chunk of cushion, bringing my hand to pat her back. “Hey, whatever it is, it's gonna be okay.”
“No, it’s not," she sobs, throwing her head into my shirt and soaking it. I’m starting to get agitated that someone really upset her. Hurt her in some way. The array of what could have happened builds in my head. What I can do to retaliate. “He’s dead,” she cries into my shirt.
I pull her off me, worried. “Who’s dead?”
“Herald. Or Bill. I’m not sure which one. The other one won’t tell me.” And she’s back in my chest sobbing.
“The lobster?” I ask, now confused.
“Yeah. I came home, and he wasn’t moving. I tried to get answers from the other one, but he wasn’t talking. I killed him. I murdered a helpless animal.” And off she goes again. She’s bawling over killing a lobster? Jesus, this girl. I’m not sure whether to laugh or roll my eyes. Seeing how upset she is, I hold back from doing both. I adjust her so I get a better fitting on the chair, and lift her, placing her in my lap. I wait until her cries are more of a whimper and I can feel her breathing calm.
“You okay?” She doesn’t immediately pull away, which I’m fine with. Strangely, I like the feel of her in my lap.
“Yeah, sorry. I’ve just never killed anything before. I wanted to give them a better life.” This girl. This time, I do smile. I move her hair away from her face. “I’m sorry. I kinda soaked your shirt.”
I look at her, not giving a fuck about my shirt. “It’s just a shirt.”
“Yeah. Well, I should probably get off your lap. I’m wrinkling your nice pants.”
“Fuck my pants,” I tell her, and a haze starts to form in her eyes. My little minx is getting heated. Before this goes any further, I shut it down. “Let me take you to dinner. Where you don’t have to worry about the preparation.”
I may have shocked her. “You wanna take me to dinner?”
“Dessert too, if you’re good.” Her smile pleases me. It’s been a while since something so simple did that. It used to be pleasing Eric, making money, working figures, but that got old fast. It quickly became a task. Four Fathers is everything to me, but the luster in it died a long time ago. I should be thankful for the money—for not being on the streets anymore. I should indulge in the billions I’m sitting on like the other partners do. But it's not about money to me. Yeah, I blew my first billion on buying an entire subdivision just to have the quietness of the beach, but that’s what I needed to survive—to find solace from the fucked-up shit swirling in my head.
“You’re counting again.”
Shit. When I get in my head, I forget I lose focus and do that. “Sorry. So, what do you say? Will you let me feed you?”
Her smile fucking does shit to me. “As long as it's not lobster.”
Fuck, I’m in trouble with her.
“So, can I ask you a question?”
“Anything you want.” I learned on the ride over to Flemings, one of Tampa’s hottest steak houses, her name is Lucy. She strangely already knew mine, telling me she figured it out by searching the name on the contract, then proceeded to google me, needing to know what she was up against with my pushing the early sale of her Gran’s house.
“What’s with the counting? If you don’t mind me being nosy.”
I knew this was coming. “There’s nothing wrong with me, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I watch her eyes fill with guilt. They always pin me first with an illness. “I’m what you call a math prodigy. My mind works solely based on numbers. Anything that is probable and can be solved, my brain latches onto it and tries to solve it.”
I watch her try to dissect the information. “It means my mind never stops. I’m always counting. Steps, seconds between breaths, the distance between waves. It can be anything, and my brain wants to break it down.”
“How…how do you function with all that madness?” She catches her choice of words. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s fine. Some days are easier than others. Certain things trigger it. Stress is a number one reason. I learn to deal with most of it, but when it gets bad, I use methods that have been taught to me over the years to calm my mind.”
“Wow. That’s nuts. So, like, can you tell me how many words you just spoke?”
“Seventy vowels, fifty-seven syllables, sixteen verbs, and twelve nouns in the last minute and a half.”
“Jesus, how did you remember all that?”
“It’s just the way my mind works. I can’t really control it. So, I just learn to live with it.” She’s quiet for a bit, so I take that opportunity to turn the spotlight on her. “Tell me about you. What brought you out here?” Her beautiful smile falls at my question. “You don’t have to answer—”
“Nope. You answered mine. Only fair. My Gran died. It was her last wish to have me stay here over the summer to help sort my life out.”
“And do you need sorting?”
“I need so much sorting, I doubt just the summer is going to fix me.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, curious since I find her to be pretty perfect.
“I’m a mess. I have no direction. I make poor choices, and I can’t for the life of me follow through with anything. She wants me to find my way, I guess. Find love. Find my true passion, whatever that is. Her dying wish was just for me to be happy. And she thought having me spend the summer here would do that.”
My stomach turns with guilt. It reminds me of the addendum I grabbed off my desk and shoved in my suitcoat pocket when I left the office. I’m not even sure why. I had no intentions of approaching the subject with her. The last thing on my mind was giving her any reason to leave. And now, listening to her, I couldn’t even imagine doing that. I push it farther into my pocket as the waitress comes by to take our order.
We enjoy a great meal over small chatter. I learn she’s twenty-seven, and confess my own age. I thought she would be turned away by it, but it didn’t seem to bother her. We keep the topics light, and before I know it, three hours have passed and we’re getting the check.
“Are you sure I can’t help pay?” she asks for the billionth time as we walk to my car.
I take her hand and open the door, helping her in. “I wouldn’t think of it. It was my treat.” I also know from the small chatter she is completely broke. I had to reign in my anger hearing that she’s been living off sandwiches and cheap noodles since she got into town. Then again, maybe if she let me buy her damn house already, her money problems would be solved. Not to mention, all the restaurants in town I could have been spoiling her with.
The ride home is quiet. I take the scenic route along the coast, and she rolls down all the windows, allowing the ocean breeze to blow through her hair. As soon as I pull up in my driveway, she turns to me, gifting me with the most beautiful smile. Her hair is a complete rat’s nest, making her even more irresistible. I told myself I wasn’t going to pull another dick move and treat her like the two times we’ve been together. It’s different now.