Ties (20 page)

Whit leads me right to a closed door, and Deo puts his hand on the frame, half blocking her. “Whit. I’m not cool with this.”

“Not your call, Deo,” she says between gritted teeth.

I just want to get in there, see her and tell her...all of it. Every damn thing I’ve been feeling, rules be damned.

“She’s my
sister
, Whit. I’m not going to let this douchebag hurt her, too.” When he looks at her, his eyes have this wild shine to them, and I gear up to probably get socked in the face.

“I never...Ryan never hurt me, Deo. He just wasn’t right for me. He wasn’t you.” She puts a hand on his arm. “I know. This is weird. But I love Hattie. You know I do. I’d never expose her to anyone who wasn’t quality. Trust me.”

Damn.

I always knew Whit was a stand-up person, and I always wished she’d go on to better and find someone who truly appreciated how amazing she is. But I never realized how much I also wanted to know she didn’t look at me like a piece of shit user. I feel a swell of redemption, and I want to thank her.

Maybe I will.

Later.

When her ferocious husband isn’t growling at me.

Deo stares at her and they have this whole silent conversation that’s so common with people who have been together for a long time. Megan used to be able to have entire arguments with me with just a few looks across a crowded room.

“Fine,” he finally says, jabbing a finger my chest. “You hurt her, I rip your spine out through your back.”

“Deo,” Whit sighs, dragging him away.

And I’m left outside the closed door Hattie is behind. I knock softly and hear her voice call for me to come in.

She’s sitting cross-legged on a twin bed, a cup of something that looks like tomato juice in her hands.

“Ryan?” She squints when I walk in, and I think at first it’s because the room is so dim. I realize it’s actually because she’s in pain.

“Are you alright?” I sit next to her without really thinking.

“Too much grappa.” She holds up the cup. “This is supposed to fix me up, but it smells like vomit.”

“Grappa, huh? That’s pretty hardcore.” I don’t know if it’s within my rights to touch her, but I take my chances and push a strand of hair back off her shoulder. “You look like you’re hurting. Who gave you the cup of vomit?”

“Marigold. Deo’s mom.”

“The plant lady?” I ask. She nods. “My mom said that herb Marigold grew is one of the hardest herbs to keep in this region. I’d wager she probably knows her shit, and you should drink the vomit.”

She gags a little, then nods. “Okay. Down the hatch. On three.”

I take her hand, smooth and soft, in mine and her eyes fly to my face. I can feel her pulse drumming hard in her wrist.

“One,” I say, my voice sounding scratchy to my own ears.

“Two.” Her voice is barely a whisper.

Damn, I want to drag her across this mattress and kiss her until she moans. I want to strip that little dress off her body and run my hands up and down every perfect curve. I want to hear her pant my name, and I want to bury myself deep inside her.

But I can’t. Not yet.

“Three.” I watch as she flattens her lips, and then tosses the drink back, choking and coughing after.

I rub her back, her skin hot through the thin fabric. “Do you need water or anything?” I’m half up, ready to get what she needs when she grabs my arm.

“Don’t leave.”

I sit back down, close to her, and try not to think about the fact that we’re on a bed, that her hair is all messy and sexy, that her dress is made out of cotton so thin, I can see the outline of her purple bra, and it’s making things hard.

Literally.

“I didn’t mean to barge in on a party,” I start, and I can smell her skin. It smells sweet and clean, like her, but just woken up, and it makes me want to inhale that smell every damn morning.

Her fingers are still resting on my arm. “What
are
you doing here?”

“You remember I told you I’m preparing for a sailboat race? And that I have a sponsor?” I watch her nod and try to work the words out in my head before they blurt out of my mouth. “My truck died on me after practice. And my sponsor gave me a lift.” I cup her cheek with my hand.

“Ryan, say what you need to say,” Hattie says, biting her lip. Her words are impatient, but she presses her cheek into my hand.

Like she’s looking for comfort.

“My sponsor brought me here because he needed to bring something to his dad.” I watch her process.

Her mouth goes tight. Her eyes drop down, then flash back up. She looks like she wants to whoop with joy and also like she actually did drink a cup of vomit.

“My father? My father is here?” Her voice shakes, and she stands clumsily.

I stand too and catch her in my arms.

“He’s in the driveway as far as I know.”

He could have left, could have peeled out like the chickenshit he seems to be. Hattie doesn’t wait to ask me more questions.

She bolts out of my arms and through the door, letting it swing open with a slam, and races past the partygoers and into the darkening night. Deo looks up from the spot where he was sitting on the couch, brooding, and rushes me.

“What the hell did you say to her?” he roars, making every single person at the party stop short and look his way, then mine. “I swear to God, Byrne, I’ll beat the shit out of you!”

“She’s going to see your father,” I announce flatly.

If the partygoers were quiet before, this completely silences everyone. The guy with the Buddy Holly glasses wraps an arm around the barefoot woman dancing. Deo’s mom and stepdad?

Mr. Beckett gets up from his place on the couch, puts his beer down, and grabs a cane from the stand-up container next to the door. He hurries out, Deo hot on his heels, and--even though it isn’t my place--I follow them.

Hattie is standing on her toes next to the truck, her face leaned into the cab. Before any of us can make it down there, the door swings open, and Bex gets out.

For a long few seconds, neither one of them moves. Then he holds his arms wide and, slowly, cautiously, Hattie folds herself into them.

I’m barely able to process what’s happening when Deo grabs my arm and jerks me back hard. “This was your fucking plan? You brought that asshole here?”

“Calm the hell down.” I shove him with both hands so he stumbles back, out of my face. I want to make it clear that I get his overprotective vibe, but he’d better tone it down a notch. “That asshole is my race sponsor. And
he
brought
me
here. I just wanted to warm Hattie before he crashed the party.”

His grandfather swats him on the back of the head. “Goddamn numbskull. Stop attacking this guy, will you? He was watching out for her.”

The rage in Deo’s eyes shutters and his shoulders relax. “You were making sure she didn’t get hurt?”

I nod.

He curls a lip at me. “I still think you’re a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve to fucking breathe the same air my sister breathes.”

We stare off for a few seconds. “I don’t disagree with you,” I finally say.

And he laughs.

I know he probably doesn’t want to, but he laughs hard. His grandfather shakes his head. Then the three of us stand shoulder to shoulder and worry as we watch the girl we all love with a guy we all know is a fucking bastard.

“I don’t like this,” I mutter.

“Me neither,” Mr. Beckett and Deo mutter back in unison.

We all stand and glower some more.

Deo looks over at me. “This doesn’t make us friends.”

“Good. I can’t stand fucking surf rats,” I answer, my eyes on Hattie.

Deo snorts. “Really? Well I wanna puke when I spend too much time around yuppie yacht-racing wannabes.”

We size each other up, spines straight, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

“You two sound like douchebag soul mates,” Mr. Beckett pipes in.

16 HATTIE

So here it is.

Here
he
is.

After all the tennis racquets and tropical vacation tickets and pastel girly cars, here is my father, in the flesh. Sadly, I can’t simply feel indifferent and brush him off. I can’t turn my nose up and just not care.

I do care.

Kind of.

Or maybe I just feel a morbid curiosity. I mean, I genetically
am
this man, fifty percent at least. I want to know him. Even if it’s just so I can dismiss him.

“Did you know I was in town?” I expected my father to look more like an older Deo, but I guess Deo takes after Marigold’s side. I’m not even sure if my father really looks like Grandpa.

It’s hard to compare facial features in the dusk when you’re overwhelmed with the idea that you’re finally meeting your father.

I’m finally meeting my father.

As foreign as his face is in general, there are little things that are immediately recognizable. He has our eyes--mine and Deo’s--darker, but a similar very light brown. He has dimples like Deo and I do. And when he smiles, that sheepish, kind of sad smile, there’s all the charming confidence I see whenever Deo smiles at me.

“I did.”

He’s long since ended the hug, which was warm, awkward, and quick.

“So you just never showed up?”

I try to sound logical rather than furious or bitter. Which isn’t all that hard, because I don’t really feel all that furious or bitter, though there’s not a ton of logic in my thought process right now either.

“Am I being cross-examined, counselor?” he jokes. When I don’t smile back, he goes for my soft spot. “You are the spitting image of your mother. I guess you must hear that all the time.”

I raise my eyebrow, now sure I’m reviving my mother’s face by imitating her best ‘take-no-prisoners’ lawyer expression. “Actually, my mother’s family jokes that I must have been switched at birth. Deo and Grandpa tell me I look a lot like your mother.”

He puts a hand out, brushing my hair back softly. I hold very still.

“You really do have so many of your mother’s mannerisms. But you also take after my mom. It’s a little spooky, actually.” His smile is tight. “She would have loved you.”

“About that?” I don’t mind going in for the kill right away with him. “Why didn’t you let them know about me? Why was I such a huge secret?”

He looks distinctly uncomfortable.

I don’t care.

“Right. Well, things were a little tense with Deo’s mother right around when you were born. I just never figured out how to broach the subject. And your mother’s family was so big and loving. I figured you had everything you needed.”

“Everything I needed?” I repeat back slowly. “Well, that was great of you to assume, but now I’ve met my brother and grandfather, and I have this big problem. I’d also love to meet the woman I apparently look just like. But I can’t, can I?” I cross my arms over my chest.

“I fucked up,” my father says, his eyes definitely lined with regret. But I can’t tell if it’s because he regrets keeping me from my family or because he regrets having to have this awkward interaction right now. “I apologize, Hattie.”

I nod again. “There’s nothing else to say, I guess.”

I thought it would be bigger, deeper. Maybe tears, maybe sobs. I imagined intense pain, extreme happiness, and pure excitement. I never contemplated a general feeling of ‘blah.’

“I was going to leave Marigold a gift with your grandpa. But I guess this party is for her? I think I’ll go in and give it to her in person.” He takes a small unwrapped box from out of his pocket.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

Marigold told me all about Dante one day when we were curled on the couch with a very crisp bottle of Pinot Grigio and one of the fat photo albums that actually contained a few pictures of him, ridiculously young and so handsome, I could see why Marigold got caught in his web.

From the stories she told, I grasped the fact that she had gone through a few years of extreme sadness following many years of being strung along and let down before she got over Dante Beckett.

It isn’t in Marigold’s nature to harbor grudges, but I got the distinct impression that she had to reach deep down into her pool of Zen to access enough calm so she could talk about Dante without any anger.

“Marigold is still the mother of my son,” he says a tad defensively. “It’s been a few years. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her again.”

I glance toward Deo, standing with Ryan and Grandpa, the three of them like wary sentinels. I want to warn him, but there’s no time.

“Dad!” Dante calls.

My grandfather moves forward and my father closes the space between them. They wrap their arms around each other and share a brusque, rough hug that ends before it really starts.

Dad looks to Deo, but my brother keeps his arms locked over his chest, his look a clear combination of disgust and disappointment.

“Hey,” Deo says. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Dad looks him up and down, but he’s definitely the beta in this situation.

“She’s in there having the time of her life. It’s her birthday, she’s surrounded by everyone she loves. No offense, man, but you don’t have a place there.”

Our father gives a short bark of a laugh. “Son, I’ve been a part of her life since we were teenagers, okay? I may not be the most consistent person, but you can’t just erase me from her life.”

He attempts to move past Deo, but Deo sticks a hand out and presses him back.

“C’mon. I’m asking nice. Don’t go in there. She deserves to be happy tonight. You don’t need to fuck it up because you have some selfish desire to what? Give her some lame gift?”

I think of the unwrapped box as I watch my father’s face contort.

“Move aside, Deo,” he says, his voice all ice. “I get that you feel like you have to play big man with your mother, but we’re all adults here. If
she
wants me to leave, I will.”

“She’s too fucking sweet to let you know you’re not wanted. And I sure as fuck had to play ‘big man,’” Deo sneers. “You were never there to do it. Anyway, there’s no need for you to sniff around. Mom’s got a
real
man now. A guy who knows how to take care of her.”

Dante snorts and shakes his head. “Look, your mother and I go way back, and that’s not something that just goes away. Like I said, we’ll leave this up to Mari. You need to back up, son.”

“Quit calling me ‘
son
,’” Deo growls.

“You are my son, like it or not.”

They stand, nose to nose, the testosterone clouding the air. I wonder if Grandpa will step in, but he holds back. Finally Deo moves aside.

“Fine. I hope Rocko kicks your ass,” he says.

I gulp.

Out loud, fish-like
gulp
.

Rocko is Marigold’s tattoo artist husband. Despite massive amounts of ink, he’s the most laid back, sweetie-pie man I’ve ever met. He goes on yoga retreats and practices Buddhism. He writes Marigold poetry that he leaves on little post-it notes for her to find every morning.

He’s not going to kick any ass, even if it’s totally deserved.

The guys stalk inside, three generations of Beckett men, then Ryan next to me.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into all this,” I murmur to him. “Were you out on the water today?”

“Yeah.” He smiles, but he’s so wiped out, he can barely move his mouth. The rings under his eyes are heavy and black. “I’ve wanted to call you, but Bex--your dad--has been demanding long practices, and I can’t back out. I know this is kind of a crazy situation, but I’m really glad to see you.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”  I want to know how the party is going, but I don’t want Ryan pulled into the middle of all this. Plus, though he was standing with Deo before, I can’t be sure my brother won’t give him shit. “Let me drive you home.”

“No. You’re celebrating. I’m totally fine. I swear.” He insists this is a fact as his shoulders sag and his eyes half close, heavy-lidded.

“How about I give Marigold her gift and say good-night, then take you home?” I offer.

“Are you sure? Bex can take me.”

I cringe at my father’s ridiculous nickname. Seriously? Does he think he’s a teenage competitive skateboarder?
Bex
? Why not just Peter Pan?

“I’m sure. I...um, I think we should talk.”

The way Ryan looks me, his eyes dark and his mouth pulled tight, I know talking is the last thing he wants to do.

“Sure. Let’s talk.”

We make our way inside just in time to see the charged exchange between my father and Marigold. Rocko stands next to her looking like he’s considering throwing all his Buddhist ideals out the window.

Or at least become one of those revenge monks who turn heroically violent.

“Thank you, Dante,” Marigold says stiffly. “But this is too generous. I’m afraid I can’t accept it.” She holds a glittering tennis bracelet out to Dante, who takes it and her hand.

“Too generous? You’re the mother of our son.” He lets the bracelet circle her wrist and works to secure the clasp.

Even from a distance, the bracelet looks to
wrong
, so distinctly un-Marigold. She’s wearing live flowers tucked in her hair, for God’s sake. The necklace she has on is some chunky, eclectic charm set with tons of beads. She’s into free trade and artistry and offbeat beauty: what about her screams “ostentatious diamond bracelet”?

She tugs her hand back. “Dante, please. While I appreciate your thought, I do
not
want this gift.”

He shakes his head and keeps doggedly trying to hook that clasp. “Make me happy and just wear it.”

Deo starts to move toward him, but it’s Rocko who takes action. “Thank you for your gift, Dante, but you need to respect Marigold’s feelings.”

So the words are a little touchy-feeling; the tone of his voice leaves no room for argument.

My father doesn’t even acknowledge that he spoke.

“For fuck’s sake, Mari, it’s a
gift
. An expensive as hell gift.” He flips the bracelet back into his hand and lets out a biting laugh. “No harm no foul, alright? But stop looking at me like this is something more than it is. If I wanted to get in your bed, I know I don’t have to resort to giving you diamonds.”

“Dante!” Grandpa’s voice is crackling with fury.

Marigold’s hand is pressed to her mouth, her eyes cast down. Everyone else mumbles uncomfortably. Deo is already bursting past Whit, who’s attempting to hold him back.

Not because she’s protecting Dante.

Because Rocko deserves this one.

And he takes advantage of his clear shot.

Rocko clips my father twice, once in the jaw and once in the mouth. It snaps Dante’s neck back, stuns him a little, and makes everyone at the party scream and jump over each other.

“Let’s get him out of here,” I say to Ryan, who nods, crosses the room in a few quick steps, hauls my father under the arms, and drags him back to the door before he can counter punch.

“I’ll knock the fucking glasses off that weasel shit’s face!” Dante yells, but he doesn’t fight Ryan enough to actually make good on his threats.

“Shut up,” I snap. “You owe Marigold an apology. Who the hell do you think you are, talking to her like a filthy pig? You’re disgusting.”

He jerks his arms away from Ryan’s grasp when we’re finally just outside his truck. He breathes deep a few times and shakes his shoulders to straighten his jacket.

“I’m sorry. I forget how sensitive Marigold can be.”

I snort. “Oh, right. Silly Marigold not wanting you to mention how you used her and tossed her aside in front of everyone she loves. You need to go. Now.”

“Hattie. I’m sorry.” He takes off his ratty ball cap and runs a hand over his matted hair. “I am being an ass. I guess I get a little territorial. Mari isn’t mine anymore, and I think it threw me to see her so happy with someone else.”

“If you care about her at all, you should be glad she was smart enough to cut you loose. You really should be.” I nod to his truck. “Seriously, go. You’ve already overstepped.”

“This was an awful first meeting, Hattie. Would you consider giving me a second chance?” His eyes plead, but I know that could be a put-on.

My father is clearly a master manipulator and a narcissist to boot.

“I doubt I’ll have the time.” I let him pull me into a hug, but I back away quickly. “Maybe.”

He leaves with a wave of his hand and his eyes staring straight ahead. I turn to face Ryan, who looks wiped out, but amused.

“So. I feel bad for giving you shit about your family dinner now,” I say, letting the back of our hands brush.

“Nah.” He threads his fingers through mine. “I’m just glad your family is as crazy as mine. It’s reassuring.”

I look down at her fingers. “I should give Marigold her gift.”