Love Rekindled (Love Surfaced) Read online

  Looking around, I notice the blanket is folded up nicely and swung over the chair again. Em’s toys are strewn around, and I wonder how long they’ve been awake. Sam catches me coming from the corner of his eye, and he rushes over to give Em a kiss on the cheek.

  “Gotta go, I’m late.”

  “Sam, wait.” I eye Em to see she’s busy trying to use her fork to pick up her pancakes.

  I follow him to the door, but he’s moving so fast, I barely catch him before he escapes.

  “Sam,” I plead. He inhales a deep breath and looks over my shoulder instead meeting my eyes. “We need to talk.”

  “I get it, Tay, and I’m sorry for barging in last night.”

  “He’s her father.”

  He looks outside to the lawn covered with fallen leaves.

  “That’s not all,” he mumbles, probably hoping I don’t hear him.

  “Don’t, Sam.”

  “Don’t what, Tay? Don’t call you out for still loving someone who threw you to the side for a piece of pussy.” His eyes meet mine, red and fierce. I step back and he shakes his head. “It’s the truth. You never even thought about us because you might have run away from him, but you were running away from yourself too.”

  “Me?” My fingers jam to my chest. “What about you? You’re still hung up on my sister. Clue in, Sam. She’s fucking around just to score drugs. You’re the laughingstock of Roosevelt.”

  “Takes one to know one.” He twists the knife a little more. I can’t fault him for spouting the truth. The Delaney family has been the joke of Roosevelt for as long as I can remember.

  “Well, aren’t we the fucked-up ones then?” I glance to Em, finding her still enthralled with her fork and pancakes.

  “It’s just . . . whatever. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” His distant eyes look everywhere but at me.

  “Me too.”

  Silence fills the small space, and he looks at his watch.

  “I’m late. We’ll talk tonight.” He steps onto the porch and I hold the door open.

  “Sam.” He turns around, and I know I’m about to crush him. “Brad’s picking her up.”

  His lips straighten and I watch the emotions cross his face before he gives me a simple nod.

  “Gotcha.” He turns and steps off the porch.

  “Please, Sam, try to understand,” I say, but he waves his hand in the air.

  “Mama!” Em screams, and I turn from Sam’s retreating back to find her wiggling to stand up in her high chair.

  “Hold on, baby.” I close the door, run over to her, and catch her right before she falls to the floor. “No standing. You wait until Mommy can get you.” I semi-scold her. I’ve never been good at that whole strict parenting role.

  I place her down and she scurries over to the window. “Sm.” She hits the window and my heart breaks. The little girl has no idea she might lose Sam to gain her dad. It’s a hard lesson for a two-year-old to learn.

  Just then, my phone dings and I retrieve it from my back pocket. Brad’s name shows on my screen and my heart leaps.

  Brad: Good morning to my girls.

  Not such a good morning for me, but it’s getting better.

  Me: Good morning.

  Brad: I hope that lump is off your couch.

  Me: That would be none of your business.

  Brad: Hmm . . . I don’t agree with that line of thinking. When it comes to you and my daughter, it’s my business.

  Me: Here’s the address. Pick her up at five. I’ll be home around eight. I’ll lay out her pajamas and her sippy cup of milk will be in the fridge.

  Brad: Hey, what do you think of me? I got this. I’m a damn baby whisperer.

  Me: I’ll bet money she’s up when I return home.

  Brad: Bet taken. She’ll be fast asleep. What is her bedtime anyway?

  Me: Seven. Directions will be on the kitchen table.

  Brad: Pfft. I don’t need directions. I’m Brad Ashby.

  Me: Arrogant as always. See you tonight.

  Brad: You love my ego, don’t try to deny it. See you.

  I place my phone down and Em walks back through the family room, her head down with a stuffed animal in her hand. It’s the elephant Sam bought her this past summer at the zoo.

  “Sm,” she says, and my lips turn down, as I hold my arms out to her as an invitation to come. She shuffles her limp body into my arms.

  “He’ll be back.” I soothe her hair.

  After a second, she forgets and squirms to break free of my hold. I miss the days when she’d let me hold her for hours. That ended once she could walk.

  “Let’s play,” I say, cherishing the small amount of time I’m blessed with her due to my work schedule. These five day, eight hour shifts are a killer on my quality time with her. But that’s a small hospital for you.

  She smiles bright and runs behind the couch where all her toys are stashed.

  Brad

  DYLAN SITS AT THE KITCHEN table putting together another model car. At least it’s a 1969 Chevy Camaro. He’s working remotely for two weeks before packing up and moving to Chicago. Talk about no notice. How nice of the shit company.

  I plop down in the chair across from him, watching his precise fingers fiddle with the small pieces. He’s been building these things since we were little, and I never understood the point. While Tanner and I would be playing basketball or swimming, he’d be inside with one of his kits. I thought he’d grow out of it when he went to college, but from the amount scattered around the apartment that didn’t happen.

  He peeks up at me. “You look like shit,” he remarks and continues what he’s doing, which I believe is attaching the muffler.

  “Well, thank you.” I slouch down in the chair, the cold air chilling my bare chest. Winter in Michigan sucks.

  “Is the heat on?” I shiver and Dylan shakes his head in annoyance.

  “Put on a damn shirt for once,” he mumbles.

  “You have a girl over?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I figured you didn’t want her jumping at me after seeing your scrawny chest.”

  Truth, Dylan is anything but scrawny, but he’s my best friend’s younger brother. Isn’t it mandatory to razz him?

  He shakes his head, never coming back at me with a smart ass answer himself.

  “Can we talk?” I lean my elbows on the table.

  His green eyes flicker up at me and he nods. “What’s up?”

  “You can’t talk to anyone else, got it? This stays here.” I tap my finger on the table.

  “Okay.”

  “No, I mean it. Not Tanner, not parents, and not Bea.” I point to him and he chuckles.

  “I said okay.”

  He places the small tube of glue to the side and leans back in his chair.

  “I have a daughter,” I divulge, my heart swelling with the words. I thought for sure it would scare me beyond belief, but after being up all night, I’m at peace with it. My only concern is that I have no job to provide for her. Swimming lessons aren’t exactly going to put a roof over her head. Then again, her mom’s already done that. Taylor . . . she’s amazing.

  His lips quirk up. “Figured one would pop up eventually. Who’s the mom? The brunette from last month, or that girl from the bar last week. Shit.” He runs his hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Please tell me it isn’t Bayli.”

  “No, no, and hell no. Don’t make shit up.” He knows full well, I’ve been celibate since Bayli.

  He laughs, dropping the small piece of metal in his hand.

  “Taylor,” I say. Dylan doesn’t know Taylor, but he’s heard about her. Probably hears me calling her name as I jack off at night.

  His green eyes widen and he expels a long stream of air.

  “Shit.” He’s as stunned as I was. Well, I might have almost fainted. I am the father after all.

  “Yeah.”

  “You tell anyone else?” He moves the model over to the side and stands. Grabbing two beers, he slides one
across the table.

  “It’s eight o’clock. No thanks.” He twists his open and downs a hefty sip.

  “Brad Ashby, Dad. Doesn’t seem to fit.”

  I pick up a piece of his model and throw it at him. “Fuck you, man.”

  He laughs, catching it in his hand.

  “I’m kidding . . . kind of. And don’t throw my shit.” He sits down, placing the beer next to him. “What are you doing about it?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? Raise her.”

  “With Taylor?”

  “That’s the question of the night. I hope so, but we have a lot of shit to work through.”

  “I’ll say. She never told you? That’s cold, man. I get it, you cheated, but she purposely deceived you.”

  “So did I, in a way.” I move my hand to the back of my neck and squeeze, relieving none of the pressure plaguing it. “If I could go back in time—”

  “Everyone thinks that. FYI, you can’t.”

  One corner of my lip lifts. “I know, jackass. I’m not a moron.”

  “Just making sure. Didn’t want you looking for some time machine. As far as not being a moron, you did cheat on a girl you loved.” He raises both his eyebrows at me.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Gladly. Leave me alone then.”

  My head falls to the table with a thud. “How am I going to raise my daughter? What if Taylor doesn’t forgive me, or worse, doesn’t love me?”

  “Those are all good questions and ones you need to find the answers to.” He pats my head. “It’s time to grow up, Bradley.”

  He slides his chair out and he moves into the kitchen. I’m not sure what I expected Dylan’s advice to be on my descent to fatherhood. Damn sure, I can’t bring my family into this yet. My mom would descend like a vulture, showing up on Taylor’s doorstep.

  “When are you out?” I murmur into my arm.

  “Bea and I are sharing a moving van. We’re driving out the Saturday after Thanksgiving.” He leans on the counter, crossing his ankles. Is that another damn tattoo on his leg?

  “You can cool it with the ink,” I say, wondering why he wants to mark his body constantly.

  He shakes his head and walks across the room.

  “It doesn’t make you cool anymore. Imagine when you’re a wrinkled old man,” I holler and he shuts his door. I swear I can’t get a reaction out of him to save my life. I think Tanner and I conditioned him too well when we were younger.

  More important than Dylan’s tattoos is the fact that I have to find a roommate or be out by then too. Dylan said he can get out of the lease because of the transfer clause, and it would work for me too. But where would I go? Home? I don’t think so.

  I knock on the door of the small, white house, and hear screaming and hollering before a million little feet stomp to the door. A middle-aged woman with short dark hair opens it, bearing no smile.

  “Hi, Mrs. Allen, I presume?” I wave my hand in the air, but still no uplift of her lips.

  “You must be Brad.” She pushes the door open, reluctantly letting me in. “She just woke up from her nap.”

  I glance at my watch. Five o’clock and she’s sleeping. Must take after her daddy.

  The children swarm around my feet, some grabbing at my jeans and others standing quietly, staring up at me with curiosity.

  “Sorry,” she says and claps her hands. “Children, go into the playroom. Your parents should be here soon.”

  They scurry off into a room to the left. I rock back on my heels, waiting for her to retrieve Emerson, but she continues to stand there. Her eyes rack over my body, but not in a sexual manner. Her lips curl and disgust washes over her face.

  “Don’t come into town and break their hearts,” she says, and it takes me a second to realize she’s speaking to me.

  “No, ma’am.”

  Who is this woman and how well does Taylor know her?

  “Taylor left the key in Em’s bag, so you can let yourself into the house.”

  “Thank you.” I nod and smile, but she doesn’t.

  “She’s taken very good care of that girl while you’ve been galloping around God only knows where.”

  I nod again. “I know. They are both quite amazing.”

  “There’s no quite about it.” She turns around before I can correct myself.

  “Jesus,” I whisper.

  “We don’t use the Lord’s name in vain under this roof,” she says, never turning around.

  “Sorry,” I murmur, not even sure if she heard me.

  What seems like a lifetime later, she comes out of some back room with Emerson in her arms. Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are watering.

  What did this lady do to my baby?

  “She’s usually emotional when she wakes up. Give her a little time and she’ll be back to her old spunky self.” She turns her attention to Emerson. “Won’t you, baby girl? Yes, you will,” she coos like a toddler herself.

  Mrs. Allen holds Emerson out for me and she easily comes into my arms, laying her head on my shoulder.

  “Hi, Emerson,” I whisper as her small hand rests over my heart, piercing it with love. At least that’s how I imagine the scene.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Allen.” I shift Emerson in my arms to pull out my wallet. “What does Taylor usually pay you?”

  A wry laugh escapes her. “Taylor pays me monthly, boy. Maybe you could buy some diapers or food for them, since you’ve been gone for two years.”

  Obviously, when Taylor was tossing the whole single-parent role around, she forgot to mention she choose it.

  “I will.” I take the highroad before Roosevelt’s only sheriff gets called for a domestic disturbance. Nice Jesus lover she is and all.

  With my daughter in my arms and her diaper bag swung over my shoulder, I leave the cold confines of her daycare. I place Emerson in her car seat and she leans her head to snuggle with the elephant in her hands. Thank goodness I decided to buy the car seat first. It took me all day to figure out how to install the thing in the truck.

  Emerson is quiet in the backseat as darkness fills the street. She has to be hungry, and I know there’s a list of directions on how to care for her at the house. Pain echoes through me that I need directions on how to take care of my daughter. Shouldn’t a father just know how to nurture his child? Anger surfaces at the fact that Taylor stripped me of that, but then I look in the rearview mirror and find Emerson beginning to smile.

  “Hey, do you want to go to the store?” I ask, and she claps.

  “Taget,” she says, and I nod.

  “Sure, we can go to Target.” I passed it on the way into town. It’s closer to the pool house. I wonder how many times we’ve missed each other, since I’m sure we’ve both shopped there.

  I drive the twenty minutes to the Target and Emerson’s personality is alive and shining as I unbuckle her. A mom and her son park at the same time and we follow them into the store. Her eyes keep diverting to us, and I smile to appease her. When we enter the store, I follow her movements. Grab a cart, wipe it down with the cloth, then put the child in the bucket part, and buckle the seatbelt. Her son happily begins to rock back and forth after being strapped in. Easy enough.

  I put Emerson in the cart, but she refuses to bend her legs. I reach down to help, eventually winning the battle of wills. While reaching for the two straps, she tries to stand up.

  “No!” Her little hand smacks mine over and over again.

  “Emerson, you have to be strapped in,” I say calmly.

  “No!”

  The mom looks at me and shrugs. Guess I’m not that attractive anymore when my child isn’t behaving.

  “Come on, Emerson,” I say, pulling the two sides together. Each time I get them close, she twists and I lose the grip. “I’ll buy you a toy.”

  “No!”

  “Candy? You want some candy?”

  “No!”

  “If you sit down and I can strap you in, I’ll get you whatever you want,” I beg, trying to
ignore the scrutinizing eyes directed at us from all areas of the store.

  “Me stand.”

  “Not unless I want your mom to kill me.”

  “Kill?”

  Shit. “Don’t say that.”

  “Kill,” she repeats and my face heats with embarrassment.

  “Excuse me.” A young girl comes over in her red shirt and khaki pants. Great, she’s going kick me out.

  “Sorry, she doesn’t want to be strapped in.”

  “I see that.” Her eyes look me over, curiosity etched in them. “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?”

  She points to her nametag.

  “Cindy, okay. Why do you care who I am?” Emerson is busying herself with the strap she so adamantly doesn’t want across her stomach.

  “Why do you have Em?”

  “You know her?” I ask, and she stealthy steps between me and Emerson, pushing the cart behind her and away from me.

  “Yes, and Taylor. So, I’m asking again, who are you?” She looks past my shoulder, so I follow her line of sight to find a security guard five steps behind me.

  “I’m Brad, Taylor’s friend and Emerson’s father,” I spout, upset that this whole scenario is happening to me right now.

  “You’re her father?” She looks questioningly at the security guard, who I could probably take down with one punch. He’s not much older than Cindy. “I thought Sam was her dad,” she says.

  Great, another one for Team Sam.

  The security guard comes over. “They are on their way.”

  “Who’s on their way? Jesus, tell me you didn’t call the police.” I run my hand through my hair and my teeth grit together.

  “We don’t know you and Em seems upset.”

  “She’s throwing a fit because she doesn’t want to be buckled in.” I point to her and everyone’s eyes shift to her. She’s still enthralled with the belt, now trying to strap herself in.

  “It doesn’t appear like that, sir.”