Big Daddy

Chapter 25

chapter twenty-five

quincey

I have never been a desperate man because desperation is bred from weakness, and I am not weak. Even after I lost my wife, no part of me was desperate. I was and am always sharp and resourceful, never allowing myself to be helpless or confused.

But I haven’t been head-over-heels sickeningly in love for many years until Winnie, either.

And I find myself now, after a week of enduring what I can only describe as the silent treatment, desperate as fuck. Why? Because love has made me a weak bitch.

After picking up Winnie’s favorite breakfast from Rise & Grind as a surprise, I’m padding down the hall, a cup of coffee in one hand, a bagged breakfast in the other, praying to whoever the hell is up there that this morning is the moment. The time we climb out of the silent funk we’ve somehow fallen in.

I’ve run it all down in my mind at least a hundred times since last week.

Did I say something? Do something? Miss something? I pause by our closed bedroom door, staring down at the shiny tile beneath my feet. Winnie has been working from home on her graphic design business, she walked in her graduation ceremony last month, and things are going good with her and Brielle, as well as with Brielle and myself. Winnie’s comfortable here and a month ago even mentioned that she truly felt like it was her home, not just my house.

Yet something shifted. I left my woman happy in bed at home with coffee on her night table and the blinds pulled back to allow the sun to kiss her lips as she woke. And when I returned home, she was asleep, or pretending to be. We haven’t made love in a week. We haven’t fucked in a week and yes, those are two different things.

I tried giving her time. But now… I need to know. Is she tired of me? Did she realize she doesn’t love me? Am I too old? Fuck, I don’t know. It’s not like me to be in my head this way, either. My chest aches with worry at the thought that maybe this distance is staying, and that maybe Winnie might… leave me.

I push open the door after awkwardly lingering in my own hallway and find Winnie still asleep, curled into the side of the bed she’s been sleeping on. Usually, she sleeps on top of me, against me, next to me, fuck—I’ve even let her fall asleep while I’m still inside of her.

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, I take note of the fact she’s also sleeping later than she usually does. When I get up for work, she gets up too, usually, and showers, talks to me while I shave, and sometimes requires that I fuck her brains out before we go.

Last week she slept in and showed little interest in anything related to Quincey Parker.

I round the bed and take a seat next to her, her small frame sliding into me as the bed dips. I place her drink and bag on the nightstand, and sift my fingers through her beautiful, wild curls. “Win, baby,” I whisper softly.

Her eyes slowly open, and when I find they aren’t filled with sleep, my stomach clenches. Was she pretending to sleep to avoid me? Jesus Christ, it’s worse than I thought.

“Morning,” she greets with what starts as a full smile but quickly fades into traces of happiness. There’s a plummet in my chest, a free falling so great that I’m rendered breathless for a moment. She was happy when her eyes opened and when reality settled in around her, when I came into view, she became unhappy.

I get to my feet and shove my hands in my pockets, rocking on my feet in my own goddamn bedroom as insecurity swarms me. I’ve not been insecure in many, many years. I forgot how much discomfort is involved.

“Finishing up Corinne’s banner today?” I ask her as she scrambles in bed to sit up, smoothing her hair from her face. Yesterday when I came home she told me she’d been busy all day, working on Corinne’s sales banner for an upcoming soft opening. So tired that she wanted to go straight to bed.

Her crooked smile only fuels my insecurity. “Yeah, I am.” Just then, her phone rings, and I make sure not to look at the screen before she answers. I trust her. I do. I have no reason not to, and I want her to know that even in her current state—whatever that is—the trust is still there.

She presses her phone to her chest. “I have to take this.” With one quick glance at the coffee and bag she says, “Thanks for breakfast.” A moment later, the bathroom door is closing and I’m left standing alone in our bedroom, confused and hurt.

Curving around the bed, I come to the door and knock. I’ve given her a week. Now I want to know what’s going on. No—I need to fucking know.

“Winnie, what’s going on?”

She cracks the door and I push my palm into it, pushing inside. “Quincey—” she argues but I don’t stop. I step inside and look around, finding… nothing. Her phone is in her hand, an active call running.

“Quincey?” I know it’s my name but there are few times Winnie actually uses it.

She sighs, splaying a hand on my chest. My cock stirs, because her touch has that effect, even after the week we’ve had. “I’m on the phone, okay?”

“Why have you been ignoring me all week?” I press into her, kissing her cheek, then her neck as I gather her curls in the hand not on her hip. “Talk to me. I hate this shit. What’s going on with you?”

The hand against my chest gives me a shove, and our eyes idle as the shower runs, steam billowing around us. “Nothing. We’re good. I gotta take the call.” She forces a smile. “I’ll call you later.”

“You said that yesterday and you never called.” I hate that I’m the man saying that sentence. That I’m the man being slighted. That’s a Pen thing, not a Parker thing.

“I’m sorry,” she says, nudging me out as she brings the phone to her ear. “It’s Brielle. Okay?”

They’ve been working on their relationship, so I believe her if she says it’s my daughter. But that explains nothing about the last week.

Answers will have to wait because Winnie closes and locks the bathroom door before I can argue. Because the shower and exhaust fan are running, I can’t even fucking eavesdrop.

Fuck that, anyway.

Quincey Parker does not eavesdrop. She wanted a mature relationship, openness and honesty. She yelled at me about it the day I told her I passed her information to Corinne without her consent. Yet the door is closed in my goddamn face and she’s talking to my daughter.

I didn’t sign up to be in a relationship with a fucking sixteen-year-old girl.

I knock on the door again. “Winnie! This is bullshit. Just fucking talk to me!”

“Don’t curse at me, Quincey!” she shouts through the door.

“I—” I press my hand to the door, watching the light beneath flicker as she moves about. “I won’t shout through a door. And I won’t be ignored.” With a deep, painful breath, I turn and leave, heading to the office.

I love Winnie, and I fell hard and fast—a story I hear from clients often. And I know what you’re thinking—you’re a divorce lawyer. Hearing stories start with “we fell hard and fast” that ultimately end in divorce means I should understand our relationship could break apart. I should feel reasonable when faced with the fact that we may not last.

But I don’t. I believe in us. I believe in the way I love Winnie, and I believe the universe doesn’t put soulmates in a one-person proximity of each other for years so that they don’t meet. No way.

I’m not gonna walk away.

I am, however, going to get to the bottom of whatever the fuck is going on without Winnie’s help. I asked her. She had her chance.

Once I’m at the office, I pull up her FeetFans account, relieved beyond reason to see it is inactive and therefore, the photos and information has been archived. Okay, so it’s not a former client bugging her.

She said she was talking to Brielle so I call Brielle. The only problem is, she’s at work by the time I call her and she whispers she’ll call me later then hangs up. Not that I think she’d be loyal to me over Winnie, anyway, but no stone goes unturned. I check my cell and at mid-morning, I still haven’t heard from Winnie. She has therapy today, and even though I know Dr. Wilder can’t tell me anything, I also know Ida can’t refuse divulging too much as long as she’s fed the right compliments. All I want to know is if she went to her appointment. That’s a small ask.

I pick up my phone and hit the speed dial just as Pen saunters in, another ridiculous bolo tie around his neck. We live in California. The bay fucking area for Christ’s sake. The bolo tie doesn’t fucking work. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at just the look of him.

“That office,” he starts, tipping his greasy hair-covered head to the wall adjacent, where a brand-new office sits. “Did we decide we’d give it to Ken, as office manager?”

Ida picks up. “Good morning, Dr. Quinten Wilder’s office,” she greets, the soft Pachelbel music wafting through the receiver, distilling a bit of calm into my veins. Much fucking needed with the mood I’m in.

Pen takes a step inside my office but I shake my head, snapping at him to step back. He freezes.

“Good morning, Ida, this is Quincey Parker,” I greet, promptly covering the phone receiver with my hand before whisper-hissing at Pen.

“The office is not for Kennedy. Don’t touch it and get out. I’m on the phone,” I growl, the veins in my neck swelling with each angry word delivered. I take my anger out on Pen a lot but you know, he kind of deserves it. He’s slimy, to be honest, and rather annoying. Not to mention, the man can’t take a goddamn hint if it fucking French kissed him. “Out!” I snap again when he remains motionless. Finally, he scrambles out, closing the door behind him with a dramatic slam.

“Oh Mr. Parker, it’s always a pleasure to hear from you. I hope you’re not calling to cancel your appointment this week—I love seeing you and your daughter,” she says, and I know she means every word. Something I’ve learned being a lawyer is how to spot genuine people. How to find the honest folks in the pack of wolves. Ida is not a wolf. She is genuine, and genuinely enjoys visiting with Brielle when we’re in the office.

“We’re not canceling, we’ll be there on our normal day,” I assure her with a soft chuckle meant to lighten the momentarily tense chat. “I was actually looking to pick your brain about a gift for our lovely doctor,” I tell her, quickly scribbling on a brief to get Dr. Wilder an actual gift so this call doesn’t look like bullshit a week from now. “For fitting my daughter’s friend in, for fitting myself and my daughter in, for everything he’s done to help us.” I’m surprised to find I mean those words and that I am grateful for Dr. Wilder. I’m surprised that I don’t feel weak for having someone more emotionally adept, schooled and skilled help me work things out with my daughter. I thought I would, but I don’t. I just feel… grateful.

“Oh, Quincey, you’re just so thoughtful. That’s really unnecessary,” she says sweetly, then drops her voice to add, “but he loves playing the back nine at the Salinas Country Club. Pro shop or time on the course would be used for sure.”

I smile, adding the golf course information to the brief I’ve already ruined with notes. “And Ida, what might you enjoy? Hmm? You’ve helped us, too. In fact,” I say, feeling every bit the smarmy asshole I’m about to be.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she staves off.

“Chocolates? Are you a Godiva gal or a Lindt lady?” I ask, my pen at the ready.

Ida giggles. “Godiva, I suppose. But it’s really not necessary.”

“Truffles?”

She wastes no time replying. “I love everything but caramels.” She lowers her voice. “Not good for my dentures.”

I smile. “Perfect. Noted.” I tap the end of my pen against the notepad and count to five. “So Ida, I was wondering if Ms. Collins is at her appointment today?”

Ida hums, the sound of planner pages being sifted through coming in through the receiver. “Oh,” she says, the noise stopping suddenly. “I suppose I’m not allowed to tell you who's here or not.”

My brows fall into a straight line as I sink into the tall-backed leather chair at my desk. “Ida, my secretary just came in and she said she’s got two extra tickets to Guys and Dolls next weekend. You wouldn’t want to lift those off her hands, would you?”

“ Guys and Dolls ? Frank hasn’t taken me out in ages. I’d love to but oh they’re too much money. You can’t gift those to me,” she says, verbally waving me off, disappointment edging into her words.

“Is Ms. Collins at her appointment, Ida?”

A beat passes.

“Kennedy!” I shout, tucking the receiver into my chest so Ida won’t hear. A moment later, Ken stands in my doorway, a pen and paper at the ready. “I have a friend that will take those two tickets to Guys and Dolls next weekend. Yeah, I told her--best seats in the house! Send them to Ida at Dr. Wilder’s office. This afternoon please.”

Ida squeals and Kennedy nods before closing the door behind her, aware that she must now buy and deliver those tickets.

“She’s here.” Ida sounds only somewhat ashamed as she asks, “Are drinks included?”

One day you’re a top billing lawyer with the world by the balls and the next you’re reclined in your driver’s seat in a parking lot watching a twenty-six-year-old to try and understand what’s wrong with her.

Fuckin’ wild few months it’s been.

As soon as she gets into the car, I follow her. I should just be happy knowing she’s going to therapy, that some element of life is still business as usual. But because she still hasn’t texted me and she’s been giving me the cold fucking shoulder for a week, I follow her.

But she just goes home, to our home. There is nothing salacious or deviant about anything she’s doing, therefore, I’m relieved.

Yet I have no more answers than I did this morning, leading me to believe the same tired reason as to why she’s suddenly distant.

She doesn’t want me.

I can’t give up on us. She made me see that I needed to fix my relationship with my daughter, she made me see that love is so much different than expected when it’s real. She’s given me hope, a future, a reason to fucking plan.

Back at the office, I call Kennedy and Pen into a meeting, telling them that Winnie Collins will be taking the new office. It will be her graphic design and brand management headquarters. When asked why a business like that goes with a law firm, I told them she’d be the liaison to retaining clients under a branch of new services, since the majority of our clients are smart women going through awful divorces with wealthy and often reputable men. Those women typically turn around and start a business, the entryway to their new lives. If we had someone in office on staff that could ease them into that as well as keeping them on our roster, that’s more money for everyone.

Pen floated that we should take a vote on it, while Kennedy simply said, “I like her a lot. I think it’s a good idea.”

I told Kennedy just what I wanted the office to look like, told her to use her company credit card, and said it needed to be ready in a day.

I will continue to give Winnie everything, even when she’s going through whatever it is she’s going through. I will love her through whatever storm this is, and provide her with a location for her business, a desk, clients, everything she needs.

I refuse to believe this is the beginning of our end.

Silent treatment or not.