Until Now (3 page)

Again, I couldn’t respond.
Divorce
. It had only been a matter of time, I supposed. When a couple gets married for all the wrong reasons, that marriage will inevitably fail.

“I told her,” Alan went on, “that when I get back from the UK, I’m putting the house up for sale. I already have an apartment in the city, closer to work. It’s for the best.”

“Where is she going to go?” I asked. “And Lila and Drake?”
And me
, I added in my head. I didn’t
like
living at home, but Alan had agreed to pay my tuition only, not dorm fees. My job wouldn’t have covered the expenses, so I’d had no choice.

“Go? Looks like she already left.” His tone was like a verbal shrug.
Whatever
. “And when she calms down and comes back, she’ll be fine. More than fine, actually. She’ll take me for every penny she can get, I’m sure.”

“And what the hell am
I
supposed to do?”

“Get your own apartment. Move in with a friend. You’re a resourceful girl.”

I felt like sticking my arm through the phone, reaching across the Atlantic Ocean, and punching him in the face. “I mean with the twins. I can’t take care of them on my own. I can’t be their
mom
.”

“I’ll call my parents. They’ll come and get them, take them back to Lowry for a few days.”

My breath caught in my throat. Alan’s parents, who lived four hours away and were too old to keep up with one boisterous toddler, let alone two. Alan’s parents, who thought Mom was a gold digger and therefore hated her guts (and mine too, by extension). Alan’s parents, who would step in and take control, claiming what they felt was rightfully theirs. They’d rip my brother and sister away from me, ostensibly for their own good, and I’d never get to see them. They would be scared, missing home and me, and I’d be all alone in this cold, vacant house, marking the days until I had to leave it behind for good.

I wouldn’t let that happen. I
couldn’t
let it happen.

“No,” I told my stepfather. “Don’t call them. I’m done with school now. I can take care of them until you get home.” And after that, I had no idea. Alan, with his hectic work schedule and constant traveling, couldn’t look after them even if he wanted to. Even if he did give a shit about their welfare.

“Well, if you’re sure…” he said, his voice trailing away like he was already distancing himself from the situation.

“I’m sure. I’m on day shift all week at work, and I can put them in daycare. You’re still paying for their daycare, right?”

“Your mother takes care of that, but I think they’re paid up to the end of the month.” There was a pause, long and awkward. “Well. I guess you’re all set then, so…”

All set?
On what level was I all set? He was delusional. Nothing ever affected him, or motivated him to step up. Not even this.

The voice in the background started up again, sounding whiney now, and I could sense Alan’s desperation to get off the phone. As long as he was there, thousands of miles away in a fancy hotel with some bimbo in his bed, he could pretend that he didn’t have two babies at home, not to mention a missing wife and an overwhelmed stepdaughter who was doing her best to keep it all together.

“I hope she gives you herpes,” I told him, and hung up the phone.

“Maybe you should call the police.”

I looked up from my Greek salad and met Taylor’s steady, troubled gaze. She was the first person to bring up police involvement, probably because she knew me—and my family situation—better than anyone and usually got right to the meat of things. I shook my head and went back to my salad. “Not yet,” I said.

She stirred her iced tea with her straw, big green eyes still locked on me. “But they could probably track her using her cell phone signal or something.”

I sat back in my chair, enjoying the feel of the early-afternoon sun on my arms. At least twice a month, in the rare event that we found ourselves free at the same time, my best friend and I met up for lunch at this cute little café near my work. After filling her in on this latest drama, there was no question that we’d meet today. I’d always been able to count on Taylor to help absorb any blows my piece-of-work mother threw at me.

“She didn’t take her cell phone,” I said, spearing a black olive. I’d discovered this on Friday night, when I called her number and immediately heard ringing coming from upstairs. She’d left it on her dresser, stripped of any clues that might tell me where she was.

“Weird,” Taylor said. She pushed away the remains of her turkey sandwich and turned toward the window beside us, which faced the street. She watched the passing cars and pedestrians, biting her bottom lip like she did when she was thinking about something unsettling. We’d known each other since we were thirteen, weathered puberty and several other crises (mostly mine) together, and I knew all her little quirks and what each of them meant. Lip-biting meant thinking. Nail-biting meant she was anxious. Eye contact avoidance meant she thought I was wrong.

“If she’s not back in a couple of days, I’ll call the police,” I assured her, even though I knew it wouldn’t do any good. It was Monday and she was still gone, which told me she hadn’t left on some weekend excursion. And the fact that she’d left her cell phone—and no note—meant she didn’t
want
to be tracked down. Even if the police found her…then what? What would they do? Force her to come back and act like a mom? Arrest her? Wasn’t child abandonment a crime? I’d have to Google it when I got home later.

“You can’t do this alone, Rob.” Taylor leaned toward me, the ends of her wavy brown hair brushing against the round table top. “It’s too stressful. Maybe it would be better if Alan’s parents—”

“No,” I said, my voice cutting through the café soundtrack of clinking dishes and the moist hiss of cappuccino machines. “I can handle it.”

She raised her eyebrows, unsure, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. That the pressure of being the sole caregiver to two rambunctious kids might send me into some sort of breakdown. That the stable life I’d worked so hard to maintain might come crashing down around me from the strain. A month or so before the twins were born, I’d sworn to her—and to myself—that I’d get myself together. And I had. I stopped partying every weekend. I quit smoking. I got good grades and made different friends and dated nice guys instead of douchebags who treated me like shit. I wanted to be a good role model for my brother and sister. Someone they could feel proud of. And, for the most part, that was what I’d been, aside from a tiny relapse one night in the fall of freshman year, when I succumbed to peer pressure, drank my face off, and woke up hungover and half-naked in a strange bed with a guy next to me that I didn’t even remember meeting. Not one of my finer moments.

“So Alan’s selling the house?” Taylor asked, changing the subject.

I nodded, mouth full of lettuce. I tried not to think too much about the house, and what would happen when it sold. For now, I just wanted to concentrate on keeping the kids alive until bedtime.

“Have you given any thought to where you’ll go?”

I swallowed. “If Mom comes back, I guess I’ll stay with her and the twins. If she doesn’t, I have no idea.”

“I’d ask if you wanted to stay with us,” she said, smiling, “but I don’t know where we’d put you. Bathtub, maybe?”

I smiled back at her, thinking of the tiny, one-bedroom apartment she shared with her boyfriend. “You think Michael would mind?”

She snorted. “He’s so focused on applying for summer internships, he probably wouldn’t even notice.”

“He
just
graduated,” I pointed out.

“I know, but the competition is fierce for museum internships. And he needs a job.” She took a sip of her watery iced tea. “You know his father isn’t going to help us out with money.”

I nodded again, remembering how mad his father had been two years ago when Michael transferred colleges after his sophomore year so he could move back home and be with Taylor. He was even more furious when Michael and Taylor moved in together last year, and then he damn near blew a gasket a few months ago, when Michael purposely missed the deadline to apply to law school and announced his plan to go for his Master’s in History instead. His father wanted him to be a lawyer, like him, but Michael wanted to be an archivist. Hence the museum internship.

“I’m sure his mom would slip him some money,” I said, balling up my napkin. “Or your parents.”

She shook her head. “We want to make it on our own.”

I placed my hand on my heart in an
aw, how sweet
gesture. They were so cute, it was borderline nauseating. I couldn’t imagine being with the same person for four and a half years without wanting to smother him in his sleep, but Taylor and Michael were perfect for each other. Meant to be. I’d known it from the first moment I saw them together, back in junior year of high school.

“I should probably go,” I said a few minutes later. “My lunch hour is almost up and my boss will strangle me if I’m even a second late getting back.” This was speculation on my part, but Wade still hadn’t completely forgiven me for Friday and I didn’t want to test his tolerance.

We left our cozy spot by the window and headed outside to where Taylor’s car was parked along the curb.

“Let’s get together this weekend,” she said, squinting against the bright sun as she looked up at me. I’d always towered over her, and she envied my height in the same way my barely-B-cup chest envied her curves. “Go out for dinner or something. You can bring the twins if…” She didn’t finish her thought, but she didn’t have to. The unspoken words hung in the brisk spring air between us.

“Sure,” I said, leaning in to hug her good-bye. She hugged me back, tighter and longer than usual, then pulled back and looked me firmly in the eyes.

“I take back what I said before,” she told me. “You
can
do this, Robin. You’re doing it already.”

I gave her a grateful smile. Until right that second, I had no idea how desperately I’d needed to hear those words.

* * *

I didn’t have to pick the kids up at daycare until five, so when I got off work that afternoon at three, I decided to take advantage of those two free hours and do something I hadn’t done in months.

Margins Bookstore was located in the north end of the city, tucked between a nail salon and an organic bakery. Like most of the stores on the street, it was small and independently-owned. I liked it mainly because of its peaceful atmosphere. Last fall, I’d taken to hanging out in the Biographies and Memoirs section, where there was a cozy little nook with a couch to sit on when you got tired of browsing for books. I’d spent hours on that threadbare, olive-green couch, studying or flipping through magazines or just enjoying the warmth and quiet. It relaxed me.

Now, as I drove down the traffic-clogged streets, I recalled the ear-splitting pitch of Lila’s shriek this morning when I refused to let her go to daycare wearing a Hello Kitty nightgown and purple rain boots. Peace and quiet were more than welcome right now, and so was caffeine.

After grabbing a cup of coffee and a raspberry muffin at the organic bakery next door, I carried both into Margins and headed straight for the vacant couch. The entire store was vacant, but I didn’t mind. No one was around to disturb me as I ate my snack and perused the latest copy of
Us Weekly
, which I’d snagged from the magazine rack at the front of the store on my way through.

I could feel my muscles loosening as I breathed in the scent of new and used books—each had a distinct smell—mingled with the fragrant steam rising from my coffee cup. With a relieved sigh, I dug my raspberry muffin out of its paper bag and tore off a large chunk.

“No food or beverages allowed.”

I gasped, almost choking on a mouthful of muffin, and looked in the direction of the voice. A few feet to my left, in the True Crime section, stood a man who seemed to have materialized out of the dusty air. He was sifting through books, not even looking at me, so I wasn’t completely sure if he was the one who’d spoken. But no one else was in the store, so it was either him or a bibliophile ghost.

“Excuse me?” I said, trying to subtly dislodge a raspberry from my esophagus.

The man paused in his book-organizing and glanced at me, then at the muffin in my hand. “No food or beverages,” he repeated. He gestured with his chin toward the front of the store. “There’s a sign on the door.”

There was? I’d never noticed a sign. I coughed and took a sip of coffee, which was, of course, a beverage, and therefore banned. But damn it, I’d paid a small fortune for this organic snack and I wasn’t going to throw it in the trash just so I could keep sitting here. “But Kenny always lets me eat and drink in here,” I said, thinking I’d gain some cred for being on a first name basis with the owner.

“Well,” the man said, gazing at me steadily now. “I’m not Kenny.”

That’s for sure, I thought. Kenny was about fifty, with graying hair and wrinkles and a big, bulbous nose. But this guy…this guy was tall and lean with close-cropped dirty-blond hair and a shadow of light brown stubble on his jaws. Not Kenny-like in the slightest.

“And unlike Kenny,” the guy went on as he slid a book off the shelf, turned it around, and returned it to the same spot, “I’m not a sucker for a pretty face. So…no food or drinks in here. Please.”

I gaped at him. He was actually going to make me either ditch my food or leave? Seriously? All I wanted was an hour or so of solitude before I had to go home and deal with food prep and tantrums and bedtimes and questions. One measly hour, when no one wanted anything from me and I didn’t have to move. Was that so much to ask?

“It’s not like I’m hurting anything,” I said, not ready to give in. I’d never been the strict rule-following type. Rules were made to be bent, in my opinion. Or overlooked entirely.

The guy moved on to the next shelf, the one closest to me, pointedly looking at the scuffed wood floor beneath my feet as he went. I followed his gaze and noticed the sprinkle of muffin crumbs, some of which were buried in the gaps between the boards. Oh.

“Look, I’ll clean it up,” I assured him. Using the sole of my sneaker, I tried pushing the crumbs into an orderly pile, but only succeeded in squishing them deeper into the gaps. The guy narrowed his eyes at me, unimpressed.

“No,
I’ll
clean it up,” he said, turning back to his task. “May as well add ‘janitor’ to my mounting list of duties.”

I felt a pinprick of remorse but pushed it back, focusing instead on this guy’s irritating presence. He examined the spines of the books on the top shelf, then rearranged two paperbacks. What was he doing, alphabetizing them? I’d already worked out that he was an employee here and not just some anal-retentive customer, but it seemed to me like he was prolonging this chore just so he could keep an eye on me. I had a passing urge to shove the rest of the muffin into my mouth, follow it with a few gulps of coffee, and then belch loudly.

“Why have a couch here if you don’t want people to sit on it and relax?” I asked, stealthily brushing a few stray crumbs off the yoga pants I wore for work.

“Sit and relax all you want.” He scanned the next shelf, sliding his fingers along the spines. “I’m just sick of you college kids coming in here and treating the place like it’s a Starbucks. Or a library,” he added, eyeing the open magazine in my lap, which was also dotted with crumbs.

I stifled a snort.
College kids?
He didn’t look much older than a student himself. Mid-twenties, max. I missed Kenny, with his tobacco-stained smile and easygoing ways. I could’ve eaten an entire turkey dinner in here and he wouldn’t have batted an eye. Where had this guy come from and what the hell was his problem? He kept looking at me like I was some dumb, carefree college girl whose sole responsibly in life was to defile bookstores and aggravate staff members. Like he was so sure he had me pegged. And it pissed me off way more than it should have.

Screw this.

I stuffed the half-eaten muffin back in its bag, closed
Us Weekly
, and grabbed my coffee from its perch on the arm of the couch. The guy was watching me, I could sense it, but I didn’t look at him as I stood up and dug around in my purse for a five dollar bill. When I found one, I walked up to him and pressed it into his palm.

“For the magazine,” I said when he looked at me, surprised. He had wide, pale blue eyes, like Bradley Cooper. Under different circumstances, I may have flirted with him. May have attempted to coax the tension out of those broad shoulders of his. But not now, not when I felt like asking him if he ever considered undergoing surgery to remove the giant stick from his ass.