Rise - Part Two (Rise #2)(6)

As we slide across the torn, weathered vinyl seat of the taxi, I know that he came to my office to find me, not because he wanted to avoid the awkward silence that often invades a phone call when there's an elephant in the room but because he wants to look at me as he explains what happened last night.

"I want you to come up to my place." He gestures towards the front doors of his building with his chin. "I'll need to shower and change but can we talk after that?"

I stare down at his hands. They're fisted together in front of him. "Have you been home since last night?"

"No," he says through a heavy sigh. "I stuck around because I wanted to talk to him."

I don't need any clarification beyond that. He wanted to speak to his father and for that I can't blame him. I don't know any of the details. I've convinced myself that Landon hasn't been harboring the secret that his father has been alive all these years. I want to believe that his presence last night was as much a shock to Landon as it was to me. I know that I'm basing that on want and not reality at this point.

"Did you talk to him?" I ask, not only because it's expected but also because my curiosity is pushing me towards asking questions he's probably not ready to answer.

"He refused." He rests his hand on my back before he takes a step towards the building. "He's pissed that I set him up with the police."

As I fall in step beside him I feel the weight of the world drop from my shoulders. He's a good man. If I had any lingering doubt about that it's disappeared with his words.





Chapter 5


––––––––

"I had no idea you'd be standing in the lobby last night." He tugs on the drawstring at the waist of the dark sweatpants he pulled on after he showered. He's not wearing a shirt and I'm not complaining. I love looking at his body, his smile and the way his entire face comes alive when our eyes lock.

"I forgot my keys." I skim my hands over my jean covered thighs. "Like I said last night, I tried to call you to get my keys back but you didn't answer."

He rakes his hand through his still damp hair. "I was nervous. I called one of the detectives after my father made contact. I didn't look at my phone again."

Of course he didn't. I can't fault him for not answering my calls. All day I've tried to put myself in his shoes and I've failed each time. I love my father. I will mourn endlessly if he takes his last breath before I take mine. It's hard to imagine how I'd feel if I thought he had died, only to discover that he was still alive.

I reach for his hand when he lowers himself onto the sofa next to me. "How did it happen? How did your dad end up here?"

He squeezes my hand briefly before he pulls his free. I feel bereft at the loss of his touch. I stare at his hand wanting the motion to be nothing more than part of his need to compose himself but the heave of his chest as he draws in a deep breath says more than the silence that has overtaken the space.

"I need a drink." He's on his feet quickly. "Do you want some wine?"

I may not want any wine, but I think I'm going to need some. "Half a glass of whatever you have is fine."

I don't turn towards the kitchen. I listen intently as I hear a cupboard door opening and the unmistakable sound of glasses being placed on the counter. There's a shuffle and then the faint echo of liquid being poured into one glass and then another. I hear nothing for more than a minute before the sound of liquid filling a glass breaks the silence. As I look at the familiar pictures of Landon and his family I realize that he must have emptied a full glass of wine with one swallow.

As much as I don't want to give him a way out of our conversation, I feel obligated to make the offer. "I can come back tomorrow if you want to sleep."

I see a glass being offered out of the corner of my eye. I reach for it. I'm grateful for the taste of the full bodied merlot, as well as the comfort it provides. As I take a small sip, I'm granted a brief reprieve from the stilted exchange we've had up to this point.

"I want you to stay, Tess." He brings the wineglass in his hand to his lips and takes a heavy swallow as he settles back on the sofa next to me. "I need to explain some things to you."

They're the very same words that Ansel used several months ago during a conversation we had over dinner. Back then, the words didn't carry any promise of understanding. They were a precursor to a litany of excuses about why he couldn't be the man I wanted, and needed, him to be.

"I'm listening," I say quietly as I place the wineglass down on the table in front of the sofa.

He follows my lead, setting his glass next to mine before he turns towards me, bending his right leg at the knee so he can face me directly. "I don't know where to start."

I tap my fingers against his calf. "The beginning is always the best place. Just start there."

He nods as he rests his hand over mine. "It all started on the flight you were on. It was that day when you flew back from Milan."

If words could cause whiplash, I'd be unable to move. I stare at his face even though his eyes are trained on my legs. How did we move from talking about his father to talking about me? I don't want to wander down the short memory lane we've established for ourselves. I want to know about Frederick and how exactly he ended up in this very apartment less than twenty-four hours ago.