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He’s spent the last ten minutes trying to convince Natalie to watch a hockey game, and while sports have never really been my thing, I have to admit, he makes a compelling argument.
“Knife shoes, Natalie. Highway speeds. On knife shoes.”
“We don’t have to like all the same things,” she points out reasonably.
“It’s not about liking the same things, it’s about you missing out on the greatest sport known to mankind.”
“I’m pretty sure around here that’s considered football.”
“Well, that’s not wrong.”
“So they’re both the greatest sport known to man? How does that work?” she asks, laughter in her eyes.
On it goes. We’re more or less on our lunch break, just waiting for the delivery guy. Their banter keeps me going, even as I keep my head down, trying like hell to finish this brief before the food gets here. Natalie is happier if we eat together, where she can personally witness me finishing a meal.
Which is a weird thing to be turned on by, but here the fuck we are. She takes care of me, of both of us, in a way I’ve never experienced in my adult life. It’s charming and delightful and surprising, and yeah, it turns me on.
The phone rings. Natalie glares up at Finn playfully, holding up her hand to interrupt whatever point he’s trying to make about somebody named Connor McDavid, who is apparently a player second only to Jesus Himself.
“Pendergrass Law,” she says. “Yes, of course. We’ll be right down.”
She hangs up.
“That was the front desk,” she repeats, standing up and grabbing her badge. “They said the delivery guy is downstairs, but he says he’s not allowed upstairs.”
“Since when?” Finn asks.
She shrugs. “Will you cover the phone? I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
He catches her hand as she walks by, kissing it lavishly. Natalie rolls her eyes again, but her cheeks are flushed pink with pleasure. I could watch them all day.
I could spend the rest of my life watching them.
I shove that thought back into whatever corner of my brain it came from. Too much, too soon, Nic. Of course, I’ve known that about Natalie for over a year now. Somehow, Finn is part of that package.
Too much, too soon. Back off.
My cell phone vibrates from its charger on my desk. Dad.
My stomach sours, all the cheerful thoughts I’d been entertaining about a quiet lunch with my lovers going down the drain.
He’s called a few times over the last couple of weeks. I haven’t bothered to answer. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing left to say.
But he called twice yesterday and left voicemails both times, ordering me to call him back as soon as possible. My mother might be sick, or something equally serious may have happened to somebody else in the family, so this time, I answer.
“Hello?”
“About damned time,” he growls. “You answer your phone when I call you, boy. I won’t tolerate this kind of disrespect. Not from the likes of you.”
There are any number of things he could mean by “the likes of you.” I don’t ask him to clarify.
“Is Mom okay?”
“What?” He sounds legitimately startled. “Your mother is in perfect health. No thanks to you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“For starters, you have no right, no right whatsoever, to go spouting off half-cocked the way you did at dinner. Do I need to remind you who paid for everything you’ve got, including that ridiculous office you insist on leasing?”
