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“Dad wants to sell the store, but I’m afraid if he does, he’ll end up coming home and never leaving again.”
I know he’s sad. I know a huge part of him, the best part, he’d argue, is gone.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she says, fully understanding my meaning.
We watch as the living room curtain flutters.
“And that’s why,” she says, pointing to the two little boys who come flying off the front porch.
The grin on my dad’s face is wider than I’ve seen in a long time as he steps out onto the porch, watching the boys run toward the driveway.
“Thank you,” I say, needing the reminder that my father does, in fact, have something to live for.
I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away before I can clasp it. She gives me one of those perfected smiles that doesn’t reach her eyes before opening the door and climbing out.
“Madison!” Cale yells as he flings himself into her arms.
She picks him up without missing a beat and hugs him to her. Cole waits his turn in front of her, not missing a beat to get a huge hug the second she puts Cale down.
“Daddy?” Cale asks, his face scrunched up. “Why are you wearing the same clothes from yesterday?”
Ignoring his question, I don’t bother looking back at Madison’s face as I take Cole’s hand, guiding him toward the house so we can collect their belongings. The last thing I need right now is more rejection.
Chapter 22
Madison
Things weren’t supposed to be weird. It wasn’t supposed to be awkward when we got back home. We agreed to it before we ever dove into each other. What we failed to remember, however, is that things were weird and awkward even before that.
The kiss made it hard for me to be around him. How in the world did I ever think a night of passion and the best sex I’ve ever had was going to be so easy to forget? How could I go from trembling in his arms to not even looking at him?
Impossible.
Today has been the most frustrating day ever. I had to redraw that line between being his lover for a couple hours and being his employee, and since it’s Sunday, that means I’m not working.
It’s been hard to hear the laughter of the boys and not go out and join them, but inserting myself into their lives is a violation of the promise I made to him, despite spending most of my free time with them before last night. We didn’t speak much to each other after the Detroit trip, but we circled around each other.
I’ve avoided them altogether today, and it doesn’t feel right. Something inside of me is screaming that by being the employee I’ve been hired to be, I’m somehow punishing the boys. I don’t look at them and see them as a job.
I’ve fought the urge to cry all day. Ever since seeing the sadness in Chase’s eyes when he pulled up to his parents’ house, I’ve had a bubble in my throat I can’t seem to dislodge. I was never close to his parents. They were always around, had a standing invitation to any gathering we had at the house, but my mom and his mom weren’t super close or anything. It’s amazing how a little bit of time can seem like forever for some and just a blink of an eye for others. Mrs. Woodson has been gone for over a year and a half, but from the look on Chase’s face earlier, it seems like yesterday that she passed.
I wanted to hug him, to comfort him, but I knew it wasn’t my place. We made the rules last night, and I couldn’t be the one to cross those lines.
Darkness has fallen on the Graves Estate, and I know the boys’ schedule well enough to know they had their bedtime story over an hour ago. The silence doesn’t bring me comfort the way it should. It means I missed dinner with them and the argument they have every night when trying to pick which book Chase is going to read them.
Twice, Cole requested that I read the bedtime story, and as much as I argued against invading that part of their time with their father, Chase stood back and let me do it. The man would do anything for those boys’ happiness, even if it means a sacrifice on his part.
Last night was his only escape from that. Last night was a gift, a way to remind himself that he’s more than just a father, that he’s allowed pleasure as well.
I’m feeling like a stand-in, like someone completely interchangeable with anyone else, when the knock hits my bedroom door.
I probably shouldn’t feel the wash of anxiety that rushes over me before I can manage to squeak out, “Come in.”
I swallow down as much emotion as I can as the door slowly opens. Chase stands in the open doorway, making things worse.
I told him last night he couldn’t fire me after having regrets the next day, but honestly, the man can do whatever he wants. It’s his house, his kids, his decision.
I feel like crying when he steps inside, his hand staying on the doorknob, making sure to close the thing without a sound, a feat in this old house.
