The Perfect Match (Blue Heron #2)(106)

Tom shoved the phone into his bag. “Everything’s brilliant.”

“You up for a few rounds?”

“I am indeed,” Tom said, and, climbing into the ring, proceeded to put a beating on the town’s police chief.

Six rounds later, Levi held up his gloves. “Enough. You’re gonna kill me if I keep going. And if you kill me, my wife will kill you.”

The rage still broiled in Tom. But shit, he hadn’t meant to go quite so hard on Levi, who seemed like a decent guy. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” He gave him a long look, and Tom looked away. “You wanna grab a beer?”

“No. But thank you.”

“All right. If you change your mind, give me a call.”

“Thanks, Levi.”

In the locker room, Tom took a long, steaming shower, his rib cage sore. Levi might’ve thought Tom was going to kill him, but that hadn’t stopped the cop from landing a few significant blows himself.

He got out of the shower and pulled on clean clothes. Six o’clock. The day was endless, as if the hours were swimming through sludge.

His phone rang. Janice, the screen said. He answered it fast.

“Oh, Tom. Hi. Listen, I know you’ll be upset to hear this, but Charlie just got home and guess what? He’s moving to Philadelphia to live with Mitchell, and Walter and I are thrilled. I think it’s for the best, don’t you? What’s that, Walter? Oh, Tom, I have to go. Talk to you later, I guess.”

She hung up.

He could follow, of course. He had before.

But that was before Mitchell had decided he was interested in his only child. It was one thing to get Janice and Walter to let him spend time with Charlie. Mitchell wouldn’t. While it seemed that Charlie had been miserable with the Kelloggs, he certainly wasn’t when he was with his father.

No. Tom couldn’t pretend that Charlie wanted him around. For a few short weeks, maybe it had seemed like he had. Boxing club, the Hollands...Tom himself—none of that compared with a father’s love, apparently.

He should be glad for the kid. After all, Tom knew what it was like to have an absentee parent. It was just that he f**king hated Mitchell DeLuca, and not because of what had happened with Melissa. Well, sure, that was partly the reason. But more than that was the fact that Mitchell had broken Charlie’s heart, had walked away from that little boy whose mother had just died, because it hadn’t been convenient. Left him in a pit of tarry black grief, and only now that Charlie was finally a little bit happy, did Mitchell want to swoop in and have some quality time.

But Charlie didn’t see it that way, and it was probably time for Tom to acknowledge that he’d lost the war.

Charlie was leaving.

Tom’s heart sat like a chunk of dirty ice in his chest. He’d done what he could do for Charlie Kellogg. Tried to do right by the son of the difficult woman he’d loved. Maybe it had been worthwhile, despite how it seemed, but one fact seemed starkly, coldly true.

He was no longer required.

Tom bent to tie his shoes. Didn’t quite make it and found himself sitting with his head in his hands, the silence in the locker room underscoring the hollow in his chest.

Mitchell was going to crush Charlie. Again. Or he wouldn’t. He’d take the kid away to a transient life of car racing and bars and school truancy and tattoos in questionably hygienic places. Charlie would never eat a vegetable again in his life. He wouldn’t go to college. He wouldn’t be forced to take hikes and participate in after-school clubs. He’d play Soldier of Fortune and Call of Duty and become fat and careless, and he’d barely remember some guy his mother had slept with.

Tom wasn’t Charlie’s father. He wasn’t even Charlie’s stepfather. He was an idiot who didn’t know when to quit, who didn’t know his place, who rented a house and taught at a fourth-rate college, lived an ocean away from home and was about to commit fraud, just to be near a kid who wasn’t even his.

And what was his, exactly?

Nothing.

The bass from the music in the gym thudded through the walls.

Nothing.

But maybe—perhaps—someone.

Someone with gentle brown eyes and a way of listening and not passing judgment. Someone who was waiting for him to see what was right in front of his face.

With that thought, Tom grabbed his bag and strode out of the building.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“IT’S SO TRAGIC here,” Goggy pronounced loudly, causing a herd of scowls to stampede over the elderly faces at Watch and Whine. “All these people, like sore-covered dogs dropped off at the pound.”

“It’s beautiful here. I wish they’d lower the age restriction so I could move in,” Honor said, pouring wine into the last glass.

“We’d love to have you,” Mr. Tibbetts said to her boobs. And hey, God bless him. She could use a little ego boost, given that she’d apparently taken on old baseball glove status with Tom this past week.

“Okay, people, our movie’s about to start,” she said, forcing some good cheer into her voice. “Help yourself to some merlot, please note the bloodred color and sit back and enjoy Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece, Psycho.”

Sue her. She’d run out of wine-themed movies. Also, this little flick suited her mood. The patrons of Rushing Creek didn’t seem to mind; this movie had come out in their day, after all.