Before I Ever Met You

Only now I’m staring stupidly at Will as he sits in the leather arm chair, leaning forward as he talks to my father, elbows on his thighs.

For the first time this week he’s not wearing a suit. And for the first time I’m realizing how fucking fit he is. It was always a given that he was in shape, what with his slim hips, his firm ass (not that I’ve been staring), and broad-shoulders. But now in an olive silk short-sleeved shirt, I can actually see the ropey muscle of his tanned forearms, the hard width of his biceps.

Wow.

I keep my mouth clamped together to prevent any drool from escaping and look to my father. That oughta set me right.

My father looks so old next to Will, especially with his shock of white hair and black framed glasses. Then again, he’s always had this Leslie Neilson thing going on. Both of them have a few fingers of scotch in their crystal highball glasses. A couple of Mad Men indeed.

“Jackie-O,” my father says loudly. He’s probably been at the scotch since he got on his plane this afternoon. “I was just talking to Will boy over here about you. I asked if it was time to get you a raise already.”

“And?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.

“He says you’re on the right track,” my father says. “Would you like a drink?”

I probably should say no but I don’t. “Sure,” I say, heading toward the decanter on the bar car.

“Here, you sit,” Will says, getting to his feet. “I’ll get it.”

Before I can protest he’s pouring me a glass. And I’m staring at his ass.

“Well, well, well,” my father says. “And the boss is getting the employee a drink. Come on, Will, it should be the other way around. You’ve got her now, use her.”

I give Dad a wry look. Will just raises his brow at him before he passes me the glass, our fingers brushing against each other for a second. Any longer and I probably would have melted.

“Cheers to you, kid,” he says, raising his own glass at me, his eyes looking right into mine. “Sorry. Just Jackie.”

“Thank you Mr. McAlister,” I say deliberately.

“Mr. McAlister,” my father says with a laugh. “Boy, doesn’t that make you feel old?”

“Yes, it does,” Will muses.

“Oh come on,” I tease as I sip the scotch. “How can anyone feel old when you’re next to my father. He’s ancient.”

“That’s enough out of you,” my father admonishes me. “I’ve been away all week, and it feels like the world has crumbled without me here to keep you all in line.”

“Where’s your boy?” Will asks me, ignoring him. “Tyson, right?”

I look over my shoulder to the kitchen where my mother is calmly getting everything ready. He’s not there, which means he’s probably in his room.

“He’s hiding,” I tell him. “He gets shy around people he doesn’t know.”

“Hell, the kid is still shy around me and I’m his grandfather.”

“Dad,” I say, warning him.

“I’m sure it will take him awhile to get used to things,” Will says smoothly. “But kids are resilient.”

Ty definitely is. But even so, he’s been through a lot. The other day he asked when Jeff was coming down to live with us. It tore me up inside to remind him it was just the two of us from now on, and Jeff was going to be gone for a long time.

God, I hope so, I think to myself, scared for one deep second at the idea of Jeff somehow showing up at our door one day.

“You okay?” Will asks, his voice low as he stares at me.

I look at him, blinking a few times. “What? Oh. Yes. Just, uh . . .thought of something.”

He stares at me for a moment, his eyes searching my face. I paste on a smile. “I should probably go check on him. Dinner will be ready soon, and for all I know he’s sitting around in his underwear.”

I quickly place the scotch on the coffee table and head upstairs. I can’t help but feel relieved the moment I’m alone in the hallway. Something about having both my father and Will here makes me feel like I’m on display, ripe for judging. I’ve had more than enough judgment in my life.

Tyson’s door is closed, so I take a moment to get my emotions under control before I knock. He’s so astute at picking up on them, and the last thing I want is for him to be freaked out. In fact, if he doesn’t want to have dinner with us, I don’t see a good reason for making him.

I knock softly. “Ty-Ty? Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

I open the door and see him sitting on the floor flipping through one of his favorite dinosaur books. He’s probably read it a million times by now, can name you every single dinosaur that’s in there. I pretty much know their names too, which would help at work if Will ever gave me anything that remotely pertained to the projects Mad Men Studios is helming.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Reading,” he says, not looking up at me.

“You know it’s almost dinner time.”

He pauses mid-page flip. “Yeah. Who is the man again? He sounds like Batman.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Well if you come down and meet him, maybe you’ll find out he is Batman.”

He gives me a suspicious look, wrinkling up his nose. “Batman would never just tell you he’s Batman.”

“Unless he trusts you and you ask nicely.” He’s not sure about that. “Look, I don’t really want to have dinner with them either,” I admit. “But he’s grandpa’s friend. And my boss.”

“Batman is your boss?”

“Yes. Maybe. We haven’t figured out if he’s Batman yet, remember?”

“Right.” But I can tell he’s a little more intrigued at the possibility that I might be working for Batman. I can only hope Will plays along with it.

“So do you want to come down?”

“Why don’t you want to have dinner?”

I sigh. “I mean, I do want to. It’s just . . .you know, I’m tired too. I had a long day at work, I wasn’t off riding Snickers and using magic.”

“Taffy. The pony was called Taffy.”

“But,” I remind him, “sometimes we do things we don’t feel like doing because it will make other people happy. This will make your grandma and grandpa very happy.”

“And Batman?”

“Sure.” I don’t think Will necessarily minds me being here, if anything I suspect it amuses him. Come to think about it, I’m pretty sure all I’ve been doing this week is amusing him in some way. He probably still thinks of me as a sulky teenager.

“So is his name Bruce Wayne?”

“We call him Will.”

“A fake name,” he says, tapping his fingers against his chin as he thinks.

I jerk my head toward the door. “Come on. We’ll go down together.”

Luckily he looks fairly presentable in jeans and a yellow polo shirt. Even though I rarely bought clothes for myself over the last few years, I always made a point to make sure Ty dressed well. Whatever he wanted, I did what I could to make sure he had it, one way or another. It’s just that Ty isn’t one to want for much, let alone ask for it. And the thing he does want—a good father—is something I can’t provide for him.

“You look sad,” he says to me as he gets to his feet.