Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
“That’s something special,” he finished.
“I haven’t ‘found a woman,’” I told my father through gritted teeth. “She’s Clara’s nanny. She’s my employee.” I was saying this out loud to remind both my father and myself.
“Is she?” my father replied. “Because I’ve seen you interact with your employees. The ones at the restaurant. You’re a heck of a lot more pleasant to them. And I know you’re not a mean-natured man. So all I can deduce is that you are being mean to her because you like her too much. Which is an outdated stereotype even old men like me know is moot. Not to mention, you’re a grown man. Grown men are supposed to be nice to the woman they want.”
“I don’t want her,” I snapped, much harsher than my father deserved.
My father—used to my short temper since he’d been on the receiving end of it for most of my life, more so since Clara was diagnosed—didn’t flinch.
He just smiled sadly. “Keep telling yourself that, kid. Though you’re smart enough not to believe your own lies. It’s okay, you know. To be happy now. Look for a bit of it yourself. A life without a woman to share it with is a lonely one.”
My father’s voice was full of pain that didn’t seem to dull despite the decades that had passed since my mother died. He’d never remarried, never found someone else. There had been women, I knew that. My father was not a monk. Nor was he able to replace my mother in any real way. The way he loved her endured through the years, even as I forgot what she used to look like, sound like, smell like. He kept my mother alive through his love.
I wanted that for him, a new chapter, someone to spend the remainder of his life with.
Me, on the other hand? No fucking way.
“I’m not lonely.” It wasn’t a complete lie. With Clara in my life, I’d never be truly lonely.
But I thought of Hannah last night. Her unsteady movements, her small arms circling me. The scent of her petite body. How it fit perfectly in my arms, like it was made for me. Like she was made for me.
Her lips had been so full, quivering, fucking aching for my kiss. I’d been hard as a rock, desperate for her warmth. To own every part of her. Make her mine.
Then I’d found sense.
Hannah was not mine. She was a young woman with her whole fucking life ahead of her. Too young for me. Too innocent. Too good. Too everything.
“You’re allowed to be happy, Beau,” my father whispered. “Your daughter is healthy. You can go back to normal. You can find another woman.”
I snorted. “You think I’m any good at finding women? Do you remember my ex-wife?”
The memory of Naomi made my stomach cramp, hot shame creeping up my neck. I didn’t open myself up easily, considered myself a good judge of character. Everyone else had seen it, her true nature, but I’d somehow found myself under her spell. In love with her. Or the version of her she’d projected over her true persona.
A woman who didn’t care about the child she’d grown and brought into the world. That was a special kind of evil.
It broke me. Realizing what kind of woman she was. What I’d tethered myself to. Yet I’d clung to the shame rather than acknowledge how loving a woman who only cared about herself had ruined a core part of me.
Elliot had recently said something to me about unconscious attachment theory, but I’d blocked him out. I didn’t need my head shrunk. I needed to never care about a woman again. They’d die, like my mother had. Or morph into something I couldn’t recognize, like Naomi.
I needed to focus on my daughter. The one reason I had for living. And I’d go through a shit-show with Naomi a thousand times over to get my girl. And I had her. Healthy. I’d focus on that.
“Loving someone and seeing the best in them is not a character flaw, Beau,” my father countered. “Someone’s gonna have to do that for you. See past all the bullshit you hide behind, find the good man underneath.” He put his cigar out, standing, stretching his back. I often forgot his age because he didn’t look or act it. But my father was getting old, and a lifetime of being out on the water, hauling lobster, was showing in his stiff muscles, slower movements, and in the aches and pains he tried to hide.
“I have a feeling that the woman you need is already sleeping under your roof,” he mumbled. “You’ve just got to get past all your own bullshit. I can’t do that for you. It’s the pain of being a father—watching your children hurt, wanting to help, knowing there’s not a damn thing you can do but hope for the best.”