Martinis & Moonlight (A Country Road Novel - Book 3) Read online

  Owen: U up?

  Owen: Gess nt

  Owen: Y do women wear heels if they R going to complain their feet hurt?

  My heart drops to my stomach. He’s out and, from the text shorthand, he’s drinking. He’s meeting women.

  He just friend zoned me.

  Good to know. I don’t respond and instead turn the volume off on my phone and set it on the nightstand before rolling onto my side. We’re having breakfast with Dakota in the morning and I need some sleep.

  The weekend with Dakota was fun, emotional, and the next step to her coming home. Assuming she is released from her physical therapy and allowed to find someone closer to home to work on helping her build her strength, she’ll be home before the end of summer.

  I only missed one day of work and yet my desk looks like a bomb went off. I sat down with Jameson with our morning coffee and ran through the fires that need putting out and the highlights of the upcoming week. Thankfully, he’ll be out all afternoon meeting with potential clients and I’ll have the time to catch up.

  By the time lunch rolls around, I’m starving and need out of this office. I text both Ashton and Piper to see if they are available for lunch but neither are. So, instead here I sit at the small café in town with my e-reader, a large spinach salad, and an iced tea to keep me company. I’m engrossed in this romance about a woman’s mishaps with online dating when the chair across from me slides out and someone flops down in it. I stop with the fork millimeters from my mouth and peer up to see Owen sitting across from me.

  “Hey,” I say before stuffing the large bite of salad in my mouth.

  “Hey, yourself. How was the trip?”

  Why does he have to look so good? My friend. Seriously, it’s unfair. I probably look a hot mess. I was exhausted this morning when my alarm blasted some godawful music and jarred me from a deep sleep. Not caring to put the effort in, I simply showered, blew my hair dry, and then tossed it up into a messy bun. Instead of my normal work uniform of a pencil skirt, blouse, and heels, today I’m in a pair of skinny jeans, blinged-out flip flops, and a sleeveless tee with a chunky necklace. I look cute, but I’d usually only dress like this on the weekend.

  “It was good,” I mutter before taking another bite of my salad.

  “That’s cool. I met your dad yesterday.”

  I choke on the spinach and reach for my iced tea before responding. Owen begins to make his way to me, probably to smack me on the back and save me from a death by spinach, when I wave him off.

  “What? When? Where?”

  Laughing, Owen steals a piece of the garlic bread from my side plate. It’s fine, I don’t need the carbs anyway. Liar. I want the carbs. They’re my friend when I feel like crap.

  “Relax. I was out for a run in the park and he was there with the squirt and the baby.”

  “Why did you meet him?”

  “Well, because I said, ‘hello, you must be Mr. Walker.’ Turns out, he was. Imagine that.”

  “You don’t have to be a smartass. You didn’t tell him … I mean…”

  “Whoa there. It’s not that big of a deal, I told him we’re friends and that we work together. Contrary to what you’ve heard, Minnesota, I’m not one to kiss and tell. Or,” he says, pausing and leaning forward. I do the same in response. “Orgasm and tell.”

  “Asshole,” I mutter. He laughs. See, asshole.

  “Anyway, it was cool. We talked for a few minutes and then I bailed. No biggie.”

  I don’t have an opportunity to respond before the clerk calls Owen’s name and he stands to retrieve a large box of food. I stuff another bite of salad in my mouth as he pays and the girl taking his money blushes. Has she no shame? He’s a player, girl. Walk away.

  “Well, I better get this food back to the site. Those guys’ll start eating each other’s flesh soon.”

  “Yeah, sure. Well, have a good day.”

  “I’ll talk to you later?” It’s a question, not a statement, and my response is a non-committal shrug of my shoulder and head nod. Whatever the hell that means.

  Suddenly, I have less of an appetite than when I arrived. Powering down my e-reader, I wipe my face, stand, and toss the items on my tray in the trash. Once I’ve made it back to my car, I openly chastise myself for not only my reaction to Owen but my quickly constructed walls. I promised him if I had feelings I’d end whatever we’re doing. I can’t keep talking to him, laughing with him, sleeping with him. This is the moment where I look around and all the little yellow caution and red danger flags start popping up.

  Yellow flags cautioning me to avoid getting any deeper before I develop real feelings for Owen. And, red flags that confirm it’s too late and I already have them.

  If only I paid attention to the flags. I don’t. And, about an hour after I put the girls to bed and Owen texts me, I unlock the front door and let him in. In more ways than one.

  Friday nights are meant to be spent at the bar. Landon reminded me of this life motto last week. I blew it off then but, as I sit here in front of my dad’s house, I wonder if that is the life mantra I should stick to. I mean, it’s been how I’ve lived my life since before I was even old enough to set foot in a bar. Watching my dad drink his life away and pine for a woman who didn’t give a shit about him, I worried I would succumb to the same life.

  I worried about that until I was old enough to realize the decision was mine. I was in control of whether I allowed a woman in my life to control my emotions, encourage me to sacrifice for her, and then watch her walk away.

  Classic abandonment issues is what one ex-girlfriend said. “Mommy issues” is what another one said, which was my personal favorite. Of course, that one was said while I avoided a slamming door in my face. Well, not exactly exes, since I don’t commit. But, a regular I hooked up with before I figured out too many back-to-back nights meant they got the wrong idea.

  Regardless, maybe they were right. I mean, I do have issues with the woman who gave birth to me and then left me alone with a man who blamed me for her leaving. Cry me a river. I watched my hero self-destruct in some love-sick despair. It was embarrassing to watch happen.

  I think I was sixteen when I vowed to never allow a girl, or woman, to control me like that. That was also around the time I discovered girls like jocks, girls liked to be complimented, and if I was lucky I got to what my dad called “second base.”

  Always a baseball analogy with that guy. Tonight, we’re watching the Twins play the Yankees and my dad is, as expected, ignoring the fact that I’m here and shouting at the television as if he’s in the stadium. He’s been to the stadium. When I was twenty-one, I took him there for Father’s Day.

  That was back when I was still holding out hope for some sort of relationship with my dad. That was also the weekend I realized it was never happening. If taking him to see his favorite team play in their stadium against one of their biggest rivals, the Chicago White Sox, and cover all expenses for the trip didn’t win him over, nothing ever will.

  “I’m getting another beer, need anything?” I ask, rising from the couch.

  “Bring me a beer, would ya?”

  “Sure.”

  I’m only about two steps from entering the kitchen when he shouts out to me. “Make it one of them fancy beers you make. Might as well try what’s taking up my basement.” It’s not a compliment, but when it comes to Lee Butler and his beer, this is as good as it gets. I grab two bottles of my brew from the back of the fridge and pop the caps off both before returning to the living room and handing Dad his.

  “So, tell me what I’m drinking here; you know I don’t like that fruity shit.”

  I want to tell him to quit being a dick. But, considering this is the first time he’s asked about my brew or done more than grunt in my direction, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers.

  “What you have there is a Bourbon Stout.”

  “No fruit?”

  “Nah, you’re fruit-free with that.”

  I lift the bottle to my mouth
and slowly take a drink while never taking my eyes off my dad. I wait for what feels like an eternity while he drinks. So fucking slow. Has he always been this slow? Is it old age? Finally, he pulls the bottle from his lips.

  “Not bad. It’s kind of got a kick there at the end. Sure beats the hell outta that domestic shit I’ve been drinking. You got more of this?”

  I laugh and take another full swig from my bottle. “Yeah, Dad. There’s more. Don’t clean me out.”

  “You might have to let me sample a few of the others,” he says, taking another drink. This time, the drink is longer and his response is a sigh. Some guys get a pat on the back or the occasional “I’m proud of you, son” comment. I get an appreciative sigh for the beer I brewed. Again, beggars and choosers.

  For the next hour, I sit in comfortable silence with my dad. We both offer commentary on the game we’re watching. When the Twins turn a double play we high five—that’s never happened—and for the first time since I was a kid, I feel like I have some version of my dad back. When a commercial for a donut chain comes on the T.V., I consider leaving. I’m afraid this night is a one-time fluke and if I don’t stay I’ll miss out on this random father-son bonding. But, I am also supposed to meet Landon back at our place and head up to Country Road. My dad begins clearing his throat and I realize I’m not going anywhere soon.

  “So, I have some news.” Dad shifts in his recliner, forcing the footrest down and placing his elbows on his knees. For a minute, it looks like he’s struggling to breathe, but I quickly realize he’s waiting for me to speak.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I met someone. A lady. A woman.”

  “What?” He doesn’t answer quickly enough so I rapid fire off a few more questions. “When? Where? Who?”

  “Damn, boy, why are you making this difficult?”

  “I’m not making it anything. I’m confused. What do you mean, you met a woman? Like you’re dating?”

  “By the time you’re my age, it’s not dating. But, yes. Her name is Barbara.”

  My dad has been single for almost nineteen years. He’s lived, from what I know, a celibate and solitary life while waiting for the woman who abandoned us to walk through those doors. Sitting day after day in that stupid recliner, drinking his damn light beer, and waiting. And now, after all this time, he’s dating?

  “What about Mom?” I ask. How easily I fall back into the role of lost and confused little boy asking about my mom.

  “Your mom? Hell, son, your mom left nearly twenty years ago. I haven’t thought about her in ages.”

  “But you’ve done nothing but wait for her to walk in that door. For years, you’ve shut yourself off from everyone—me, your family, your friends, everyone—while you waited for her.”

  I had a girlfriend about four years ago; okay, she wasn’t necessarily a girlfriend. She was a girl I met at a party. We hooked up a few times and watched some Netflix. Essentially, the stereotypical “Netflix and chill.” She told me in no uncertain terms that I had some pent-up anger, which would come out one day, and she hoped the person on the receiving end was the person who deserved the wrath. I was worried she feared me. That my anger and rage were somehow frightening. They weren’t, she assured me. But, that didn’t mean both weren’t real.

  Now, as my dad speaks of Barbara and how he met her at the grocery store—she was kind enough to help him choose the right watermelon. A watermelon. Like goddamn Dirty Dancing. I can’t help but think I should call that ex and let her know my anger and rage did come out, and on the person they were meant for.

  “Stop! Just stop.” My voice is booming, my frustration evident. “My entire life you have sat there,” I accuse, pointing where he sits, “in that damn recliner, well not that one but a recliner, drinking until you passed out, working nights, not coming to my games, not speaking more than three words to me, while letting my friends’ parents guide me through life.” I’m livid. I see he has something to say, but I don’t allow it. Not now. Not ever.

  “Goddammit!” My anger is mounting. I can feel the rage building with each word I speak. My hands are opening and closing into fists, my back is rigid, and my heart is beating so fast it must be close to it exploding. I close my eyes to calm myself, to regulate my breathing. When I open my eyes, I see my dad staring at me. His face is one of confusion and trepidation. But his eyes, they reflect ten different emotions. Many I have never seen him express.

  “First, calm the fuck down. You look like you’re about to kill someone. Get yourself together, Owen, and sit down.” I hadn’t realized I was standing. “We are going to have a talk that should have taken place twenty years ago.”

  I manage to get some control over my emotions and sit down on the couch. I’m not sitting back casually but instead close to the edge. Ready to bounce if necessary.

  “Now, I don’t know what you think you know, but you have it very wrong. Yes, your mom left. And, at first I was lost. I loved her very much. She was everything to me. You both were.” He stops and motions for me to sit back, to relax. When I do, he stands. Pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips, head thrown back in frustration. He stops and looks at me.

  “I busted my ass to provide a life that ensured neither of you ever wanted for anything. But, no matter how hard I tried, your mother was never happy. I knew she was miserable. She hated this suburban life and everything about Lexington.” Dad lets out a laugh that is followed up by a cough. He shakes his head and smiles as if he’s shaking off a memory.

  “Back then, you were always running the streets with that Montgomery boy and playing ball. I know you played to make me happy and I never did tell you how proud you made me. You weren’t the most natural player but you busted your tail and it showed. And, your teammates respected you. That’s something a lot of boys your age didn’t have.”

  He was proud of me? What the hell is in this beer? I mean, I brewed it and didn’t add truth serum, but it’s having the same effect.

  “Anyway, when I came home that day and your mom was gone, I was angry. Angry at her for leaving but mostly angry with myself for not preparing you for it. Yes, I was a little depressed. I’m not sure if you’ve been in love but considering how pissed you are right now, I’m going to assume you haven’t been. Everything about your mom made me a better man. She gave me an amazing life when she gave me you and I could never repay her for it. So, when she left I kind of withdrew into myself. And in doing so, I found the bottom of a bottle one too many times. I was a shit father, Owen.”

  I can’t disagree with him on that last part. I take in the man sitting before me. The drinking and long nights have taken an effect on him. He looks older than I know he is, and while I’m not necessarily buying half the shit he says, even I can see his sincerity.

  Once he finishes his speech, he sits down again. His elbows fall to his knees and he leans forward but turns his head toward me. I sit back, crossing my leg so my foot rests on my knee. Deflated. Everything I thought I knew. Everything I assumed was wrong.

  “I guess shit father doesn’t begin to summarize how I failed you. Sorry will never be enough, Owen. I know that.”

  “All these years…” I hear the anger in my words and take a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself further before continuing. “Since Mom left, I’ve walked around with guilt. I felt guilty that she left because she didn’t want to be a mom. My mom.”

  I see something skirt across his face and his eyes glisten. I swear if my old man starts crying I’m going to quit life. That’s it. All done. Thankfully, he doesn’t. I don’t wait for him to respond, and ask the question that’s always been on the tip of my tongue; the one that hurts the most.

  “You said it was my fault. Why did you blame me?”

  “I never said that, Owen. It was never your fault. You’re talking nonsense now.”

  “No. Don’t blow this off. You would sit here, drinking and reading that fucking letter and then you’d talk about her other family and how it was my fault she left y
ou.”

  My dad pales and any gusto he had to respond is gone. I’ve never seen a person deflate like a balloon but my dad is doing just that.

  “Owen, I never meant that. Son, it was never your fault. Never. And I’m not sure what the hell nonsense I was spewing but back then, shit son, I was a mess. I screwed up, Owen. I’m sorry.” I snort in response. He’s sorry. Dad ignores my reaction and continues.

  “Her leaving, it doesn’t mean she didn’t love us. I believe she did. And, I don’t know anything about another family. It was probably easier for me to believe than instead of accepting the reality that she just needed to leave. That was about her, son, not us. I’m sorry I was so lost in my own selfish behavior that I missed out on so much with you.”

  I hear the words he’s saying. I know he’s sincere. I see it in how he’s holding himself. The look in his eyes. Regardless, I can’t help myself.

  “And now? It’s been almost twenty years. You want us to what? Share a fucking moment and have me congratulate you on your new girlfriend. Well, congratulations.”

  “Look, we don’t have to have some sort of therapy session tonight, but I want you to know something. I want you to know I see how I screwed up. I failed you as a father. I didn’t realize just how much until recently.” I watch as he takes a deep breath, assessing me and whether he should continue. I don’t respond which is the best I can do right now.

  “We’ve fallen into this pattern of not really talking about things, I take ownership of that. The other night, Barb asked me about you. She wondered why she hadn’t met you yet and then started peppering me with questions about you. I was embarrassed to say I couldn’t answer half her questions. That’s when she gave me a little talking to and told me I needed to get my shit together and be your dad. I only pray it isn’t too late.”

  “What happened to her?”