Give & Take (Redbeard Cove #2)

14. Raphael

Chapter 14

Raphael

M y dad worked a lot. As in, he was rarely home. Still isn’t, with his second family. To this day, none of his kids see him much outside of holidays and big family events.

I honestly hardly know the guy, even though I’m at my brothers’ place at least once a week during the school year to check in on them.

“I don’t know where you came from,” my mom used to tell me when I was little, curled up on her lap as she launched my love of learning by reading me stories. Outside, the driveway would always be conspicuously empty, no matter how many times I lay there willing myself to stay awake long enough to see the sweep of headlights. But she’d kiss my head and say, “You couldn’t be more different than any of us. And we love you so much for it.”

I know now the ‘any of us’ specifically related to my dad. He was already slipping away from our family at that point .

But dear ol’ Dad did teach me one very important lesson.

It’s one I remember now, finally registering Nova and Aurora pop donut after sugary donut into their mouths.

Christmas was the one time Dad was home.

“The holidays are for family, full stop,” he used to say.

I remember noticing, at maybe four or five years old, we’d get to that point where all our presents were unwrapped and that disappointed ‘it’s-over’ feeling would sink in. It was only then, when even the cat had opened its chew toy and Mom wore her new robe, pretending it was all she ever wanted, that Dad would crack his knuckles, his presents lined up next to him, and say, ‘Guess it’s time to open these now, eh?’

He’d wait until we were all done before even considering opening his first. Every year it was the same.

It completely perplexed me.

How could he just sit there while we tore through all of our gifts, sipping his coffee, looking more deeply content than we felt after we’d opened three times as many presents?

A generous read was that he took more pleasure watching us unwrap ours. Probably because he was just as surprised as we were at what we got, given mom did all the present buying and wrapping.

But I think now it was a cruel kind of lesson.

He knew we watched him with big envious kid-eyes as he unwrapped each of his presents with excruciating slowness. He knew how painful it was seeing him get to take all the time he wanted on his when we were all done.

But even if his reasons weren’t kind, the result was a huge lesson—the absolute power of self-restraint.

Even though I didn’t care about his socks or ties or deeply boring golf-related presents, I saw how by waiting—and then by savoring what he had—he was always the winner.

The challenge of holding back to sustain my pleasure, or to receive all-new, better pleasures on the other side, is something that’s never served me wrong in life.

I was the one who paced myself at the bar in college, and I was the only one able to carry on a conversation with a girl while my friends mushed their words and stumbled outside to pee on their shoes.

Now, it’s easy. I know how to hold off. And I know how to stop when it feels like it’s just getting good.

This is a skill these girls haven’t yet learned. One I need to teach them. One that today, I’ve been too self-absorbed in my own personal woe to notice is lacking until it’s too late.

Thirty-six mini-donuts in, Nova looks slightly queasy, while Aurora looks downright unwell.

This is very not good.

“Nova,” I say, concern pooling in my stomach as I come back to the present and fully into my giant lapse in judgment. “Can you give me the donuts please?”

Her hand falls limply open as I take them.

“I never thought I’d say I had too many donuts,” she says. “But I think that’s too many donuts.” She slumps down into the sand next to Aurora, who’s already on all fours.

Oh my God.

I wasn’t paying attention. All I could think about was Lana. All I could do was stare at the Rusty Dinghy, praying for a glance of the girls’ mom as her daughters stuffed donut after donut into their mouths.

Now I pray she doesn’t come out to see this.

I reach for Aurora’s hands. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ll carry you to the car.”

“I can’t move,” she moans.

I’m just trying to figure out the best way to pick her up without jostling her clearly tender stomach when I hear a voice behind me.

“Raph?”

Panic spikes through me. It’s a woman.

But when I turn, it’s not Lana.

Two women around my age stand side by side, beach towels tucked under their arms. The blonde one in a flowery sundress looks familiar.

When she smiles warmly at me, I place her. It’s the girl from the ferry the other day. Jenny? Jenna? I think it’s Jenna. I should be happy to see her. She has kissing feelings for me. Or at least, she handed me her number unbidden.

But Jenny-Jenna’s timing couldn’t be worse.

“Hey!” I settle on. I look back at my girls, who stare at the ocean like forlorn and deeply seasick sailors.

“I thought you were just here for the weekend,” Jenna says, oblivious to what’s happening .

“Oh. Yeah, well, I took a job for the summer,” I say, distractedly.

I realize our stuff is still everywhere. Keeping an eye on Aurora, I begin to cram toys and towels into our beach bag.

“Really?” Jenna says. “That’s great! What are you doing?”

I thought it was obvious. But that’s not nice. The girls could be my nieces or something. “I’m looking after these two,” I say with false brightness that isn’t me. The false part, anyway. “We’re just heading home.”

“Can we just sit here for a minute?” Nova asks. “I don’t want to move.”

Aurora blinks glassily. Her skin is kind of green.

“Are they okay?” Jenna’s friend asks. It’s the first time she’s spoken. She looks more in tune to the situation, but considerably less enthused to be standing here.

I empathize.

“Fine,” I say tightly. “Just a little too much fun in the sun.” I squat down next to Aurora, feeling her forehead as if it’s not at all a case of Too Many Donuts, You Idiot Syndrome.

“You okay, Ror?” I ask uselessly, worry rising. “You need some water?”

I reach for the beach bag.

Aurora starts to shake her head, then blanches at the movement.

Jenna or her friend says something else I miss as I give up on the water and stroke sweet Aurora’s springy hair back from her face .

“Raph? Where are you staying?” Jenna asks loudly, clearly repeating herself.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I stand up.

“We’re at my dad’s summer house, just over there.” Jenna points to a modern boxy thing pointing out of the trees. “Oh, I forgot, this is my friend?—”

I run my free hand over my hair, glancing to the bar as she chatters away. “Jenna, I?—”

“Oh my God.” Jenna’s friend interrupts. “I think that kid’s going to?—”

I whip around just in time to see Aurora open her mouth. She gags, and a moment later, a giant sticky mass of semi-digested mini-donuts splatters into the sand.

Nova screams.

I scoop Aurora up, concern—and a lurching nausea—clenching my stomach. “Oh Ror.” Guilt sits on me like a hundred-pound weight.

“I’m sorry,” Aurora mumbles in my ear as I gently press her head on my shoulder.

“No honey, I’m sorry.”

Keeping her in my arms, I pull her away from me just a little, so I can see her face. A moment later, her throat lurches, and her big eyes pin on me in fear.

I see what happens next in painful slow motion: Aurora’s eyes going watery, her cheeks pulsing, and then vomit hosing from her little mouth onto my bare chest.

It’s hot, I think absently, before my own stomach lurches.

“Oh my God ,” Jenna’s friend says. “That is so disgusting!”

It takes everything in me not to throw up myself. Although doing it next to Jenna’s friend’s feet would be a nice touch.

Instead, I grit my teeth and say, “Nova, come with us.” I carry Aurora to the outdoor showers a few feet away, next to the concession. Nova trails listlessly behind.

“I threw them all up,” Aurora says, crying as I clean us up.

“It’s okay, honey” I say. “This is my fault.”

Aurora’s crying, Nova’s staring bleakly, and Jenna and her friend are still standing there staring. That is, until Jenna comes over and offers to help.

“We’re good, thanks,” I say. “I’ll call you, okay?” If I had any sense left, I’d kick myself. I don’t promise to call women I have no intention of calling. “Please. I’ve got this.”

I don’t really. And Jenna looks wounded at my dismissal, but I don’t have time to feel bad about that. They go, but not far, Jenna still staring at us.

“Nova, are you okay?” I ask as a wet, shivering Aurora slumps on my shoulder again.

Nova stands up wearily, nodding.

“Can you bring me a towel?”

“Here,” Jenna says, still fucking here.

She walks over and lays a towel on Aurora’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “But please, I just need you to?—”

My words drop off when I spot a flash of someone running toward us, sexy messy bun bouncing on her head. “Aurora?”

My chest hollows out .

Lana reaches us, practically tearing Aurora from me, her eyes slanted in concern at her daughter’s expression.

“Honey?”

Lana shoots me a feral look. “What happened?” she demands. “What did you do?”

“Donuts,” I say. “Just too many donuts.”

Lana’s expression goes from terrified to relieved to…I’m not sure what. A cool, neutral mask. I’m still learning all her faces, but I think that means she’s pissed. I hope that’s what it means. I deserve it.

She glances over at Jenna and her friend, who are openly staring at us. Then at me. And the next expression is one that ties my insides in knots.

Her jaw tightens. “Come on, girls. Time to go home.”

She reaches for Nova’s hand, but Nova shrinks away, taking mine instead. “He let us do what we wanted. Unlike you!”

Oh no. “Nova, no.” I don’t let go of her hand. But I exchange a look with Lana telling her I’ve got this one. Lana wraps her arms around Aurora, eyes on me.

“I shouldn’t have said yes to the extra donuts today,” I tell Nova. “That was my fault. I don’t know half as much as she does about how to take care of you.” I hesitate, then squat down beside her. “Remember how earlier we talked about how everything parents do, it’s to keep you safe and healthy?” That afternoon she’d asked me to put her to bed at night, saying she knew I’d let her stay up later than her mom would.

Nova rolls her eyes.

“I’m serious, Nova. Your mom loves you more than all the sand on this beach, remember? ”

When I meet Lana’s eyes again, she quickly looks away, heading toward the parking area.

I reach over and pick up Lana’s backpack, which she tossed to the ground as she ran over here. I sling it over my shoulder, and, looking at Nova, point my chin at the minivan and start to walk.

“If you start to act like Mom you’re gonna be so boring,” Nova says sullenly.

“Hey,” I say, my tone stern now. “We’re not going to talk about your mom like that. Ever.”

Lana’s still furious. I can feel it. But as she walks ahead of us, Aurora in her arms, I know she can hear me.

Nova’s jaw is tight just like her mom’s was, her scrawny arms folded over her chest as she begins to stalk more than walk. “I can say what I want.”

“But you can’t disrespect the woman who’s doing everything in her power to raise you right, on her own.”

Nova huffs.

“Is she mean to you?”

“She makes me clean my room.”

“Do you think that’s fun for her?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s not. Trust me. It sucks. But if she doesn’t teach you to clean up after yourself, you’re going to be a disgusting grownup.”

Lana sucks in a breath.

I keep going. “I lived in a house with four teenage boys, and if you’ve never smelled one of those before, they’re revolting. They smell like wet socks and B.O. and two week old pizza. And garbage. And things with mold growing off of them.”

Nova wrinkles her nose. “My tummy already hurts.”

“And if they don’t learn how to clean up now, they’re either going to be on TV shows about people who can’t see over the piles of garbage in their house, or if they get married, their wives are going to end up being the ones who shoulder all the burden of the work they never had to learn to do. Is that fair?”

I don’t think she caught all the words, but she gets the gist. “No,” she mumbles.

“Not at all. So do it for feminism.”

“Kind of a stretch,” Lana mumbles.

But my chest loosens. Because if she’s not too angry to be regular-irritated with me, I think we’re going to be okay.

Nova’s expression is confused, but we’ve reached the van. I toss our bags into the trunk and help get the kids in. Then I close the door.

Before Lana can reach for the handle, I press a hand on it. Gently.

“Hey,” I say. “Would it help if I told you I was distracted? That’s why I let them go overboard?”

“So distracted you couldn’t help buy all the donuts?”

I run a hand through my hair. “It wasn’t my finest moment.”

“I get it, pretty girls are distracting.”

I let out a laugh. “Oh Lana.”

Something flashes behind her eyes.

I don’t look away. “It wasn’t those girls occupying my mind.”

She blinks, but her cheeks flash an extremely becoming shade of pink.

I take Lana’s hand, surprised once again at the way my body temperature seems to ratchet up exactly where our bodies connect. God, it’s the same every time. Someone should study this phenomenon. Right now it’s just my palm against the back of hers, but the sensation is so charged I have to meet her eyes to see if she feels it too. She is staring, brow furrowed, at our hands. But that might be because right now I look like someone who doesn’t know how handshakes work.

Finally I manage to clear the encroaching thoughts of wondering just how touching her in other ways might feel and remember what I was doing. I press the car keys into her palm and pull my hand away, shoving it safely in my pocket.

Lana stares down at the keys, then up at me, that little line between her brows etched in confusion. “You’re not coming?” she asks.

I smile, but shake my head. “I’m going to walk. I think you’ve seen enough of me for one day.”