I slammed the screen door in his face.
I could see through the glass that Rob loitered on my porch, his big athletic body shifting as he tried to figure out his next move. He stepped aside and stared at me through a side window, channeling his inner Ted Bundy.
“Okay. I admit it sounded way better in my head as an opening line. Sorry. Sorry. My bad. Can you open the door, please?”
I knew a few things about Rob, mostly from whispers overheard around town, seeing as he’d used his two working brain cells not to return to Fairhope, after leaving me high and dry in high school.
He knew my dad, who’d served as the town’s sheriff for twenty years, would hunt him down with a rifle and I would finish him off myself, with my bare hands.
I knew he’d taken a scholarship when I was sixteen and fled to Arizona, hoping to eventually get drafted into the NFL.
Knew he never did get his shot to go pro, and he spent the last decade playing for amateur leagues and coaching on the side to make ends meet.
I knew he’d been married—twice—and gotten divorced, but he had no other children.
But the most important thing I knew about him was what a deadbeat he was. He’d never met his son.
Never sent a postcard, a birthday present, a note, not to mention a darn check. Never asked a goddarn question about the best thing in my life.
It was his complete rejection of Bear that was inexcusable to me.
Rob didn’t have to stay with me. But walking away from what he referred to as my mistake?
Yeah, fat chance getting off my fist list (people I wanted to punch) in this century, pal.
“C’mon, Nessy.”
Rob pressed his hand against the window, mustering just enough sadness to look pathetic. On second glance, he didn’t look like the old Rob at all. The one chock-full of ambition and dimples and opportunity.
He looked as worn-out, tired, and empty as I felt.
Good.
“Please,” he said softly. “I’ve been mustering the courage to come here for a week now. Give me five minutes.”
I pulled the door open again. I wasn’t curious at all as to why he was here. The number of dangs I gave about his reasons were currently minus fifteen and counting.
But if he truly was in a bad state, I didn’t want to be the person to shove him over the edge into the arms of suicide. Despite all of my internal wishes for people to die, I wasn’t so big on the concept in actuality.
Plus, he was still the father of my child, even if he’d never acted it.
Rob wore a North Face windbreaker, an expensive haircut, and a cast on his right leg. Something hot and full of shame swirled in the pit of my stomach when I thought about what he saw when he looked at me.
I was no longer the fresh-faced, beautiful girl he’d left behind, with the sun-spun hair, a dusting of blonde freckles, and knockout legs. I was twenty-nine now. Heavy makeup, a few extra pounds, and not enough sleep.
“You look…great,” he whimpered.
His voice was different, too. Resigned, somehow.
“You look out of place,” I answered dryly, leaning against my doorjamb. “What on earth are you doing in Fairhope, Rob? And why didn’t you think to call before dropping on my porch unannounced and about as welcome as a bag of flaming dog poop?”
Truth of the matter was, I would welcome dog poop with open arms if given the option between it and Rob. At least stomping profusely on an enflamed poop bag would make the problem go away.
He motioned to his right leg with his hand, choking on the revelation. “I broke my femur.”
You broke my heart.
“So I see.” I maintained my businesslike tone. “Still doesn’t answer my question.”
“I can’t play football anymore. Can’t really coach, either,” he choked out.
“My heart bleeds for you.”
“Seriously.” His brows knitted. “I’ll never get back on that field, Nessy.”
“Well, you are thirty-one and never made it to a pro league, so I’m pretty sure the world will survive the loss.”
Were we really talking about his amateur football career right now?
“But that’s not why I came back to Fairhope.” He shook his head, like he was trying to remember his lines. He made an attempt to catch my gaze.
I focused on his receding hairline, not ready to see what was in his eyes. My heart beat a thousand times a minute. I simultaneously couldn’t believe he was here and prayed Bear wouldn’t wake up for a glass of water.
“It’s not?” I drawled.
“It’s time I face my responsibilities. As I lay in a hospital bed two weeks ago with no one around me, I realized I’d been missing the point of life all along. I want to be with my family. With my aging parents. To establish roots, find a purpose, spend holidays and vacations with the ones who matter. I want to play ball with my son.”
“He hates football,” I pointed out, relishing the fact Rob’s and Bear’s personalities were about as different as could be.
“What’s he into?” he asked, his throat clogging around the question.
The need to wind him up and say cemeteries and animal sacrifice was strong in that moment. But I pursed my lips.
I wasn’t playing that game.
“Heard he looks just like me,” Rob continued. “Tall, dark hair. Handsome.”
I gave a modest shrug. “You just described half the population of North America.”
His eyes lit up with hope, and something inside me loosened. As a young woman, I’d dreamed of this moment. Of Rob showing up and reclaiming Bear and me as his. Saving the day.
But the years had dulled whatever optimism I still had left in me, and now I was all out of expectations when it came to the human race.
Men, specifically.
And even more specifically—Rob.
Selfishly, I admitted to myself that it wasn’t fair. That Rob didn’t get to just walk into the movie on the third act, so close to the resolution, and become a part of the happy ending.
He had missed all the awful parts.
The sleepless nights, the colicky newborn, the teething, and all the checkups. The urgent care visits, the ear tubes, boo-boos that needed to be kissed, and stories that had to be read, and ABC’s that had to be learned.
He wasn’t there to teach his son how to ride a bike, or to skateboard, or to angle his penis down when he peed (this, I especially held a grudge for). How to fish, how to hang a picture on a wall, how to be a man.
A ball of tears blocked my throat.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
“No.”
I heard the chill in my voice, and it scared me that it came from me. But how else could I respond? The man ruined me, my life, my hopes, and my dreams. True, he gave me my most precious gift—our son—but that was very accidental.
He bit down on his lower lip, staring at his shoes like a punished kid.
“I’d really like to make this work.”
“Make what work?”
“I want to see him, Nessy. My son.”
“He has a name.”
He closed his eyes, agony painting his too-familiar features.
“His name is Bear,” I said.
“I know.”
“It’s a weird name, don’t you think?” I taunted, not exactly sure where I was going with this, but wanting to inflict as much pain as possible on him.
Rob looked up, pulling dead skin from the lip he bit on just a second ago with his teeth.
“I don’t think I have the right to pass judgment. I wasn’t there to name him.”
“Dang straight, you weren’t.”
The fact that he was so pliant, so readily apologetic, took the sting out of my need to be rude to him. Some of it.
He raked his fingers through his hair.
“Look, Nessy, I know I messed up, and I know the best way to show you I mean business now is to prove to you, over time, how much I’ve changed. The last couple years really did shift something in me. Countless times I wanted to reach out as the years passed …” He took a breath, shaking his head. “Well, anyway. I’m working for my dad now, right here in town. He has this realty business. I got a house just down the street from you, so you can holler at me if you need anything at all. Here’s my number.”
He handed me a business card. I took it and shoved it into my pajama pockets without looking, breathing through my nose to avoid tears. Rob hung around on the porch, looking a little hesitant and a lot wary.
“What is it?” I rolled my eyes. “I know you want to say something else.”
“Well…this may be too soon, but…”
“What?”
I searched his face, and realized that even though he looked familiar, he was also unrecognizable. A man. A total stranger, who now looked at me, his expression full of angst, and didn’t resemble one bit the boy I’d once dated.
“I want to make it up to you, too, Nessy. Not just Bear. I want to try to win you back, too.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. I’ve never stopped caring about you, Tennessee. I—”
“Thanks, but I’d rather lick the door handle of the nearest public bathroom.”
This time when I slammed the door in his face, I didn’t open it again.
There was only so much bull a woman could tolerate in a day.
I was well into my third serving of fine—discounted, almost-certainly-expired—wine when I remembered to book those tickets for the cruise.
I fired up my ancient laptop and typed in the web address my parents had given me for the cruise company. They had warned me a thousand times not to screw it up.
They had a good reason to, too.
I had a bad, self-diagnosed case of ADHD and was pretty terrible about doing anything that required more than three minutes of concentration and/or heavy machinery. My mind constantly felt like a multi-lane highway with no traffic signs. And after Rob’s appearance, I was justifiably rattled.
But it was literally just booking tickets—how hard could it be?
I really didn’t want Dr. Punched-Him-in-the-Throat (I’m building up to this story, okay? Bear with me!) to pester me about it. Not that he did. Cruz Costello was somewhat of an expert at ignoring my existence.
But if I could ensure he and I wouldn’t have to speak to each other before the cruise, I was going to give it my best shot.
On the cruise company’s website, I entered the Elation into the search bar, the cruise ship we were going to be on. It sailed from Port Wilmington and proceeded on a ten-day cruise to various Caribbean islands.
Apparently, this was a long-time tradition for the Costellos, who took their sons on a cruise to a different exotic destination every summer. We, the Turners, had had a few summer traditions of our own before I gave birth to Bear.
Namely, to haul ass to Disney World every August, complain about the Floridian heat, and then, later, about the insane lines, swear we’d never, ever come back again, and frantically try to find my very drunk, very friendly dad striking up a conversation with whatever poor actress they had dressed as Elsa that day.
Admittedly, I was a little tipsy when I booked my and Cruz’s tickets.
Things were a bit…blurry as I entered all our details and forwarded the confirmation via email to [email protected]. Which was why I peppered the email with middle finger emojis, just so he’d know who it was from.
In the end, I shut down my computer, took my wine to my room, and collapsed onto my bed for an honest, six-hour-long slumber. A slumber filled with dreams of Benicio del Toro, and lottery tickets, and no Rob Gussmans or Cruz Costellos.
