I feel my cheeks burn as I turn around. Shorty is sitting on the couch, sprawled on it like he owns it, his hawk like eyes watching me.
"What?" I just said goodnight to Tom, feeling a mixture of embarrassment, anxiety and confusion coursing through me. This is not how I had expected to end my night with him. Not at all. Tom had been good natured about it, as he is about almost all things. He'd was sweet, even. Which made it all the harder to say goodnight to him, and then promptly shut the door, returning back to Shorty's annoyed scowl.
Shorty had threatened, quite a few times, in the last few weeks that he was going to come and drag me back to California, but I'd never believed him. Little towns aren't really his thing. If me coming back to Delaware was like two worlds colliding, Shorty being here feels like two worlds imploding.
"So, what's his name? Is it serious? Are you in love? Babies? Dog? White picket fence?" Shorty tilts his head to the side, smiling sweetly and blinking at me as he throws the questions my way. I cross my arms over my chest, annoyed. I've known Shorty for a long, long time. We don't really have any secrets. But maybe that should start to change. I used to tell him everything, whether it was personal or business related, as soon as it happened. And for some reason, now, I don't feel really feel like talking about Tom. Especially not with him.
"Shut up." I roll my eyes and walk away, into the kitchen to get a drink. It would be nice if there was something stronger than wine in the house, but I distinctly remember finishing off the whiskey with Sam and Rachel two nights ago. Instead, I pour myself a glass of wine, not offering Short any as he stomps into the kitchen.
"I mean, you're kidding me, right? Do you even know this guy?" Shorty asks, his voice tired and mean. "You're just bored, right?" He is totally serious. I turn and glare at him, but I don't say anything. I know anything I say will fuel the fire. And honestly, maybe Shorty has a tiny, itty bitty point. I'm not bored. But, a relationship, of any kind, is probably the last thing I need.
"Baby. Stuff like this is why we are in this shit in the first place. I've been working my ass off for you. Trying to clean up. And you're here, in Bumfuck, Nowhere, getting to second base with some random local." He crosses his arms over his chest, mimicking my stance, as I feel my blood start to boil. I'm angry. But I'm also sad. Because I was just having one of the best evenings I've had in a long time, and then Shorty came crashing in, bringing reality back hard and cold. It's not really his fault though. I've been avoiding him like the plague.
"His name is Tom. He's not random." I say softly with a sigh. Shorty groans and leans against the counter.
"As long as you don't send him any videos."
"Fuck off." I brush past Shorty, and out into the small living room.
"Come on, Baby. Give us a hug. It's been over a month since I've seen you. You look good. Tan. More tan than I've ever seen you, in fact. Which is weird considering your house in California is so close to the beach—" Shorty coos after me, his voice slipping into a slightly more needy, kinder tone.
"I'm tan because they let me go outside here." I shoot back at him, plopping down on the couch. He huffs and stands at the doorway, watching me. It is so strange having him here. I feel forced back into the world I've been running away from.
"Don't be like that." He grunts and then comes and sits down next to me. We are quiet for a minute. Shorty is looking around the room, taking in the scenery. Rachel and Sam's house is much different than my own. It's warm. Comfortable. Full of things that mean something to them. At my house in California, Shorty had a decorator come in and furnish and design everything. It feels more like a show room than a home.
"What are you doing here? I'm not ready to come back." I say after a minute, glancing over at him. It's the honest truth. I'm not ready. Shorty leans down, pulling a piece of lint off his suit.
"Alright, well if you're not coming back then we've got to get some work done here. Emails to go through. Offers to accept or decline. And you've got a meeting with the label. Your contract is up soon. They want to know what we're doing." He takes a deep breath and purses his lips, lost in thought. "We can do a conference call. But we have to do it, Baby. I can't wait any longer." He reaches over, takes my hand and squeezes it, trying to be reassuring. All he's really doing, is making me feel panicky.
I haven't seen him in weeks, and it's strange to look at him, almost with fresh eyes. He's about ten years older than me, but he doesn't look it. He keeps himself in good shape, always dressed to the nines and groomed perfectly. I know he gets a haircut every four weeks. He gets a manicure every two. He's most likely wearing an outfit that was tailor made for him. I used to admire that about him. How he seemed to have it so together, all the time. It's sort of a necessity to live and work in Los Angeles. A necessity that I wasn't always so good at. He kept me on a regular schedule of nail, hair and personal trainer appointments, so it had been easy. He wanted his clients to look just as good as him. In fact, it was a reflection of him.
Now, sitting here, my minds drifts to Tom, who is most likely walking home. I think about his hair, how messy it gets after a day at the beach, crawling in the sand and hoisting Gemma over waves. The way he runs his hands through the side of it when he's thinking, or when he's bothered by something. I think about his comfortable, worn in clothes. I know he doesn't have the money to splurge on new things. And anything extra he does get, he puts toward Gemma. Even if he did have the money, I don't think clothes would be his high on his list of things to buy. I think about his hands. His neat, short nails. The slightly rough spots from the constant upkeep of two homes—his and Rosie's. Last weekend, he'd sanded and painted peeling doors. The week before, he was replacing wooden garden walls around the worn exterior of Rosie's home. I think about the bruise on his shin from where he had yet another run in with a "parking lot" full of toy cars.
Two worlds. Both places I live. I'm not sure which one I belong in anymore.
****
Tom kept pace with Sam, neither of them speaking much as they made their way down the beach. It was earlier than their usual run, but neither of them had classes that day, for the first time in awhile and they were both keen on getting an early start to the remainder of their short summer break.
"How was your trip?" Tom asked. They were keeping a good pace, but he wasn't out of breath. Sam nodded, the sound of the ocean and their feet pounding on the packed sand was the only noise around them. It was barely after six in the morning, so there was no one else on the beach.
"Fantastic. Just got to spend time with Rach. God, I love that woman." Sam grinned at Tom and then laughed. Tom reached over, smacking Sam on the arm with a smile. They'd already run nearly a mile, but Tom had a feeling they'd go for at least another two or three. Sam seemed energetic, and Tom needed to release some energy. And pent up...frustration.
"You're lucky, mate." Tom said, looking forward. Sam nodded in agreement, but was quiet, thoughtful.
"How was your weekend?" He asked after a beat. Tom nodded, looking out toward the surf as they ran. He wasn't totally sure how to answer that question. His weekend had in turn, been one of the best one he'd had in quite some time, and also the worst.
Of course, she hadn't left his mind. Not since she'd sat down on his lap, pressed her soft curves against him, and kissed him within an inch of his life. All this before asking him if he could even still get it up...then simply killing him with the sweet, alluring way she'd teased him after.
She should have been like anyone else. Just another pretty face. A lost woman, looking for a semblance of home. Of normality. And at first, that's what he'd been sure she was. A blip on the radar. She was definitely intelligent, and talented. He could see why she was successful, why people felt inexplicably drawn to her, her voice and her looks. She was ethereal. He had written her off, at first, as just another product of her career and the business she thrived in.
But then...then she'd spoken. And he'd felt her look at him, look totally through him, and nearly rip his heart out with her honesty. Billie was lost. She was hurt. But she most definitely was not broken. And he found nearly everything about her to be fascinating.
"Alright. I saw Billie the other night. We had dinner." Tom finally answered Sam's question, looking straightforward as he did. He could feel his friend's focus turn on him, though to his credit, Sam didn't say anything.
"Out with it." Tom said with a low grunt, glancing over at Sam. Sam didn't often hold back his opinion, so it sort of surprised Tom that he was going to have to drag it out of him. Sam shrugged, then made a noise as if he was going to launch into a speech, but didn't.
"So what is it, do you think? A summer thing? Or something else? It's been awhile for you, man. I know that." Sam asked, getting right to it. Tom pushed the pace a bit more, wondering if maybe they ran harder and faster, there would be less talking.
"I don't know. I can't seem to...get her out of my head." He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge Billie from his thoughts. Sam laughed then, loudly.
"Bee has that way with people, you know? It's no wonder she's so popular. So successful. She's got something about her. Rach has it too, but hers is different. Billie can't help but turn heads." Sam looked over at Tom, who nodded.
"And I don't like that guy. Shorty." He couldn't stop himself. He needed to know what Sam thought of the new visitor. Sam snorted, and kept running.
"You and me both, man. Billie swears by him. But I think he's a douche. I know they do it differently on the West Coast, but he just rubs me the wrong way. And he's been around constantly the past week. Thank god he's not staying with us, but he might as well be. He's there when I get up, and there when I leave." Sam breathed heavily, as Tom took his information in. No wonder he hadn't spoken to Billie. She'd obviously been preoccupied.
"Am I being an idiot, Sam?" He asked softly, looking over to meet Sam's eyes and raised brow. Sam shook his head and then began to slow down, until they were at a slow jog. Tom matched him, waiting on his friend to answer. His opinion meant a lot to him. Sam had been the one to urge him to really look into adopting Gemma. He'd been the one to suggest staying in Delaware.
"I don't know, man. Billie is...in a weird place. I don't know what to tell you. I think she really does like you though. But, then again, I've never seen her in a relationship, of any kind. So I'm not sure what that's like for her. I just think you should be careful. I know I'm probably telling you things you've already considered. But I know Gemma is your number one concern. And I'd hate to see her get too attached. You too." Sam said gently. He didn't say it explicitly, but the meaning was there. Tom nodded and looked away, then turned and headed them both back down the beach.
The meaning of Sam's words were apparent. Don't get attached. Billie wasn't here to stay. Of course she wasn't. She had a house, a career, a life back in Los Angeles. This place, this town, was just a momentary distraction—a place to get some R&R before heading back to real life. He was more than likely just a tiny part of that puzzle.
"Thanks, mate." Tom said flippantly, and then pushed forward, bringing them back up to a rather grueling, punishing pace.
***
"Gemma. Shoes. Now." Tom pointed toward the hallway, where he knew at least three pairs of Gemma's tiny shoes were, just waiting to trip some poor, half asleep soul (aka him) in the middle of the night.
"I don't want to. No." Gemma shook her head, her dark curls shaking around her round face. She bunched her hands at her sides, and then sunk defiantly to the ground, landing like a sack of potatoes. Tom blinked and then put a hand on his hip.
"You don't want to go to a cook out? See Rach and Sam? And Billie?" He asked, hesitant to say Billie's name for a moment. He hadn't seen her since their dinner. Since Shorty had come to town. And that was almost a week ago. He wasn't even totally sure she'd be there tonight. Sam had invited them over just a few hours ago, and Tom had agreed, thinking Gemma would enjoy it. She normally loved seeing them.
"No." Gemma said, offering no other explanation. Tom took a deep breath, checked the time on the clock over the stove. They were already late, though he knew it wasn't a huge deal. These things were pretty casual. But it was nearing seven, and he could tell Gemma would need to go to bed early that night, judging by her theatrics.
"Well, unfortunately for you, we are going to go, and we're going to have a good time. I'm starving, aren't you? Hot dogs, Gems. And then we can come home, and go to bed." He tried to reason with her, not sure if she was going to go into full histrionics or just stay at a mid-level grump.
"I don't want to go to bed." She grunted. Well, now she was just being disagreeable to be disagreeable.
"Right. Well, first we're going to the cookout, then we go to bed." He reached for her, taking her under the arms to try and lift her to her feet. Gemma screeched, leaning back and thrashing her arms and legs, big crocodile tears forming at the sides of her eyes. She arched her back, with such strength that Tom had to nearly catch her from rearing back and smacking her head on the wood floor.
"Gemma!" Tom exclaimed, setting her as gently as he could on the floor. The tantrums were a relatively new thing, and he hadn't quite gotten used to them. Sometimes they would go into full blown hysterics, but more often than not he could talk her out of it. He sunk down onto the ground next to Gemma, who had collapsed into a heap, curled up like a tiny shrimp. She was breathing heavily, on the verge of real tears, but she had stopped screeching. He pulled his legs up, leaning down slightly to try and see her face. He could see her watching him, through her mass of dark hair.
"Tell me, little rhino. Why so angry?" He whispered, leaning back against the wall. She narrowed her eyes at him, her hands covering most of her face. He felt his heart clench, and then he leaned forward on his legs, resting his chin on his hands.
He knew why she was upset, even if she didn't. Things had felt off the past few days. Past few weeks. There were a lot of new changes. He was slowly keeping her over at his house more and more, trying to make the transition as easy as possible, but he could tell it was tough on her. She loved Rosie. And while he wasn't trying to take her from Rosie, or keep them apart, both he and Rosie had decided that Gemma should try and transition to living with him full time. It just made more sense. Rosie was getting older. And Gemma was getting more and more active, more and more of a handful. Rosie just couldn't quite keep up anymore. They still saw each other nearly every day, but Tom had taken over all the major responsibilities.
Gemma had picked up on it nearly immediately. She cried for Rosie occasionally at night, and it totally broke Tom's heart.
He couldn't help but doubt himself. Doubt the choices he'd made. Not the decision to adopt her—he'd never doubt that, but whether it truly was the right thing. He just wanted what was best for Gems. He knew it was just a momentary hiccup, and that she'd adjust. But he worried he was doing some sort of long term damage. Gemma already had to fight with the idea that her mother was nearly absent from her life. And now her whole routine, her whole home, was changing.
And then there was Billie. Gemma asked about her, at least a few times a day. She'd really left an impression on the little girl. Probably because she was the first woman that he'd ever had around. In the early days, back when Gemma was a baby, and Becca had just left, he'd gone on a rather heartless, soulless binge of women. Anyone who was willing, just to keep his mind off of the mess that his life had become.
Gemma was barely a glimmer on his radar at the time. He'd just been nursing a broken, confused, angry heart, and the realization that he'd moved halfway across the world for a woman he hadn't truly known. And was now stuck in a place he didn't know or understand, with debts that he'd probably never pay off, a woman who could be his grandmother, and a baby that didn't really seem to belong to anyone.
Then he'd met Sam. And Rachel. And they'd somehow talked him down from the ledge. Sam had done it with a lot of harmless, drunken nights and rambling talks. Rachel had done it with common sense, and a soothing calm that only the Darling women seemed to have.
And ever since then, he'd been careful not to bring anyone around Gemma. There hadn't been anyone to bring. Except here was Billie. And Gemma seemed to sense that something was off. Or maybe just not how it should be. Because Billie hadn't been around to dig for sand crabs, and Tom hadn't had her over for spaghetti dinner. And Gemma, in her infinite five year old wisdom, had noticed.
"Can we watch Snowman, Tommy?" Gemma asked, looking up at him with big, wide eyes. He reached forward, brushing her messy hair from her little, sweaty face. The Snowman movie that she always went back to in times of happiness, sadness, insecurity.
"Sure, little lady. Let's go get some dinner, first, okay? Sam and Rach are going to miss you if we don't come." He said gently, and Gemma sat up, having calmed herself down. She leaned forward, scooted on her bum across the floor, and wrapped herself around Tom's legs. He reached for her, gently rubbing her back, feeling the small, strong bones in her shoulders and back. She pressed her face against his knee, closing her eyes.
"Why is your name Tom?" Gemma asked, opening her eyes after a moment. Her question took him aback, and he paused, his hand resting on her shoulder. She looked at him, waiting patiently, her eyes full of questions. He tilted his head down toward her, and then frowned slightly.
"That's the name my parents gave me. I hope you can meet them someday. They named me Thomas after my grandfather. So that's why. I'm Tom. You're Gemma." He smiled, and reached forward and booped her gently on the nose. Gemma grinned, giggled and then sat up. She moved as only a child can—with a surprising grace that is just on the brink of losing all control and coordination. Gemma sat down on Tom's lap, wrapped her small arms around his neck and nuzzled against him. He sighed, holding her to him. No, he would never, ever doubt his decision to adopt her. That had been the best decision, the most important one, of his life.
"I don't want to call you Tom anymore. I'm going to call you Daddy." Her words were simple, and she was confident in them. It wasn't a question, or a request. It was something that she'd somehow worked out, in her small but fierce, ever changing and growing mind, and had come to the conclusion on her own.
He was silent, more from the inability to talk than from loss of words.
Tom hugged Gemma, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She squirmed against him, and then pushed off his lap, getting up and running down the hallway.
"Where are you going?" He called after her, his voice slightly hoarse.
"To get my cookie monster sandals." She called back, her voice high, light and completely oblivious to the joyous, amazing, wreck of emotions she'd just left in Tom's wake. She was back in an instant, tiny feet thundering on wooden floorboards. Tom pressed a hand to his mouth, watching her as she plopped onto the floor next to him and proceeded to shove her right foot into her left sandal.
"Gems, let me." He reached for her, and Gemma swatted him away, shaking her head determinedly.
"I can do it." She looked up at him, smiling and then kept shoving the wrong foot into her sandal. He grinned, ruffled a hand through her hair and roughly brushed away wetness at the corners of his eyes as he quickly swapped out the sandal for the correct one.
"Yes, you can." He said softly.