Page 111 of After Midnight

“I don’t owe you anything!” I yell, and it startles him enough that he stumbles back, almost falling down the few stairs that lead to the front door. “Don’t call me asking for money anymore. Don’t show up at my house like this. And don’t try to use Mom to get to me. Just . . .” I draw a long breath through my nose, trying to calm myself down. The next words that come out of my mouth are a whisper. “Just go, Dad.”

My father stares at me like I’m a stranger, like he doesn’t even know me.

And maybe he doesn’t. Because the only guy he knows is the one who gives him cash whenever he asks for it. And I’m done being his ATM. No amount of money I have can buy the love he should give freely.

Remi helped me see that. She taught me that I’m worth more than the money in my pocket.

And knowing she’s standing in the foyer behind me bolsters my strength, and I don’t allow myself to feel guilty as Dad waves a hand at me, as if I’m some annoyance he can just brush off, and starts back down the walkway to where his old truck is parked in my driveway. The diesel roars to life, and then he peels out, leaving tire tracks on the pale concrete, his total lack of regard for my property setting my teeth on edge.

If I did that at his house, he’d rip my fucking head off.

I’m still standing on the front porch, hands in fists at my sides, when I feel a gentle touch at my low back.

And with that one touch, all the air rushes out of me. My tight shoulders release, hunching forward, and the next thing I know, Remi is in front of me, her arms wrapped tight around my middle, the pool towel she was holding falling around her feet. I hold her, breathe in the scent of sunshine clinging to her, and find the adrenaline has made my hands shake.

Even though she’s small in my arms, she feels so sturdy, so strong. And she’s the one who holds me as hot tears burn my eyes and sneak down my cheeks, falling into her soft black hair.

Every tear that runs down my face feels like an unleashing of all the anger and frustration and hurt I’ve held inside since I was a boy—since I first learned what guilt and disappointment taste like and discovered they were the only dishes my father served up.

I’m almost thirty now. That’s how long it took for me to finally say no to him.

And I know it won’t be that simple. I’ll have to talk to my mom about this, have to figure out how to still be in her life while cutting Dad out of mine. But all of that will come in time.

Sniffling, I swallow down the rest of my tears, and I find myself feeling lighter after letting them out.

“I’m sorry you had to overhear that,” I say into the side of Remi’s neck, where I’m curled over to hug her.

Quietly, she whispers, “I’m glad I was here.” She eases back to look up at me. “Are you okay?”

I scrub a hand over my face, wiping the remnants of my tears away. “Yeah. I feel . . .” I take a deep breath, taking stock of myself, then let it out slowly. “Shitty. But okay too.”

She gives me a small smile. “I know that wasn’t easy. And I’m proud of you, Seb.”

My own words from earlier echoed back at me.

I guess we’re both facing our demons this week.

But with her here, I feel like I’m finally strong enough to do it, strong enough to finally stand up for myself and stop being my father’s doormat. All because of her.

There’s the sound of tires on concrete, and we both glance over as the delivery driver pulls up. And sure enough, the bag he’s carrying has grease stains and smells suspiciously like burritos from my favorite Tex-Mex place.

Fuck. I really love this woman.

I give him a tip, then wrap one arm around Remi’s shoulders as we walk back into the house. And as I push the door closed behind us, I look down at her and say, “There’s . . . something I want to show you.”

“How about after the burritos?” she asks, already reaching to take the heavy bag from me.

I grin. “After the burritos.”

chapter 52

Remi

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO say. I’m not even sure how to feel.

Because I’m standing in the empty building on the corner in LA’s Arts District, a shiny new key clasped in my hand, Seb leaning against the far wall, hands in the front pockets of his ripped jeans.

“You . . .” I can barely formulate a single clear thought. “You rented this space? For me?”