“But?”
“We went to dinner after everyone left for the airport. The food was great—fucking expensive, but great. It was a romantic little restaurant, and she held my hand the entire meal. I was going to tell her after dinner. I was going to finally say it—that I love her—and we were supposed to start being us that night. I went to the bathroom about halfway through the meal and didn’t think anything of it. So when the bill came and it wasn’t a bill but the receipt with Mel’s credit card being returned, I realized she’d paid for it.”
“What a monster,” he says dryly.
“I tried to tell her that wasn’t necessary, but she said—and I quote—‘I know you don’t make much, and the meal was expensive.’ ”
“Ouch,” Dad says. “So you’re writing off this horrible monster with stingy parents because she emasculated you?”
“You have a way of making me feel stupid.”
“Well, you have a way of making yourself sound stupid.”
“So how do I stop sounding stupid?” I shouldn’t be having to ask my dad for paint-by-number instructions on how to be a better man.
“Your mother needs certain things from me. She needs to know I love Bailey just the same as I love the rest of you. Before I retired, she needed to know I did everything in my power to come home safe to her. In return, I need her to not want more than I can give, and I need her to support the decisions I make. When she does that, when I do that, that’s how we show our love and respect to each other.”
“I need her to not pay for things when we’re together. I work hard for what I have, and I take pride in that. I’m not mooching off Christian Kincaid.”
“Don’t got to tell me, son,” he says and pats my back.
My mobile beeps in my pocket, letting me know I have a text message. When I pull it out and read the screen, my stomach drops. It’s from Lydia.
MEL’S HERE. HELP?
What. The. Fuck.
Chapter 15
Jameson
I pull up the text Lydia sent months back with her new address, just in case I needed it, plug it into my travel app and race over to Lydia’s apartment as quickly as I can, which really isn’t all that quickly considering she’s moved to Brooklyn. We kept in touch long enough to settle matters with the apartment and make sure nothing came of her bullshit.
On my way, which includes a ten-minute ride on the B toward Brighton Beach and a half-mile walk to her place, I call Mel about a dozen times. I finally stop trying to reach her when her perky voice urging me to leave a message grates on my nerves. I send Lydia one text after another asking her why Mel’s there and why I’m getting messages asking for help, but after the first one she sent, I haven’t heard from her again.
I approach a three-story brownstone that’s flanked by a dry cleaner on one side and a nail salon on the other. I’m apprehensive about walking up to the door, being unsure about the directions my phone is giving me. It just doesn’t look like a place where Lydia would live. The two apartments we shared were nice—not overly fancy, but nice and, as she demanded, they had curb appeal—and from the street, this place looks dumpy.
“Just stop lying!” Mel’s voice carries to the curb in a frantic scream.
I rush up the steps to the front door. It opens into a small landing with two doors on each side and a set of stairs in the middle. The brownstone appears to be a fourplex, or a threeplex at the very least, and Mel’s voice is coming from upstairs.
I take the steps three at a time and fly around the corner at the second-floor landing, but her voice is still distant as she practically cries out. Even the sound of her distress is like a sharp knife digging into my ribcage. If Lydia said or did something to her, I’m going to fucking lose it.
By the time I make it up to the third floor, my heart is beating hard and my muscles are aching. It’s the same feeling I have when I’m heading into a fire, but there’s a sickening edge to it. This is worse because it’s so personal.
When I turn around the landing, I see the third floor also has two apartments. One near the top of the stairs and the other at the far end of the hall. Lydia’s apartment is at the far end where a wide landing is decorated by things I recognize as hers. The little bench that sits beside her door used to sit beside our door in our old apartment. It was excellent for setting bags down on, or yourself if you needed to remove muddy shoes. Now the little bench is covered by a black leather handbag and purple coat. At the doorway, Mel stands with her hands on her hips as she taps her foot incessantly. She turns as I approach, and her red-rimmed, teary eyes widen at the sight of me. She turns back to Lydia and sneers.
“Call him for backup?”
“What the hell?” I ask. Standing behind Mel, I hover over her as much as I can without encroaching on her personal space.