DEBT (30 page)

I couldn't walk down there with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

I might have felt like something inside had cracked open, but I'd be damned if I let Byron see that. Or even my father for that matter. I mean... seriously. What would he think of me if he knew I got involved with the man who had threatened his life? Christ, he would probably think I had some kind of Stockholm Syndrome going on and insist I get some help.

Five minutes later, eyes clear, shoulders back, bag dragging behind me, I made my way down the stairs to find all three men: my father, Matt, and Byron, standing in the foyer in what seemed like a stony silence. Matt looked at me like he wanted to say something, but couldn't in mixed company. Considering he had been the one to see me crying, I figured he wanted to console me in some way. Byron looked blank, like a shudder was down over his eyes. My father was a mix of relieved and worried.

"Alright, I'm ready when you are," I said as my father moved forward to take my bag. "I'm assuming you took a cab here, right?" I asked and he nodded. "Good thing I still have my car then," I said with a false smile. "It was nice getting to know you, Matt," I said and a flash crossed his eyes.

"Don't worry, honey. I'll be calling you about some more desserts, okay?"

"Looking forward to it," I said, genuinely meaning it. He might not have been the most loquacious person I had ever met, but he was good company. He was a genuinely good guy. I half-cursed myself for not getting involved with him instead of Byron. I turned to him, lifting my chin slightly, forcing my features to be neutral, "Mr. St. James," I said, not trusting myself to say anything more, terrified my voice would crack if I even tried.

"Miss. Marlow," he said back in the same tone, giving me a chin jerk.

"Alright then, off we go," my father declared with a smile, snagging my hand and pulling me with him. "Dear Prudence," he said as we pulled out of the driveway, an action that made my heart constrict in my chest. "I have so much to talk to you about. Have any great recipes you want to try out for me?"

I didn't.

But I would find one.

Because that was what was expected of me.

Besides, I could use the distraction.

So we drove back to my apartment that I had painstakingly put together. And I found it almost... empty. Yes, it was full of things I had carefully considered, but none of it meant anything. I used to feel like it was a safe place, a comfort zone. But I guess I maybe grew out of it. "Pizza or Chinese, honey?" my father asked as I went to my room to deposit all of the contents back into their usual places. The sooner I got back into the groove of things, the better. It was the middle of the week, but I was going to call my bosses at the bank back and see if they could fit me back into the schedule the following Monday. On the plus side, my rent was paid up for three months. So any money that came in could be socked back away for a rainy day.

"Pizza is fine," I called back a little distractedly as I pulled something out of the zipper compartment of my suitcase. It was the "do not disturb" sign we had on our hotel room door almost nonstop when we were in Florida. I hadn't been sure why I snagged it, making sure Byron wasn't around to see me do such a silly thing, but I had. I should have left it behind with all the clothes on my bed in his house.

But a part of me was glad I didn't. It was the only thing I had, aside from the handwritten recipes he'd given me, a chip from Mandy's, and the achy, hollow feeling in my chest, that proved that something had ever existed between us.

"Mushroom and onion?" my father called back and I felt myself smile a little.

Familiarity, there really was a certain amount of comfort and happiness in that.

I could get back to that being enough. I knew it.

So then we ordered pizza. I made batter for chocolate macadamia cookies while we waited for delivery and put them in the oven as we ate, my father telling me about the people he met at rehab, the therapists, what the building was like, the grounds, the food. My father, being my father, made every single detail sound like the most fascinating thing you had ever heard in your life before.

We had dessert and he promised me things were changing. And while he was going to crash with me for a short amount of time while he went job hunting and apartment seeking, he guaranteed me that it was temporary, that I would never have to take care of him again. While the practical part of me was skeptical, I was still hopeful. I had been waiting my entire life to have a normal relationship with him.

I made sure he was asleep, closed myself in the bathroom, and cried until I was sure it was all out of me, then convinced myself that was it, it was done, I was over it.

Of course, the next morning proved that false.

Somehow, the ache in my chest felt more acute. I stood in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, wondering why it was so different. I'd loved men before. I had shared my life with people over long periods of time. One would think that those breakups would hurt me worse, would take days, weeks, months to get over. But I always bounced back relatively well. It was in my nature. I learned early to take my hits on the chin and keep moving. That was what the dissolution of relationships had always been like for me. It was a blow. It sent me into a baking or cleaning frenzy. I'd cry. I'd binge watch silly Disney movies. Then I moved on.

It had never felt like a piece of me had been ripped off then washed away.

But then again, none of the men in my life had been anything like Byron.

He was an ocean.

And I would spend my life trying to wring saltwater from my bones.

Unsuccessfully.

"Get a grip," I said to my reflection, disgusted with myself.

He was a lunar eclipse. He was an ocean.

Such bull.

He was just a man. And not a particularly good one either.

The sex was off the charts. But sex wasn't
that
important.

He could easily read me. But if I could learn to let down my guards a little, other men would be able to as well.

He was rich. But I never cared about that kind of thing.

I nodded at my reflection as I buttoned up my shirt
all the way up
like Byron hated. If I could just keep the running monologue going for the day, week, month, year, the entirety of what was left of my life... I would be okay. Maybe one day, even great.

At least that was what I needed to make myself believe.

"Alright, Dad, crepes for breakfast?" I asked as I walked out into the living room, expecting to see him still asleep on the couch. But not only was he not there, his blanket was neatly folded with the pillow on top. See, while my dad wasn't exactly a slob, he wasn't a neat freak either. I was constantly having to fold his blanket when he stayed over.

I walked into the kitchen to find a pot of coffee and a handwritten note informing me he was out handing out his resume. Before gambling started taking over most of his life, my father had been a pretty successful salesman. He had the perfect personality for it. But every time he won big, he would quit his job, thinking he was somehow going to turn that 'big' into 'bigger' and we'd be living large in a mansion somewhere being fanned beside the pool and drinking champagne like water.

After a while, he just stopped even trying to hold down a full-time job.

But as I nixed the idea of crepes and ran to the store to stock up on groceries, I felt the hope spreading.

By the time I got back from the market, my father was back in my apartment, still in his suit, sans jacket, flipping through the newspaper. He gave me a smile and prattled on about the places he dropped his resume, sounding optimistic, sounding happy, as I carefully put together a lasagna for us.

I had just pushed it into the oven when he walked back in, brows furrowed, with some paper in one hand and my cell in the other.

"What's up?" I asked, not sure what his expression meant, and I knew my father's expressions pretty damn well.

"You just got a phone call about your business. Because someone was handed a business card for you at a party," he said, brows furrowed. "They placed an order for their upcoming baby shower. It's... quite an order too," he added, waving the paper at me. I saw then that he had my business card in his hand as well. "I found this with some recipes in your nightstand. Prue... I've been home for almost a full day. You let me blabber on about the cafeteria food and you didn't think you should mention that you
started a business
?"

I took a breath. "I didn't. I hope you got their number so I can call back and tell them that as well."

"Dear Prudence, you have business cards," he told me, waving the little pink rectangle at me. I'd snagged it after the party, wanting to really check it out, wanting it for a keepsake. Byron had the rest in his office somewhere.

Not for long, I guessed.

I felt myself wince at that, but pretended to ignore it. "I didn't have those made, Dad," I said with a shrug, trying to reach for it and the order paper out of his hand, but he yanked his arm back.

"What do you mean you didn't make them? Who made them then?"

"Dad, really, this is a non-issue. It was never meant to be anything serious. Really."

His head cocked to the side and his gaze felt like it saw down to my soul in that moment. "Did St. James have these made up?" he asked, his tone both questioning and confused.

"Dad..."

"He did, didn't he?" he demanded, brow raising.

"Yes. Okay, yes. He used to make me make dessert a few times a week. He liked them. He decided to pass that information around."

"He made you business cards then handed them out at a party where he had you provide the desserts."

"Yes. But that is literally all it was. A whim. I was never actually planning on..."

"Why not?" he cut me off, something he almost never did.

"Why not?" I repeated, then waved a hand out. "I have bills to pay. I need a steady job."

"And you can't have a steady job and bake on the weekends?"

"Dad, I am trying to be realis..."

"Prue, there is more to life than being realistic all the time. I know I haven't exactly been the best role model about things like this, but I know a life where all you do is work a job you don't like and pay bills is no life at all. You always wanted to bake. I should have encouraged something like this a long time ago. But I was always too selfish to."

"You weren't selfish. You were sick."

"Yes and no, Prue. Yes and no. Gambling is an addiction, true. But it's not like a drug. It didn't change my brain chemistry. I knew that every time I went out, I was hurting you. I
knew
that, but I did it anyway. That's selfish. You can layer whatever excuses you want on that to try to blur the truth to it, but it's still there underneath it all. I was selfish and you paid the price for that more than I did most of the time. I see that clearly now. And because I see that, I'm not letting you self-sabotage because of what
might
happen. See, baby, the only way you are guaranteed to fail is to not try at all. I raised a woman who is a lot of things: strong, intelligent, funny, resourceful, giving, loving, loyal. But I did not raise a failure. I didn't raise a quitter either. I told this nice woman that you would happily cater the desserts for her shower, and that is what you are going to do. If you need a reason, I will pull the Dad-card and say:
because I said so.
"

"You never played the Dad-card before," I said, smiling a little. He really hadn't. For all the stress about money and the uncertainty of his being home for anything, my father had been a very hands-off parent. If I wanted to wear pink and yellow striped pants and a bright orange sweatshirt, that's what I wore, and he paraded me around proudly. If I wanted to stay up all night and eat junk food, I did. Granted, I paid with a tummy ache and going to school exhausted, but I did it. When I wanted to date, I dated. When I wanted to come home, I came home. I had no rules. I always figured that was why I came out so rigid myself, because I was given limitless freedom my whole life and learned early that there were real-life consequences for my actions.

"You never gave me a reason to, baby," he said, moving toward me and putting a hand to my cheek. "This is the first time in your entire life that I have thought you are being foolish." His hand fell and he put the order on my fridge under a magnet we had bought on a trip to Las Vegas when I was twelve. I bought it in the lobby gift shop with a spare chip I had found under my father's bed. "Now I have to wonder what it means that Byron St. James managed to put something into motion in under a month what I haven't in twenty-some-odd years."

"It means nothing," I insisted, hoping my voice didn't sound as hysterical to him as it did to me.

"Of course not. Of course not, baby," he agreed, tone back to the normal one I was used to, carefree, light, friendly. "Do I have time to run out and grab some red before dinner?" he asked.

"You have a good hour," I told him, not wanting to admit how badly I could use a glass of wine.

"Alright," he said, seeming a bit distracted, "I'll be back in a while, Dear Prudence," he told me, kissing my cheek, and heading for the door.