If you ever, for whatever reason, need the help of someone with a ton of self-control, I’m not your girl.
Dinner. I invited him for dinner. With me.
Because, as I was leaving the clinic for the last time, I couldn’t fathom the idea of not seeing him ever again. Of not talking to him, not giving him any more mandalas, not looking at that permanent scowl on his handsome face that looks chiseled by the gods.
There, I said it. Whatever.
I knew it wouldn’t take much convincing, but it’s still uncanny how quickly Monica agrees to extend my break for a little longer so I can have dinner with James.
“You can come a little earlier and finish your shift before you guys have your date,” she told me over the phone after I texted her my request.
“It’s not a date,” I was quick to amend. “Just a thank-you dinner.”
Monica made the kind of sound my brother makes after he asks Lila if she did her homework, she says yes—an obvious lie—and he doesn’t believe her.
“I can be there at three,” I suggested to distract her. If she so much as plants the mental picture of James and me on a date again, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
“Sure, honey. I’ll see you then.”
James arrives at the restaurant fifteen minutes before I’m done for the day. And I may or may not start scrubbing the plates a little faster.
When I’m done, I rush to Monica’s office at the back and change out of my plain black T-shirt and put on a loose, baby blue sweater that goes just fine with my black jeans and sneakers. It’s not the fanciest of outfits, but again, this isn’t a date. I’m not making an effort, although that doesn’t stop me from fixing my hair and applying some mascara and a bit of lipstick.
After checking my not-so-bad reflection in the mirror, I square my shoulders, nod to myself, and remember I’m not going to war so I shouldn’t be so dramatic.
I mean, let’s be real for a second. This is James—he’s seen me at my worst, during a panic attack. I have nothing to worry about.
The bar is loud and crowded, as it’s a Friday night, but it’s impossible to miss him. His blue eyes—have I unconsciously matched my sweater to his eyes?— are glued on the TV, but as soon as I step out of Monica’s office, they land on me like a missile on a target.
And I gulp.
Despite my usual confidence, my knees wobble at the sight of the trimmed beard that makes him look so much older, and my palms start sweating when I take in his black sweater with a roll neck.
Get it together, Maddie. This is not the first time you’ve seen a man in a roll-neck sweater.
It’s not, but it’s the first time I want a man to take it off. Would it be so wrong to imagine him shirtless now that he’s not my physical therapist?
Yes. He’s still ten years older than you.
Right. That.
I shake my head, forcing myself to snap out of it, and make my way toward the booth he’s at. With a smile that hopefully doesn’t give away my nerves, I sit next to him and then recoil once I notice my leg is pressed against his. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
I don’t know whether the half smirk on his lips calms me down or makes me even more anxious.
My hands find the menu, and I pretend to scan it, even though I know it by heart. “So, guess what?”
“Hmm.” He puts his arm around the back of our booth, his fingertips almost touching my shoulder, and I take a deep breath.
You’re overreacting. His arm must be tired, that’s all.
I turn my head and give him one of my biggest smiles so he sees I’m not being weird about our close proximity. “My boss allowed me to clock in early, so I’m done with my shift.”
That half smirk is still in place and his signature frown is gone, which throws me for a loop. “Is that right?”
“Yep.”
His eyes don’t leave mine as he takes the menu away from my grip with the hand resting on the table. “Good. I like to take my time when I’m eating. Go slowly.”
My breath hitches at the innuendo that I’m pretty sure isn’t even one. My hormones must be on crack, because why am I imagining James’s head between my legs right now, seeing firsthand how slowly he can eat?
For fuck’s sake.
This isn’t happening to me. I’m not having a sexual fantasy about my ex-physical therapist who is a decade older than me and happens to be sitting right here. I refuse to believe it.
“I liked the chicken wings you got me the other day,” he comments casually, scanning the menu as if he hadn’t just turned me into jelly. “What should we order this time? I trust your judgment.”
Yes, Maddie, how about you focus on real food and nothing else?
“The pulled pork sandwich is good,” I offer once my heart has calmed down enough to allow me to have a normal conversation like any sane person would. “The chicken quesadillas too.”
He thinks about it for a moment. “The sandwich sounds good. What are you getting?”
It’s not like I can think properly yet, so I say, “The same.”
He nods. “Soda?”
“Sure.”
Monica arrives at our booth just in time to take our orders, and while James tells her what we want, I can’t help but feel self-conscious by our age difference again.
That beard makes him look older, and even if I physically look older than twenty-one, I’m still worried about what people think when they see us together.
I know it’s stupid. Who cares what others think?
Plus, it’s not like we’re together. We’re just two people hanging out at a bar. Big deal.
“You there?”
I blink. “Yeah, yes. Sorry. Did you say something?”
That smug smirk almost kills me. “I asked if your ankle is giving you any trouble.”
“Nope. Everything’s fine.” I smile back. “I’m going back to waitressing next week, in fact.”
“That’s good. Will you be taking more shifts?”
Monica comes back with our sodas and throws James a wink that makes me blush. That woman isn’t subtle at all. I clear my throat. “If I can, yes. The tips are great, and I don’t want to keep living off my brother.” It comes out before I can help it. I don’t want him to think I’m a leech, but again, that’s the truth, so why keep hiding it?
“I remember your brother coming with you to the clinic that first day. Does he live in the area?”
“That’d be him. And no, he lives in Warlington, a few hours away. That’s why he stopped coming to the clinic,” I explain.
For a moment, I’m afraid James doesn’t care and I’m oversharing, but he keeps asking me questions.
“What about your mother?”
My stomach jumps. “What about her?”
James rubs his jaw, and I can’t help but follow the movement. Seriously, I must be coming down with a fever. I don’t think it’s normal to be attracted to somebody’s hands this much.
“I remember you mentioning her once. She couldn’t take you to the clinic?” he asks but quickly adds, “Sorry if I’m overstepping. Feel free to tell me to fuck off.”
An honest chuckle escapes me. “It’s okay. My mom and I don’t see each other much.” I take the straw on my soda between my fingers and play with it. “I grew up with my brother, actually.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”
I can tell he’s curious but is too afraid to ask, so I keep going. I’m not ashamed of the way I was brought up. “He took me in when I was four. He was thirty. I lived with him and my sister-in-law—and then with my niece too—until I moved out here when I was eighteen.”
“Wow,” he breathes. “I don’t even know where to start. I have too many questions.”
I smirk. “Shoot.”
He moves his arm from the back of the booth and laces his fingers over the table. We’re so close, I can smell his aftershave, and now I want to climb him like a tree. Great.
“So,” he starts. “When I saw your brother, I thought he was your dad. No offense. He just looks older.”
“He’s forty-seven,” I tell him. “I was born when he was twenty-six. And before you ask, yes, my mom was very young when she had him. Sixteen, to be exact. Technically, my brother is only my half brother, but neither of us like to acknowledge it.” I smile at the thought of Sammy. “He’s much more than a brother to me. He had to be.”
“I can imagine.” He scans my face like he’s looking for something. “What’s his name?”
“Samuel, but everyone calls him Cal because his last name is Callaghan. But I call him Sammy.”
“That’s a lot of names for one man,” he teases.
“He doesn’t mind.” I smile. “Any other questions?”
James doesn’t hesitate. “Why did you move in with your brother in the first place?”
Against my will, my lips press into a thin line, but I force myself to tell him this. I want to do it, damn it. For whatever reason, I want him to know all of me.
“My mom used to have issues with alcohol.”
He listens attentively, and even when Monica comes back with our sandwiches, he doesn’t make a move to eat his.
“My brother was always around because my mother was unreliable. Well, and because he loves me, I guess.”
“Of course he does,” he assures me, even though he doesn’t know my brother or what our relationship is like. I appreciate it nonetheless.
“When I was four, my parents got into a big fight, and my father left. I haven’t seen him since, but that’s beside the point.” I take a deep breath. Strangely enough, I remember everything about that day. “My mother got drunk in our living room after putting me to sleep, but she was crying very loudly, so I woke up. I got upset that my mom was crying, and I rushed to help her because I thought she was dying. And when I was running toward her, I tripped over an empty bottle she’d left around, hit my head against the coffee table, and… Well, see for yourself.”
I pull my hair back to show him the right side of my hairline, where a tiny scar is still visible.
He hisses. “Shit, Maddie.”
“I know.” I give him a sad smile.
He reaches up to touch it, and when his thumb makes contact with my skin, it lights up something inside me. Something that has never been awoken before.
His eyes find mine as he brushes the hair away from my scar. Zipping electricity passes between us before he draws back.
“What happened after that?” he asks, stealing a fry from my plate.
I glare at him and steal one of his, which makes him laugh.
“Social Services got involved, and long story short, my mom went to rehab, and I moved in with my brother and Grace—his now wife. My mom tried to get me to move back with her when she got clean, but apparently I had really bad separation anxiety from my brother, so they agreed that it would be best if I stayed with him.”
“Do you see your mom often?”
“Not much,” I admit. “She… We aren’t the best at keeping in touch, but I saw her not long ago. As you know.”
He nods. “You looked upset that night.”
“I was.” I don’t want to elaborate, so I don’t. He doesn’t press either, which I appreciate more than he knows. “Let’s eat before these get cold,” I suggest.
“I’ve got more questions.”
I arch an amused eyebrow. “And here I thought you were a silent grouch. Take a bite and I’ll answer.”
He chuckles again, deep and husky, and it’s one of the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard.
It’s also a sound that makes me press my legs together to alleviate some of the discomfort there, but I’d rather not focus on that right now.
“So, your questions,” I prompt once I’ve taken a couple of bites from my sandwich. His is halfway gone already, the monster. “I thought you were a slow eater?” I tease him.
He gives me a look I can’t read. “I’m starving tonight.”
Oh, God.
He continues, “But yes, I have another question. You moved to Norcastle at eighteen?”
“For my ballet degree, yes.”
“And you moved here alone?”
I shrug. “The school had dorms for students, and I was all for it. I didn’t want to make anyone move here for me.” I wouldn’t make them change their lives for me. Again.
“That’s impressive,” he says. “You weren’t scared to move to a whole new city by yourself so young?”
“I was so excited.” I smile at the memory of my first day. “All I wanted was to study ballet and be the best I could be, so I didn’t care if I had to move out. I tend to make friends really fast, as you’re well aware—Graham and I are pretty much inseparable now.”
“Sure you are,” he deadpans, but he’s smirking.
He follows the fry I steal from his plate with his eyes as it disappears inside my mouth.
“Are we friends, James?”
He takes the last bite of his sandwich and swallows it down with his soda. Now is his turn to steal not one but two of my fries. This means war. “I don’t know if I want to be friends with a thief.”
“You must hate yourself, then.”
Something passes over his gaze, but he’s quick to blink it away. “I don’t befriend my patients.”
“Ex-patient.”
“Same thing.”
“But you drive them home after their shift ends?”
He lets out a deep breath through his nose, his cheeks flushing. “You’re a menace.”
I make a show of batting my eyelashes at him just to piss him off. “But am I also your friend?”
He pretends to think about it. “Only because I get free mandalas.”
“Of course.”
It should feel weird, I realize, to joke with him. Not too long ago, he refused to say more than a couple of words to me, always keeping it professional, and now… I can almost believe we’re really friends.
Or, at the very least, he doesn’t fully despise my company.
For the next hour, James keeps asking me questions about ballet and my time at college. It doesn’t hurt to talk about it anymore, not as much. He doesn’t bring up my ballet-related plans for the future, which helps.
I also ask him what he studied in college—physical therapy, no surprise there—and about growing up in Norcastle. Conversation flows easily between us, and before I know it, a different waitress has come back with our check.
“Let me pay for it,” James insists, already taking out his wallet.
“Put that thing away.” Without thinking, I shoot out my hand until it covers his. Warm, calloused skin meets mine, and something akin to nerves settles in my stomach. When breathing doesn’t come so easily anymore, I pull away. “I told you it was my treat, didn’t I? So let me pay.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
He scowls but puts his wallet back in his pocket. “Brat.”
“Grouch.”
His only answer is some kind of growl that doesn’t sound entirely human.
I take care of the bill while he goes to the restroom, and soon enough we’re outside.
“I’m driving you home,” he says as he closes the door of the bar behind us, the cold night air freezing my nose the second I step outside. “It’s nonnegotiable.”
I chuckle. “Okay.” I don’t feel like taking the metro this late at night, anyway. Now that I can walk, taxis or Ubers are no longer an expense I need.
We are walking toward his car when his hand suddenly comes to rest against the small of my back. I stiffen at the unexpected touch, but I also feel grounded. When I tilt my head to look at him, though, his jaw is so tight I’m afraid he might shatter all his teeth. “James?”
He doesn’t look at me, his gaze lost somewhere in the darkness of the parking lot, as he asks, “You see that car over there? The white one.” He rattles off a model I’m familiar with.
“Yes,” I whisper for some reason. Suddenly I don’t feel so grounded anymore. “What’s wrong?”
“When I was waiting to drive you home the other day, he was here too.”
A shiver of awareness travels down my spine, as if someone were burning their gaze into it. It’s the same feeling I got when I thought I was being watched in the city.
“I went up to him and told him to fuck off. He thought I was a cop, so he did. My warning might have expired, though.”
I frown. “You talked to him?”
“Yes.”
“James, that could’ve been dangerous.”
“I don’t care.” His hand on me feels heavier, hotter. “I don’t want him lurking outside your workplace, Maddie. Not when he might be a danger to you.”
Butterflies take flight in my stomach, and I force them to die immediately.
He doesn’t mean anything by it. Anyone with common sense and a good heart would want to protect a young woman from a creep.
But as we pass by the mysterious white car, something inside me pulls me toward it.
Like a puppet being led by an invisible string, I turn my head toward the man sitting behind the wheel, bathed in shadows.
And I know.
I know it’s him.
The man who—
No. It can’t be. It can’t fucking be.
I move away from James so abruptly I almost trip over my own two feet.
He calls my name, but I barely hear him.
The only reason I know my heart is beating is because I’m still alive and I am able to keep walking. Otherwise, I would’ve thought I was dead and had gone to hell.
Because as I close the distance between me and his car, my eyes fall on the last person on this planet I ever expected to see again.
The first man to show me I wasn’t enough.
The first person to leave me and never look back.
No matter how many years have passed, I would recognize that face anywhere. It’s the one I see in my nightmares.
I stop.
He rolls down the window.
It’s him, but I still ask.
A part of me doesn’t want this moment to be real.
But I know it is, and my whole world crumbles.
“Dad?”
