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I later head to Buffalo.
When I pull into her driveway, a guy around mid-forties steps out. I recognize him from the photos on the walls. Carly’s father, Darryl Adler.
He stands on the side door step and folds his arms across his chest. He’s tall, thin, dark hair and glasses. Carly’s got his eyes.
I step out of the car and approach.
“Mr. Adler?”
“You the sonofabtich that broke my baby girl’s heart?”
Fuck. Fuck me.
“That would be me.”
“Get in there ‘n fix it,” he orders and jerks his head to the door. “She’s in my TV room. She don’t belong in there. Can’t watch my shows. She’s watchin’ some stupid sitcom my wife says she watched with you. Get down there and get me my man cave back.”
“Yes sir,” I say and open the storm door.
Fuck. That went easier than I expected. But, next comes the hard part.
I’ve got a leather backpack slung over one shoulder. I step into the kitchen.
Charlene Adler is at the counter, frosting a cake. She looks over her shoulder at me and gives me a cold look.
“I’m sorry for hurting her,” I say, not wanting this woman to hate my guts.
“Did you know it’s her birthday today? Is that why you waited so long? Planned to make a grand gesture?”
I shake my head. “It’s her birthday?”
She nods.
Fuck.
“It’s good you’re here. You’ve waited long enough. Now, get down there and fix this. You’ve got thirty minutes before dinner’s ready.”
Thirty minutes to convince the girl I love that she should take a chance on me?
I go to move through the space.
“Aiden?”
I stop and look at Carly’s mother.
“Shoes off in the house.” She gestures with her chin.
“Sorry.” I take them off, grateful she told me, knowing she did because she doesn’t want to hold a lifelong grudge. Let’s hope her daughter is willing to extend the same courtesy.
I move through the space, taking in those pictures of Carly on the walls. Pictures of her older sister. Almost as pretty as Carly, though not quite.
I move down the basement stairs and hear a familiar theme song playing.
I step into the space.
It’s dark and she’s on the couch, cuddling a pillow, watching the show. She’s in my Berkeley sweatshirt. Little vixen stole it. She’s wearing yoga pants and has fuzzy orange socks on her feet.
I stop in front of her.
