Desperately Seeking Epic(35)

Cue matching father-daughter facial expressions. They both look like they want to die of embarrassment.

“I didn’t say beat him up,” Paul clarifies, looking to me. “And thanks for throwing me under the bus, by the way.”

I raise my hand and pull down twice, bellowing out an obnoxious, “Honk-honk.”

“I don’t like him,” Neena protests, her face bright red.

“There’s nothing wrong with you liking him, Neena,” I clarify. “Paul is just having a father moment. This is classic.”

Neena smiles faintly as she meets Paul’s gaze. “Please don’t say anything to him.”

Paul throws his hands up. “I never said I was. Your mother is embellishing. Big time.”

Her smile slowly fades and she plops down in her seat at the kitchen table. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” she sighs sadly. “I’m just the ugly sick girl. He’d never like me.”

As a mother, who loves her child so fiercely, and who sees all of her beauty, inside and out, that statement just crushed me. On instinct, I move to approach her, comfort her, but Paul holds his hand up, stopping me. I want to be angry with him for it, but when he kneels down in front of her, my heart melts a little.

“Look at me, Neena.” When she does, he tells her, “You are so damn beautiful. I know I’m your father and you think I’m just telling you this, but it’s true. Inside and out, kid. Beautiful. I’ve been to a lot of places, seen a lot of faces, and none in this world are as beautiful as yours.”

“I have no hair. Guys like girls with hair.”

“Guys like girls that are awesome, and you’re clearly that. Even without hair, you have killer eyes, like your dad,” he adds with a wink, “and you’ve got your mother’s head-turning smile.”

He knows damn well she has his awesome smile.

Standing, he looks down at her. “And Mills is a lucky bastard if a girl like you wastes even a second thought on him.”

Neena nods and perks up. It’s not her style to feel sorry for herself, and I wonder if maybe she’s starting to get depressed. The doctor gave us a prescription for anti-depressants, just in case. I just didn’t think she’d need them. And maybe I’m misreading her reaction just now.

“Can we eat?” she asks. “I kind of want to go to bed early tonight.”

“Ten minutes, sweetheart.”

As we eat dinner, Paul and I try hard to keep things light, to make her laugh. She works just as hard to keep up, but it’s not difficult to see her heart isn’t in it. When she kisses us good night, I hold her and squeeze her tight.

“I’m okay, Mom. Really. I’m just tired.”

Letting her go, I bend and kiss her forehead. No fever. I try to hide my sigh of relief, but she snorts and shakes her head.

“No fever.”

“I know.”

“What?” Paul asks, causing us to giggle. I’m so busted.

“Nothing,” Neena replies. “Mom’s just over here using her lips as a thermometer.”

“Well, I thought I was subtle,” I sigh.

Neena smiles. “Night, guys.” She waves and heads up the stairs.

With nowhere else to look, Paul and I look at each other. I have no idea what to say about our kiss. So, for now, I’ll avoid it.

“About the kiss,” Paul says.

Scratch avoiding it.

“Let’s table it until tomorrow,” I pipe up. “It’s been a long day. We’re all tired.”

He nods once, sliding his hands in his pockets. “Okay. Well, you go on up to bed, I got the dishes.”

“Are you sure?” For some reason, no words have ever sounded sweeter. I can’t remember the last time someone did the dishes for me. Even if it means just loading the dishwasher or clearing the table.

“Yep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

I trudge up the stairs. Climbing into bed, I flop down and bury myself under the covers. I try counting sheep. I try naming all fifty states in alphabetical order. I try it all. But sleep escapes me because my mind keeps turning back to Paul and the kiss, and how he confessed he still loves me.

And how I still love him.

He’s getting to me.

I’m officially in the vortex of the suck.





“Last weekend we left off where you and Clara were butting heads about her new . . . managerial methods.”

“Is that what we’re calling them?” I chuckle.

“Did anyone show up for the paint party?”

I scrub the length of my face with the back of my hands a few times, applying pressure with the knuckles, and prepare myself for the trip down memory lane.



When Sunday evening rolled around, Marcus and I were three-beers deep at a bar about ten minutes from the office. I’d driven by the office on the way to the bar about twenty minutes before everyone should have been there. Clara’s car was the only one in the parking lot. Being a young, arrogant ass, I continued on even though I knew deep down what I was doing officially made me an *. But I told myself she deserved it. Even after three beers, I was working hard not to think about Clara; willing myself not to think about how none of the staff probably showed up. I was trying not to imagine how she was undoubtedly going to ream me when I saw her again, and how I probably deserved it . . . sort of. I hated that maybe, deep down, I felt bad. There was absolutely no reason for me to feel bad. She was kind of an *, too. Just in a different way than me. I needed to get my mind off things; find a distraction. The two women that had just taken seats across from where we sat at the bar did the trick.