Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(41)

“Oh, you know…” I hedge. Sometimes she asks; sometimes she doesn’t. Usually I give her very little information and she moves on to the next question. Today that’s not the case.

“Who is he?” Her tone hints that we’re besties, but of all the hats my mother wears, my BFF isn’t one of them. Still, I see no harm in sharing about Davis.

“He’s a stock analyst. We’ve only been out a handful of times. He’s nice.” It’s not an inaccurate description for Davis, but he’s so much more than a “nice stock analyst.” He’s becoming important to me—more so every day.

“A guy with money. I like it. Especially for a girl like you, without a career.”

Ah, there’s the dig I’ve been waiting for.

“Gee, look at the time.” I stand from my chair. Maybe today isn’t the best day to share what I know about Dad.

“Grace. I’m sorry. Sit.” Mom tips her chin at my vacated chair.

I count to three before lowering myself into it.

“It’s this case I’m handling,” she explains. “Divorce after forty years of marriage. They hate each other. Three grown kids, a cabin in Maine. They shared a business, have six grandchildren. It’s heartbreaking that no one makes it anymore.” She sips her coffee. “Whatever you do, never get married.”

I’ve been receiving the same advice since I was in the eighth grade. That was the year my parents chose to stay together “for me.” Both of them were particularly bitter from that point forward.

“Dad stopped by McGreevy’s,” I blurt, knowing if I don’t blurt it, I’ll never say it.

“What the hell did that bastard want?” Her lip curls at one edge.

My cheeks heat. She doesn’t know. My mother is a lot of things, but cold-blooded isn’t one of them.

“Leave it to him to crash into my world without notice,” she continues. “Just like when he left all of his things behind when he moved out and then expected me to give them back when I hadn’t seen him in two years.”

This is the side of Dawn Buchanan that makes it hard to remember she can be sweet. Her bitterness and resentment of my father overshadow every aspect of her life. The fact that my father came to see me doesn’t even register as being my issue rather than hers.

“Let’s focus on the present here, Mom.”

Some of the anger seeps from her expression. “Sorry, dear. You know what that man does to me.”

“Do you know why he came to see me?” I ask.

“Why does he do anything?”

Real helpful.

“Mom. He’s…he’s sick. Pancreatic cancer.”

Her eyes widen. She blinks. Then she presses her lips into a line and regards her cup. “How do you know?”

“Because he told me?”

Her next breath is heavy.

“Grace.” She puts a hand over mine. “Your father has always been a martyr. I don’t want him using an elaborate excuse to worm his way back into your life.”

I gape. “He wouldn’t lie about this.” After speaking with him at length about his illness, I knew there was no way he was being anything less than truthful. I tell her he only has a few months to live and share the details that he shared with me.

She must agree that the details alone are too compelling to believe he concocted an illness out of thin air.

My mother’s face…changes. Devastation and nausea overtake her pretty features. “Uh…I have to go, actually.”

“Mom.”

“Court waits for no woman. Thank you for letting me know.” She gives me a brittle smile. “Take care of yourself and I’ll be in touch.” She stands, kisses my cheek, and clicks off in her high heels.

“Mom.” I stand. She turns and gives me a watery smile.

“I’m sorry, Grace. I can’t…deal with this today.” She swipes her eyes and turns away again and I’m left alone to handle things without her. Yet again.

Well, screw that.

I lift my phone and call Davis, asking what he’s doing tonight. His smooth voice sinks into my bones and makes me feel better about everything.

I’m not alone, I think with a smile as I end the call.

I have a nice stock analyst to lean on.





Chapter 15


Grace


Davis, in his assigned seat on the opposite side of the bar, eyes on the overhead television, holds a Sam Adams beer bottle in one hand.

It’s been two weeks since my dad unexpectedly popped in. True to form, he never returned, but he did throw me the curveball of a text message. We’d exchanged phone numbers that night we spoke. He wanted open communication, just in case.

I’ve spoken to Candace about him. Turns out they bartended together at the Bad Penny. She’s saddened by his news in a way you would be about a distant acquaintance. I’m more saddened than she is, but my grief is similarly distant. It’s weird.

Candace has been more supportive than my mother recently. She’s been the one explaining that he still loves me even though he had better things to do for the majority of my twenties. Instead of offering platitudes, Candace listens.

In her defense, my mom has been checking in more often than usual. Mostly from her work email, and mostly asking if I’m handling everything okay or if I need anything. I reply succinctly, but I can’t bring myself to lie. Yes, I’m handling it. No, I don’t need anything. As far as her question about whether I’m still seeing “the analyst”?