So Over My Head (33 page)

“Don’t say anything more, Mercedes.” Christina pleads with her watery eyes. “It’s time to go.”

“I called the police fifteen minutes ago,” Ruthie says. “I don’t think you can get too far.”

Dad runs a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to wipe away a sour taste. “My own daughter tried to tell me. And I wouldn’t listen to her.” He looks at me with an unspoken apology. “What an idiot I’ve been.”

Can’t argue with you there, Pops
.

Dad reaches out and brushes his fingers through Marisol’s hair. “So you wanted revenge—fine. But how could you do something so heinous to this little girl? Who’s going to take care of her when her mother and aunt are behind bars?”

Marisol turns her face to her mom’s waist and lets out a wail that pierces my heart. Even brats don’t deserve this.

Mercedes laughs as police sirens call in the distance. “I’ll get off. We both will. It’s a crime of passion. Who would ever lock me away after the horrible way you treated me, Kevin?” She pats her daughter awkwardly on the back. “And besides—her father can take care of her.”

“Shut up, Mercedes,” Christina warns. “Don’t say another word until we talk to lawyers.”

Dad’s eyes widen as his tanned face turns the color of the white church walls. “No. I don’t believe it.”

Craziness shines in Mercedes’ dark eyes. “Oh, did I forget to tell you?”

My father shakes his head. “That’s not even possible.”

The skin at the back of my sweaty neck tingles. “What? Dad, what’s she talking about?” I don’t feel so good.

Dad’s tortured eyes flit from me to Marisol.

“That’s right, Kevin.” Mercedes cackles and pushes her daughter forward. “Marisol, dear . . . say hello to your father.”

chapter thirty-four

A
t two a.m., I tiptoe downstairs, dragging my hand down the banister with each slow step. I’m sure there are conversations that every parent must have with his child that he dreads. The period talk. The alcohol lesson. The sex lecture. But it has to be nothing compared to the “Why Did You Have A Fling With Your Accountant And Have A Love Child” talk I must give now. Parents have no idea the burden of being a kid.

I check the living room for my dad, but find nobody but my grandfather unconscious in sleep on the couch. An infomercial blasts from the TV, and noticing my grandfather’s credit card in his hand, I hope he didn’t just order the Sand Away Hair Remover.

Detouring through the kitchen, the floor is cold on my bare feet. I stick my hand into the cookie jar and extract two snicker-doodles. This chat requires reinforcement. Snagging a Sprite from the fridge, I plod on to the office. Still no dad. Between talks with his attorneys and the police, I haven’t seen him since I left the church.

After completely searching the house, I ease the back door open, and that’s where I find my father. Sitting in a metal chair on his tiny inch of grass, staring at the dark sky.

Slumped down in the seat, elbows on the armrests, he reclines back, still garbed in his crisp tuxedo shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Reminds me of the way Luke wears his button-downs. But that’s pretty much where the similarities end. This flawed man before me is hurting . . . damaged . . . and in need of an instructional manual more than Ruthie could ever be.

“Hey.” My voice sounds harsh in the quiet evening air. “We missed you at dinner.” I hand him a cookie.

Dad lifts his head. “You mean your grandmother drove you nuts, and you wish I had been there to intercede.”

“Something like that.” The woman lectured me on the improper etiquette of busting up a wedding. For two hours.

I sit down on the grass and contemplate the polka dots on my pajama pants.

“Ruthie asleep?” Dad asks.

“Yeah, she went a few rounds with Grandfather on Rock Band, and it totally wore her out.”

“Your grandpa can’t remember anything beyond 1956. How could he play that?”

“He has a surprisingly good grasp of everything Metallica ever did.”

Minutes trickle by as I pick at some grass and try to think of something to say. Do I go with the blunt truth and say, “Hey, you royally jacked up. Again.” Or maybe something deep and inspirational like, “The Bible says you can be lifted up on eagles’ wings. Yeah, Dad, even you.”

I inhale and decide to give it a go. “I—”

“Isabella—”

Our voices trip over each other, and my dad holds up a hand. “Me first.” He pulls himself up in the chair and leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Bel, I messed up. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“You could try the beginning.”

He nods. “Sadie—or I should say Mercedes—had been my accountant for years. She came highly recommended about nine years ago. We instantly clicked, and eventually one thing led to another.”

“Like Marisol.” Mercedes was in jail tonight, but Christina, who had confessed to being a small part of the embezzling crime, was out on bail and in a nearby hotel with Marisol. It still weirds me out to think I could have a half-sister. Does this mean I have to take her bra shopping when she’s twelve? She’ll probably strangle me with it.

“Marisol cannot be mine.”

“But you’ve known her long enough.”

“Not in that way. We began seeing each other about three years ago. You’ve got to believe me.” He pushes his fingers through his hair. “Things got really awkward with Mercedes, and I ended it. It didn’t go well. She went a little nuts.”

“Well, obviously she matured. Because now she’s full-on psycho.”

“Did Mom ever know about Mercedes?”

Dad picks at the bottle label. “She suspected. But she was suspicious of every woman I met.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

Instead of calling me on my disrespect, Dad nods. “And look where it got me. I’ve really done it this time.”

“But why would Marisol stay with Christina?”

“I think that was Christina’s choice. Probably knew Marisol wasn’t safe with Sadie. I mean, did you see the woman?”

I take a bite of snicker-doodle. “She looked like Lord Voldemort’s sister.”

“As the police were cuffing the ladies, Christina told me Sadie has been getting steadily more unbalanced. She begged me to protect Marisol. Aside from the man I thought was my groom and television producer, Marisol has no family in America.” He sends me a wary look. “I’m going to keep her.”

“Marisol’s not a puppy.”

“No, but she’s going to need a home. At least until Christina gets her stuff straightened out. I don’t think she’ll do much time. But Sadie—who knows.”

I can’t help the anger that spurts to life. “Do you seriously think you can take care of a kid? By yourself?”

“I’ve got Luisa.”

The old bitterness bubbles up and threatens to spill over like a volcano. “So you’re just going to let the nanny raise her. Like you and Mom did with me.”

Dad straightens his spine. “I know I’ve messed up with you. Obviously your mom has made changes in the right direction. I can tell you two are closer.” He takes another drink. “But I’m still this huge failure to you. Right?”

This is probably the part where I rush to him, throw my arms around his neck, and say, “Gosh, Daddy, no! Don’t say that about yourself.”

“You’re the best plastic surgeon on the planet.” I twirl my finger around a dandelion and smile wistfully. “I remember sometimes I used to come visit at the office, and watching those famous people stroll in and out would be like stepping into a fairy tale. And they were all there to see my dad.”

“But?”

“But then you never came home. You lived at that office. And when you were home, you just avoided me. And I thought when I moved to Oklahoma things would change. I thought
you
would change. How could you stand to let me go, Dad?” My throat thickens.

“I had to, Isabella.” Dad slips out of his chair and sits on his knees in front of me, the tails of his shirt dragging the ground. “Your mother needed you, and you had this whole life waiting for you.”

My bangs fall into my eyes, and I push the back. “And then I thought when I would come for my monthly visit to Manhattan that you would drop everything to spend time with me. I mean, to see your daughter forty-eight hours a month, who wouldn’t make the most of it?”

“But not me,” he says heavily. “I was too busy working.”

I lift my head and look my dad directly in the eye. “You don’t know what to do with me, do you? When I’m here—you don’t know how to just be my dad.”

“I guess you’re right.” His laugh is wrapped in bitterness. “Frankly, Bella, you scare me. I looked up one day and you were this young woman—a young lady I didn’t even recognize.”

“Because you didn’t bother to get to know me. And now you’re going to take on Marisol like you get to start over or something. You’ve got a daughter—me.”

He rests his surgeon’s hands on my leg. “I know my slate is far from clean with you. And you may not believe me, but I want to work on that. I don’t think Marisol is my chance for a redo.” Dad grimaces. “If you think I’m scared of you, you have no idea what I feel for that little tyrant.”

“And now she’s going to be your tyrant?”

“Maybe.” He pats my knee. “But so are you. And I want to change, Bella. I do. For us. I want to be a better man. Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about taking care of Marisol. I know I have to change—for your sake. And mine. I’ve missed out on so much.”

“Yes.” Flashes of my life spin through my mind. Ballet recitals, first dance, skinned knees, my first short story Luisa hung on the refrigerator. “You have missed out on a lot. And that makes me sad. And mad.”

“I don’t want to be left out of one more thing. I don’t want this rift between us to be how it is forever, you know?” Dad reaches out his ringless hand and closes it over mine. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Because, baby, I have no idea.”

A tear falls from my eye, and I brush it away with my knuckle. “I’m the kid, Dad. It’s time you figured out how this parenting stuff works. Because I sure don’t know.”

“You’re right a lot, you know?”

“Maybe you could tell Mom that.”

Dad pulls me to him and envelopes me in his strong arms. “I want my daughter.” He smoothes my hair and presses a kiss to my temple. “I know I want my daughter.”

More stupid tears fall and dampen my face. Must’ve been that Hallmark commercial I saw earlier. Because I am
so
not a crier. “Love is a risk, isn’t it, Dad?” I think of all the breakups in my life, my family. And I think of Luke.

“It’s worth it, though. You’re worth it. I love you, Isabella Kirkwood.”

Nose drips. “Right back at you.”

“I’m going to figure this dad stuff out. I promise.”

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I hear credit cards are a great way to show affection.”

Later, as I push open my bedroom door, I’m greeted by the buzz-saw noises coming from Ruthie’s open mouth. The stress of the day caught up with my crime-busting partner.

Or those pants finally cut off her circulation, and she simply passed out.

I plop on the bed and stare at the ceiling, where the evil cherubs stand poised in their painted glory, ready to swoop down and attack. I feel so worn down. So drained.
God, everything is changing. Again.
I’m not sure I’m ready for all this. A new dad. Maybe a new sister. I seriously
need some Ben and Jerry’s
.

I reach across the bed and grab my phone from the nightstand. It’s a ridiculous hour back home, but I punch in the number anyway. Some moments just call for a comforting voice.

“Only a total idiot would call me at this hour.”

I laugh at Luke’s tired greeting. “I know it’s late.”

“It’s after two in the morning.”

Luke sighs on the other end, and I hear the rustle of covers. “How did the wedding go? I texted you a few times, but you didn’t respond. I took that as a sign you were being physically restrained somewhere in a padded cell.”

I laugh again. “You make me smile, Luke Sullivan.”

Three seconds of silence pass. “What’s wrong, Bella?”

“I can’t call and just be nice to you?”

“I’m sorry about the wedding. Did they leave on their honeymoon?”

I fluff a pillow under my head and let the sham cool my cheek. “One of these days you’re going to learn not to doubt me.”