Break of Day (26 page)

P
iper left immediately after the conversation. After all, what good would it do for her to stick around? Only prolong the inevitable, the torture of the Band-Aid being pulled off slowly. It was better for her to head home, to go apply for her dream job. I'd stood in her way long enough. As she walked out the door I managed to mumble something about giving her a reference if she needed one. Which was ridiculous, but I couldn't think of anything else to say.

After that I found myself alone in the surf school. Alone with all my torturous thoughts and what-ifs that would never come to pass. And soon I felt a familiar hunger begin to grow inside of me, twisting through my stomach like barbed wire.

No. Not a hunger. A thirst. I needed a drink. And I needed one, like, yesterday. So, with an aching heart, I locked up the school and jumped in Fiona and drove down to the one place I knew I couldn't get one.

Miguel's.

I parked the car and stumbled into the restaurant, my head whirling with thoughts I didn't want to think, feelings
I didn't want to feel. When Angelita saw me enter, she started to smile. But her smile quickly faded as she caught the look on my face.

“Miguel!” she barked. “Get your ass out here. Now!”

A moment later, my angel of mercy, a swarthy bearded Mexican with arms sleeved in tattoos, appeared before me, putting an arm around my shoulder and leading me through the restaurant, toward the kitchen. I could feel the other diners' eyes on me—as usual, the place was packed—but I ignored them as best I could, focusing my attention on Miguel. Once we were in the back room, I collapsed onto a nearby chair, scrubbing my face with my hands. My stomach was churning now and I didn't know where to begin. Luckily, unlike his wife, Miguel wasn't a big talker.

“Carne asada?” he barked at me. I nodded, and he went to the grill.

As he cooked, I stared down at the cement floor, the conversation with Piper replaying over and over in my mind. Crazy thoughts swirled through my brain—like maybe she wouldn't get the job and this would all be for nothing. But of course I wanted her to get the job. If it was the job she wanted—I wanted her to have it. Of course I did.

But at the same time, if we were being honest, I wanted her to want me more.

Was that wrong? Selfish? Was I just being a spoiled brat again?
Asher always gets what he wants
—that's what she always said. But now I wanted her. Desperately, irrevocably, more than anything I'd ever wanted—I wanted—needed—Piper in my life.

But that wasn't going to happen. And I needed to come to terms with that. Or I was going to drive myself insane. I needed to be happy for her. She'd been waiting for a job like this her entire life, after all. Who was I to begrudge her that?

Still, it hurt. Goddamn, it hurt. To know she'd looked at both lives—one with me here in San Diego and one with a new job far away. She'd looked at both of them and chosen the job over me. Just as my own mother had done over and over again. Choosing News 9 over her husband. News 9 over her son.

But my father hadn't. He'd turned down all those offers to work at the National Weather Center over the years, choosing to stay with his family. And look where that sacrifice got him. His wife had cheated on him with another man; he'd been reduced to life in a wheelchair. Maybe he should have left us high and dry. Maybe he should have chosen that amazing job.

Maybe Piper should, too. Of course, she already had.

It wasn't as if she hadn't warned me. She'd told me from the very first day how important her career was to her. And I understood it—I loved that about her, actually. The idea that she worked so hard, that she went after what she wanted with such gusto. I loved that. I just wished what she wanted was me.

God, I was a selfish bastard.

I wondered what she'd say if I suggested I go with her. Be like my father and give up my own stuff to follow her. But how could I do that? I had just started the surf school and she'd never forgive me if I walked away from that. Plus, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself—disappointing those kids. They needed me. I needed to be here.

Miguel handed me a paper plate of steaming hot tacos. I blew on them to cool them, then took a bite. The spicy meat kicked at my taste buds and I felt a little better. Something about carne asada, the meal I'd had on my first night at Miguel's, always helped me quell the urge to dive into the bottom of a bottle. It put things back into perspective.

Okay, so I was now eating my troubles instead of drinking them, but at least I'd be able to drive home. And still look at myself in the mirror the next day.

Miguel sat down in the chair across from me, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. “So,” he said, “what happened?”

“Ah, you know.” I tried to snort. “Girl problems. What else is new?”

I tried to say it with as much bravado as I could muster. Just as the old Asher would do. The one who liked to pretend he didn't care about anything.

But Miguel only narrowed his eyes, looking at me with disbelief. He had never bought into my bullshit—not from the very first night I had walked through his front door. Why would I expect him to buy it now?

“What happened?” he repeated.

And so I told him. About Piper. About how I'd tried to defend her honor and how it had blown up in my face. About the new job she was applying for and how soon I would lose her forever.

“I was willing to give up everything,” I said. “But it wasn't enough.”

At last I fell silent, staring down at my hands, feeling the frustration well inside of me all over again. I could feel Miguel's eyes on me, regarding me thoughtfully. Then, at last, he opened his mouth.

“So you want her to stay.”

“Of course I do!”

“Have you given her a reason to?”

I looked up. “What?”

Miguel met my eyes with his own. “Sounds to me like she has a very good reason to leave,” he said. “Maybe it's time to give her a reason to stay.”

“But how do I do that?” I demanded. “Without sounding completely selfish?”

Miguel shrugged. “You give up everything. Like you said. Don't talk about doing it. Just do it. Take the risk.”

I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest as I digested his words.
Don't talk about doing it. Just do it. Take the risk.

Lightning struck me—square in the face. Of course. It made perfect sense. Time and time again Piper had forced herself to face her fears. She'd conquered her water phobia, she'd stood up to her mother, she'd risked her career to be with me. And what had I done in return? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'd winged the whole relationship—just like I'd done with everything else in my life, never looking at the big picture.

Of course she didn't believe me. I'd done nothing to inspire belief. Of course she wanted to leave. I'd done nothing to
inspire her to stay. Sure, I'd said all the right words. But to a girl like Piper, words were meaningless. People had made promises to her her entire life—only to break them. Why wouldn't I be the same? I needed to show her I was serious—that she could count on me.

I needed to take a risk, as she had.

I needed to prove she was wrong.

M
y hands were shaking as I walked through the front door of my family's La Jolla mansion, my feet echoing on the marble floors. I didn't get three steps in before the housekeeper met me at the door. She looked down at my muddy feet and frowned.

“Your mother's at the station,” she told me.

“I was actually looking for my father.”

She raised an eyebrow, looking surprised. But then she shrugged and pointed in the direction of his study before going back to her dusting. For a moment I just stood there, feeling frozen in place. Then, I kicked off my shoes, sucked in a breath, and headed into the room.

“Asher! This is a surprise,” my father boomed as he turned his wheelchair to face me. I stood in the doorway, my whole body trembling, as he wheeled himself over and reached out to clasp my hand. “My son,” he said with a smile.

It was almost too much, and I half wanted to run out the door and never come back. Instead, I forced myself to return the greeting.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, trying to swallow down the huge lump that had formed in my throat. “How's it going?”

Looking down at him now, at his dark brown eyes, his cleft chin, his strong nose, it was hard to believe anyone could think we were related. But people only saw what they wanted to see, I supposed. After all, I'd lived my entire life and never doubted it once.

I let go of his hand, retreating over to a nearby leather armchair, collapsing down onto it. I could feel his eyes on me, watching me steadily. “I take it this is not a social call,” he observed in a wry voice. “But then, you don't do those anymore, do you?”

I winced at the jab. Before his accident we had been so close. I'd come over to the house and we'd spend hours together, talking about everything and anything. When I had a problem, he'd been the first number on my phone. Back then I would have done anything for my father. And I was pretty sure he felt the same way about me. Still did, most likely. Though maybe not after this conversation.

“Dad, I have to tell you something,” I said slowly, feeling a weight fall upon my chest, so heavy it made it difficult to breathe. Much like the weight I'd felt when I'd first opened the DNA test and learned the truth. I'd been on my way to see him in the hospital. He was bored to death, he'd told me, and my mother was driving him crazy. He needed a distraction from his number one son. I'd even considered sneaking him in some of his favorite brandy.

But that was before I'd read the test results. Before I'd learned the truth. Once I saw them in black and white—unmistakable—there was no way I could bring myself to visit. And so, like a coward, I'd turned the car around. I'd driven straight to Mexico as fast as my Maserati could take me—with little regard to anyone else on the road. Once there, I'd consumed my weight in tequila and later woken in some dark alley, my wallet nowhere to be found. I'd had to beg the border officials to let me back into the US. Lucky for me, they'd recognized me from the television.

As Stormy Anderson's son.

I could feel my father's eyes on me now. Intense and questioning. “What is it?” he asked, concern clear in his voice. “Is everything okay, Asher? Is it your mother? I heard her rampaging about something or other this morning. Something about a press conference gone wild?”

I rubbed the back of my neck with my hand, his concern seeping into my skin like poison. “Oh, that,” I said. “She's just trying to make the advertisers happy as usual.”

My father snorted. “That woman is a machine,” he declared. “She never quits. That's why she's been able to do so well over the years. News 9 owes her a lot. We all do, I guess.”

“No!” I shot back with more venom than I'd meant to. My father raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, what's wrong?” he demanded, wheeling himself over to me. With effort he climbed out of his chair and onto the couch. I watched as his whole body trembled from the movement and sweat beaded on his forehead. I scowled. It wasn't fair. He'd already suffered so much. And now I was going to hurt him all over again.

Doesn't he deserve to know the truth—however painful it might be?

I thought back to how horrible I'd been to him since his accident. Pulling away, cutting myself off. Because I'd been a coward. Because I didn't know how to hide the truth when he looked into my eyes. It had been terrible for me—to cut him off like that. But how much worse had it been for him? To have your own son turn from you in your greatest moment of need—without any explanation as to why.

“Come on,” he said, taking my hands in his own and squeezing them tight. “Talk to me. Whatever it is—it's going to be okay.”

“I'm not sure that's true in this case.”

“Trust me. Nothing you say will change the way I feel about you, son.”

I jerked my hands away. “Even if . . . I'm not your son?”

“What?”

My father's face paled. My heart beat madly in my chest.
I felt as if I was going to throw up. Silence stretched out between us, long and suffering, as I opened my mouth and closed it again. I knew I had to continue—to finish what I'd started. It was out there now—and there was no taking it back. But the look on his face . . . Oh God. What had I done?

“I had a DNA test,” I managed to say, the words scraping from my throat. “After your accident. I went to Mom. She admitted it all. She had an affair. She's been lying to you all these years. Playing us both like fools.”

My dad nodded slowly; I couldn't read the expression on his face. I sat there, my stomach churning, waiting for him to say something—anything.

“So you've known this for three years,” he said at last in a gravelly voice. “Why didn't you come to me sooner?”

“I couldn't!” I protested. “You were in the hospital. You were so weak. It would have killed you!”

“No.” He shook his head. “It wouldn't have.”

“But—”

“It wouldn't have,” he repeated. “Because I already knew.”

My head jerked up. “What?”

“I've known since before you were born.”

“But . . .” I stared at him, incredulous. “But Mom said . . .”

He shrugged. “She doesn't know that I know.”

“I don't understand!”

He gave me a sorrowful look. “Your mother and I tried to have children for years, Asher, when we were first married. But it never happened. We'd pretty much given up on the idea and our marriage was in shambles when suddenly she became pregnant out of the blue. I was suspicious, so I went to the doctor to get tested. He told me I was shooting blanks. There was no way I could father a child.”

“But . . .” Horror churned through me. “Why didn't you confront her? How could you just stay with her knowing she cheated on you?”

He blushed, staring down at his hands. “Because I loved being a meteorologist,” he said simply. “It was all I ever wanted in life. And she knew that—and used it against me anytime she could. If we had a fight, if I threatened to
leave—she made it clear I would lose everything if I did.” He stared down at his hands. “It sounds pitiful now, as I say it out loud. But back then I was so emotionally bankrupt. I figured it was worth it to stay silent and keep my career.”

I shook my head, squeezing my hands into fists. I thought back to all the times my mother had done the same to me. Threatening me, threatening people I cared about. Emotional blackmail to get her own way. I had no idea it had been going on so long—with my poor father, too. And that by trying to protect him—I had only prolonged his suffering.

“At first I figured I would just let her raise you,” he continued. “That we could coexist in the house but stay clear of one another.” He snorted. “But you weren't content with that and soon you were crashing through my weather center, this little person, bursting with questions about clouds and rain and the stars. You were so innocent and trusting. So fascinated by everything I would show you.” He gave me an affectionate smile. “And so, slowly, you became my son. In every sense of the word. And I've never thought of you otherwise since.” He shook his head. “It's funny—how the very thing I thought would kill me—ended up bringing me back to life.”

Tears sprung to my eyes. I swallowed hard, past the lump in my throat. Even as the words came from his mouth, they felt too good to be true. The fact that he'd known. He'd known all along and it hadn't even mattered. I wasn't his son—but I was. I absolutely was.

“Oh, Asher,” he said, gazing at me with sad eyes. “I wish you had come to me when you first found out. The fact that you've been living with this . . . secret . . . all this time . . .”

I hung my head. “I was afraid to tell you. Mom kept saying it would kill you if you knew. Just another way to keep me in line, I guess.”

His expression darkened. Something angry flickered in his eyes. “It's funny—I've kept silent all these years to protect you. I didn't want you to have to suffer like I had. But you were suffering—all along. And I couldn't protect you.”

“Don't blame yourself,” I scolded him. “You didn't do
anything wrong. She did. She's the one who's been playing us both all these years.” I scowled. “I don't know about you, but I'm through playing her games.”

My father shook his head. “Trust me—she'll never let you quit.”

“She's not going to have a choice.”

My father looked up at me and I saw something sparking in his eyes. Something I hadn't seen in a long time. And it made my heart soar.

“I take it you have a plan?” he asked.

“Oh, I have a plan,” I agreed. “But I'm going to need your help.”