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“So, what are you sayin’, we’re both fucked up?”
“I think we’ve already established that.” Cheryl averted her eyes like she was trying to collect her thoughts. “I don’t think we have a firm foundation to build on, and I refuse to enter into anything less than stable for Portia’s sake.”
“You went into a fuckin’ fake marriage, but you won’t give us a chance.”
“I explained to you how it happened and why.”
“I know what this is about.” Nick had the perfect solution. “You’re feeling a shitload of fear and I get it. You’re scared of being hurt again, but you can’t give up, you can’t give us up because you know in your heart we work.”
“Really big change from the man who said we were over.”
“I made a mistake, all right. A big fuckin’ mistake. We’ve always worked. We just had too much interference from the outside—your father, our life in Brooklyn, the club, too much static.”
“I can’t risk another mistake. Not where Portia’s concerned.”
“You got it all twisted because of the past.”
“Maybe but . . . when I was little I used to think about a different life, a better life. Then reality smacked me in the face.All I could concentrate on was survival. Sure, I went about it wrong, and made huge mistakes, but then you strutted into my life and everything changed.”
“Strutted?”
“Hell, yeah. I can still see you rockin’ that black on black linen shirt and tailored pantsstruttinginto the Oasis. Your whole image was so out of place in that dump, yet totally in command. I knew the first night you were different?—”
“And I knew you were a smartass who couldn’t be tamed.” He leaned in, cupped her chin, then covered her lips with a soft kiss. “But fuck, I’d like to spend the rest of my life trying.”
He held her gaze hoping she’d give him the answer he wanted, but at the same time knowing the risk and what was at stake.
Her eyes expressed so much pain. “As usual, we’re taking it all too fast, and before we do anything that concerns the future, we need to speak to Portia.”
“Agreed.”
The next afternoon, Nick sat on the couch in his living room, his back rod stiff, his hands clasped in tight fists at his side. He looked more like a man going to the electric chair, than a father about to meet his daughter.
Cheryl rehearsed this moment in her head for years. She’d gone over every scenario always using just the right phrases and words. Yet now, when the time had come, her dry throat and blank mind rendered her speechless.
Izzy brought Portia into the living room after school, then quickly exited. Chicken!
Cheryl feared Portia’s anger or worse disappointment at not knowing her father for the last ten years. The child sat on the edge of the chair quietly reading the expressions of the two adults in the room. Her mother and father, her parents who didn’t have any idea how to even begin.
“Izzy said you wanted to talk to me.” Portia concentrated on Cheryl with stolen glances in Nick’s direction.
“Yes,” Cheryl confirmed, then cleared her throat. Was there any good way to say this—probably not.
There’s a reason this man looks so much like you. He’s your father.
You’ve asked about your father, well here he is.
Or, the very direct. Meet your father.
Certainly this would be easily handled in a romantic comedy starring Hugh Grant and Emma Stone, but not so much for an ex-con artist and a wise guy from Brooklyn.
“I wanted you to meet my friend, Nick.” Yeah, that sounded dumb even to Cheryl’s ears.
“Friend?” Apparently, Nick felt the same way.
“He’s a . . .”
“What your mother’s trying to say is?—”
