That One Day (That One #1.5) (29 page)

She scrunches her face up at me. “I’ve never seen you two scramble so fast to get out of the house.”

“Can you blame us? You were scary.” I poke her side, making her squirm against me.

“Trust me, I regretted my decision when my mom decided to give me a speech about how I’m a woman now and that it’s time to behave as such and leave the rebellious tomboy nonsense behind.” She’s imitating her mother’s voice, a stern expression on her face to go along with it.

Since she’s bringing up her parents, I see it as an opportunity to broach a subject that’s been bothering me since I came back, but we’ve always had more pressing topics to discuss.

“Babe?” I start, trying to get her attention.

“Hmm?”

“Why do you put up with the way your parents treat you?”

Her loud exhale is the only noise in the otherwise silent room.

“I told you. Archer has a right to grow up with his grandparents. His happiness is worth putting up with their crap.”

I let the words sink in and I get what she’s saying, but something about it irks me and it takes a moment for me to realize what it is.

“Even though they treat his mother like shit? Is that what you want him to witness, to grow up with? That’s fucked-up.” I’m keeping my voice even and soft, trying not to ruffle her feathers, but I fail miserably. She pushes off me, creating a distance between us and then proceeds to sit up, leaning back on her hands.

“It’s not about me. They are good to him. They love him and they show it every single moment they are around him. He deserves that; I’m not going to take it away from him,” she huffs, her voice defensive and irritated. But I can’t just let it go because it’s not good for her and in the long run I don’t see it being good for Archer. It’s not the lesson he should learn.

“It’s great you put him first, Frankie. But damn, you can’t just put up with all the stuff they throw at you. You need to talk to them, set some boundaries. I don’t want Archer to learn it’s okay to treat you like trash.”

She snorts, her eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Seriously? You’re giving me advice on talking to my parents? Really? You won’t even talk to your own mother. Know what they say about throwing stones while sitting in a glass house?”

Recoiling from her words, I shake my head and get up. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I rest my elbows on my knees. I feel like she just smacked me, when all I was trying to do was to help her stand up to her parents.

“You know that’s completely different.” My tone is clipped, the words sharp and it takes all my self-control to not lash out in return.

I crack my neck to relax the tense muscles when her arms come around my shoulders and her body presses against my back. She kisses my temple, lingering at my ear.

“Sorry. That was uncalled for. I…ugh…” She exhales loudly before she continues, “I just don’t want to make any mistakes. I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I’ve fucked something up for Archer, something that was good for him. And as I said, they are good to him. With your dad in the hospital and your mom not part of our life, my parents are the only grandparents he has.”

I grab her arms, pulling her closer to me. “But it shouldn’t be at your expense. They hurt you constantly. You don’t deserve that, babe.”

Her sigh sounds deflated and resigned. “It is what it is. I have a thick skin, Ben. I’ll be okay.”

I shake my head. “I think it’s wrong, but it’s not a decision I can make for you. Just know if I notice their behavior is rubbing off on Archer, I’m stepping in and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

I feel her nod against my shoulder. “Okay.” Snuggling closer, she lays her head on my shoulder, holding on to me like a monkey.

“You know, this time of a month I still think my life is over. That was one good thing about being pregnant.”

I chuckle when she continues. “I quickly changed my mind when it was time to give birth though. Gosh, can’t believe it’s been nearly a year ago.”

“We should throw him an epic first birthday party. Something huge and over-the-top,” I suggest.

“Well, we have nearly a month to plan it.” She wraps her legs around my waist. I get up, taking ahold of her ass so she doesn’t fall down.

“Then let’s get to work. We have some planning to do, babe,” I say, as I carry her downstairs on my back.

And we plan for the rest of the night, coming up with an awesome birthday for our son, shooting ideas back and forth about gifts, food, and decorations. I doubt Archer will really care about it, but it doesn’t stop us from going completely overboard.

But as with most things in my life, fate has other plans—plans that can turn what’s supposed to be the best birthday party ever into a nightmare.

Today is Archer’s birthday and I’m too fucking excited to sleep in. I woke up an hour ago when I heard him complaining about his diaper. After changing it, I brought him into bed where he’s now snuggled up between Frankie and me. His mommy is still sleeping and I want to let her rest some more. So far, I’ve managed to keep him busy and from poking her in the eye, or nose, or mouth. I’m such a good dad.

I can’t wait to show him the gift Frankie and I have been working on for the past month. Well, Frankie has mostly been standing around, handing me the tools or holding things up. That’s about as far as her craftsmanship goes.

We ordered a treehouse playset online, spending more than anyone should spend on a one-year-old. But then again, it’s something he’ll be able to use for years to come. At least that’s the excuse we tell ourselves for spending nearly two thousand dollars. It’s a good thing I have a steady income through renting out my house to Allie and Jake.

I refused to build a generic treehouse. I used the ordered set and customized it, making it unique and a thousand times better.

Thankfully, everyone was okay with this monstrosity in the garden, although I suspect we’re all excited to use it ourselves because it’s a playset of epic proportions.

It’s wrapped around the big oak standing to the side of the property and goes out a few feet toward the house. It’s all cedar wood with only the slides and some bits and pieces made out of plastic.

Directly underneath the treehouse is a covered area currently housing a sandbox for Archer where he can play protected from the sun and rain. There’s a comfortable bench allowing whoever is watching him to sit back and relax. The treehouse has a gable style roof, windows with wooden shutters, and a cute little door. Inside are a beanbag, shelves, a small table, and enough room to place a mattress on the floor. It’s tall enough for me to stand up comfortably, which will make playing in there with Archer easier. The treehouse has a balcony running the whole length of the playset, offering a lot of space to play and enjoy the sun. With the tree offering some shade, it should be cool enough to play there even in the summer.

Attached underneath the balcony is a set of swings sturdy enough to hold a grownup, just in case Archer wants one of us to swing along with him. That’s what I told Frankie when she wondered why I was reinforcing the swings.

The treehouse can be accessed by stairs, climbing wall, or ladder; as an additional exit, it also has a green slide.

When Archer gets older, I’ll be able to change things around so it is more suitable for his age. If the wood holds up, he’ll even be able to use it as a teenager when he’s fed up with his parents. Or, we’ll be able to use it to hide away from him when he’s being a brat.

I laugh at the thought, wondering what kind of teenager he’ll be. Between our combined genes, I fear he’ll be a handful.

I refocus my attention on Archer when I suddenly hear Frankie groan and find our son waking up his mommy with his little hands slapping her face and boob, as if she is a living, breathing drum. “Ouch,” she grumbles, stretching and opening her eyes. Her face goes from annoyed and sleepy to happy and smiling in an instant.

“You little monkey, that’s no way to wake your momma.” She flips Archer over onto his back, blowing a raspberry on his tummy. He giggles in delight, his legs drawing up and kicking wildly. “And your daddy couldn’t stop you from assaulting your momma in her sleep?” She gives me a glare, but it’s not intimidating in the least considering she has a smile plastered on her face.

“Happy birthday, my cute, little monkey. You’re a big boy now, aren’t you?” She laughs while tickling him, making him snort and squeal like a little pig.

“Yep, you are, aren’t you?” I chime in. “A big boy deserves a big party and big presents, hmm?”

Archer is oblivious to the reason for our cooing and aweing, but seems to be amused by our happy attitude.

“Time for your first pancake and your daddy’s cooking.” I grab Archer, tossing him up in the air. I try to not throw him too high. Frankie always freaks out when I do this, though she tries to hide it.

She climbs out of bed, pulling on a bathrobe. “Come on guys, let’s go. Momma wants pancakes, too,” she jokes, winking at me.

“When does Momma not want food,” I tease her and get the middle finger raised high and proud in response. Throwing my head back, I laugh. “Your momma has no manners, Archer. Better learn from your daddy.”

“I heard that,” Frankie yells from the hallway. “And I’ve got two words for you: Bite me.”

Half an hour later, we’re sitting at the table. The rest of the gang has joined us. We all watch Archer, hypnotized by his reaction to eating his first pancake. His eyes are wide with wonder as he gets his first taste. Instead of sugar, I added a bit of maple syrup so it has a hint of sweetness, and judging by the look on his face he’s thrilled by it. He eagerly grabs one cut up piece after another, shoving it in his mouth. It’s fucking cute.

I glance around the table and find everyone looking at him in awe, Frankie’s eyes misting with tears. She leans in to me, pulling my head toward her, and planting a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for him, Ben.”

Grabbing her hand, I kiss it and turn my attention back to Archer. He’s grabbed the last piece and stuffs it in his mouth, his hand searching the plate for another piece. He looks at the plate, back up at us, and at the plate again. Still munching the last bite, his lower lips starts to quiver and his eyebrows draw together before he lets out a desperate, angry wail, clearly not pleased with the lack of pancakes.

Turning to Frankie, I grin. “He is clearly your son. Throwing a tantrum when the food is gone.”

Frankie is already cutting up another pancake for Archer, but pauses to glare at me, then directs the same glare at Dean when he agrees with me. “Ain’t that the truth.”

After two pancakes and another unsuccessful tantrum, Frankie and I dress Archer and then help the others decorate the living room with balloons and banners. Of course, all decorations are Minions themed courtesy of Frankie—down to the paper plates, cups, and party hats.

Archer is sitting in his playpen, watching what’s happening around him occasionally, but mostly he’s trying to tear off the eye of his teddy bear. Not sure what the poor guy has done to him, but I’m not getting into a fight between a man and his teddy.

Once everything is decorated, I’m ready to head out to pick up the sign for Archer’s playset. Jim, the carpenter I work for, suggested a friend of his who does all types of wood carvings and etchings, as well as wood-burning. He burned a wolf design into the wooden sign, similar to the one on my tool belt, but with a baby wolf howling at the moon.

Together with the rest of the gang, I leave the house, each of us going our separate ways to either pick up people or gifts for the party.

Frankie is staying behind with Archer, focusing on preparing food, and getting everything set up for later.

Arriving at Brandon’s shop, I take my time looking over his work while he gets the sign out of the backroom. He does some amazing stuff and I can see myself coming to him for some designs on the custom furniture I’ve been building in my classes. I’ll need to talk to him about it, but not today. Today’s all about Archer.

The sign he brings out is impressive; the detail on it absolutely amazing. It looks lifelike, and I can’t wait to attach it to the playset. I’ve just pulled out my phone to show Brandon where it will go, when a noise alerts me to a text message. I smile, seeing it’s from Frankie. I bet she’s wondering where the hell I am and telling me to get my ass home. As pussy whipped as I am, this actually makes me smile.

I open the text and the four words staring back at me make my blood freeze in my veins. Everything around me ceases to exist and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart as dread fills every cell of my body. I turn around, ignoring Brandon calling out to me, and run out the door. I have no idea what is happening, but Frankie wouldn’t send this message if things wouldn’t be really fucking bad.

HELP. Come home now!

Jumping into the truck, I dial Frankie’s cell phone number, but it’s busy.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I quickly dial the house, praying she picks up. It just keeps ringing. I hang up and try again, but it’s futile.

“Fuck.” I slam my hand against the steering wheel, my breathing erratic. My mind is coming up with every worst-case scenario possible—one worse than the other. I need to focus. Frankie and Archer need me. I take a breath and dial Dean’s number, ignoring his jovial and happy greeting.

“Have you heard from Frankie? Are you home?” I shout into the phone, and Dean instantly picks up on the panic in my voice.

“No, what’s wrong?”

“Fuck, I don’t know. She sent me a text that said ‘Help. Come home now!’ ”

“God. We’re on our way.”

I hang up without saying goodbye. I call Viv and Mrs. Walsh next, but both their phones are busy.

“Goddammit!” I slam my foot on the accelerator, racing through traffic. Through a haze I hear honking and the screeching of tires. I run red lights on the way, but I’m too far gone to care.

All I want to do is get home while dreading it at the same time. Maybe it’s some joke, I tell myself, dialing the house again. My fingers slip, dialing the electric company before I hang up swearing. I try again.

“Pick up, Frankie,” I mutter, clenching my hand tightly around the phone.

No matter how much I want to fight the truth, I know Frankie. She’d never make this kind of joke. Whatever it is, it’s bad. I'm not one for premonitions or intuition, otherwise my grandmother’s letter wouldn’t have surprised me the way it did. But this I know—whatever is happening will make everything we've been through pale in comparison.

When I see the sign for Oak Avenue, my heart starts pounding harder. I want to get to her and Archer as fast as possible, but a part of me is afraid of what I will find when I get there. I barely register the trees and houses flying by.

Nothing seems amiss when I pull into our driveway. Frankie's car is parked out front, everything seemingly peaceful and calm. The calm before the fucking storm. The truck comes to a screeching stop next to Frankie's car. I fumble frantically with the seatbelt, and when I'm finally free, I dash out of the truck, the motor still running. I take two steps at a time up onto the porch and fling the door open, barreling through.

I'm in the living room, ready to yell for Frankie, the adrenaline pumping through me when I notice her in the kitchen. I stop in my tracks when I see my dad sitting in a chair at the kitchen table.

"Dad, what are you doing here?" My eyebrows knit together in confusion, my chest heaving with residual fear.

Why the hell would Frankie be scared of my dad? And how did he get here? I look at her, hoping to get some answers, but what I see nearly knocks the air out of me.

Her face is pale and her eyes are swimming with tears, wide with fear and pain. Even from where I stand, I can see the grip she has on the kitchen counter—her white knuckles a stark contrast to the dark wood. Her body is trembling and her bottom lip is quivering, as she focuses back on my dad.

I let my gaze follow, but can’t make sense of what I see. My dad's face is twisted with anger, hatred, and something else—something that looks like madness. He's holding Archer around the waist, digging his fingers into Archer's tummy, giving him a little shake when Archer's whining picks up volume. What the fuck is going on? My head is spinning as I try to process what I'm seeing. It's not possible. There is no way Frankie is terrified of my dad, no way is my dad threatening my son. That shit happens in movies—not in my house.

My dad doesn't react to my arrival, doesn't even glance my way.

As confused and freaked out as I am, it’s Frankie's voice that shakes me to the core. Despite her attempt to sound calm and collected, I hear the panic.

“Ben, why don’t you sit down with your dad and I’ll bring some drinks.”

Before I can say or do anything, my dad speaks. Actually, he yells, his voice loud and cold. I've never heard him speak like this.

“I was sitting here, telling Frankie how this kid will ruin your life, everything you worked for. He’ll take everything that’s yours.” He spits the words out, spittle flying from his mouth. I shake my head once, trying to clear my thoughts. I'm mishearing things. I have to be. This is some kind of cruel joke.

I take a step toward my dad. Maybe he's just in one of his moods. Something must have set him off. I can talk him down.

One step is as far as I get though because as soon as I move, my dad's hand moves to Archer's neck, clasping it tightly. Archer doesn't cry, but he makes a sound I will never forget as long as I live. It rips my heart from my chest and chills me to the bone.

“You know how easy it is to break a baby’s neck? It’s like breaking a twig in two.” My dad's voice is calm, cold, and calculated.

His words make panic rise inside of me, and I struggle for breath, for a coherent thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Frankie hanging on by a thread; she covers her mouth, trying to keep the gasp that’s trying to escape locked in. It's the look on her face and Archer’s wail that set my brain in motion again.