“You always know the right things to say,” he elaborates, though he suppresses a smile.
I feel like I can’t string a sentence together. Like I can’t take syllables from my mind and connect them to form words any more. What once was easy with Andrew—though hard won—is now back to that topsy-turvy state where he’s joking, and I’m bantering, and we’re in that will-he-won’t-he-will-she-won’t-she place that I am, frankly, tired of being in.
We were supposed to be past this quite some time ago. The spiral backwards feels as if we’re losing ground.
And yet I can’t walk away. I can’t even hope to do anything other than smile at this man who is willing to steal a dog to come and see me.
“I’ve missed you,” he says softly. “And I forgive you.”
I sit up sharply. “You what?”
“I forgive you. You obviously take your promises very seriously, and any woman who keeps her word like this is someone I value.”
Damn. I was all worked up over that forgiveness comment, because I have nothing to ask forgiveness for, and then he neutralizes it with a compliment.
Well played, Andrew. Well played.
“I also know you’re still processing everything you learned that day after Fenway Park.”
The waiter delivers salads, giving me a chance to take a shaky breath and try to calm the unending loop of questions that runs through me.
Andrew ignores his food.
“And I want to help.”
He reaches in his suit jacket pocket and slides a half-size manila envelope across the table.
“What’s this?”
His face wears a sad smile. “Open it.”
Spritzy whines. I dig through my purse and find the zippered baggie with doggie treats in it. Satisfied with two, he resumes his pretend sleep.
My fingers fumble on the back of the envelope, but I get it open.
To find a fairly familiar packet of paperwork. At the top there is a name:
Leo Rossi Warrick.
“Jesus, Andrew,” I gasp. “You had my father tracked down.”
This is the part where I’m supposed to look up at him from across the table with adoration and gratitude. In Andrew’s mind, I’m sure, he’s performed a wonderful act of compassion. A gesture of caring. Finding my father is supposed to help me to heal. To absorb and integrate and process and find a place for the maelstrom of emotions that don’t know where to rest.
All I feel is fury.
“It was remarkably easy,” he says in a voice that doesn’t boast. He isn’t proud. He’s just here, looking at me with eyes that say he’s giving me what he thinks I need, and that ask me to accept what he’s offering as a bridge to some new place we can be together.
Except I’m about to set fire to that bridge.
I can’t help it. I spontaneously combust so quickly there isn’t time to contain it.
“I don’t want this,” I snap, shoving it back at him. The papers fall in erratic patterns, one landing in his salad, one scraping across Spritzy’s head. The dog begins to whine.
“What? I don’t understand.” He’s sitting back, the papers scattered across the table. He leans forward, his suit jacket open, his waist pressing into the table’s edge.
“I said I don’t want it,” I repeat through clenched teeth, my voice vibrating with anger. I can only imagine what my face looks like based on the way he frowns.
“I thought you’d want to know.”
“You think I didn’t already know where he is? I research these issues for a living! I’ve known where Leo is for years.” I swallow, my saliva bitter with the tangy taste of disappointment. I’m not sure who I’m more disappointed in, though. “Vehicular homicide. He has three more years to go.” Mom’s story was a gut punch in more ways than one. While he didn’t, obviously, kill me twenty-two years ago, he went on to kill someone else. Two someones, while driving drunk in Iowa.
“You...” He flinches, as if my words were blows.
“I tried to visit him. Once. The prison authorities told me he refused.”
I’m looking down on Andrew from a standing position I don’t recall moving into. His face is tipped up, dark brows covering eyes that seem to fight inside, his pupils dilating then constricting, his face a flickering field of light and shadow.
“Amanda, I thought I was being helpful.” His voice wavers between bewilderment and a cold control that turns up the fury flame inside me. “And I am so sorry,” he says, his voice softening slightly. “Sorry that he would refuse you.”
“You could have asked, first. Before you went snooping.” Shame pours over my skin like lighter fluid, the tiny hairs on my arms standing as gooseflesh ripples across the space between us. Why would he find out the truth about my father? What possible purpose would that serve?
“You’re right. I see I made a mistake.” The balance between his bewilderment and control is shifting, his voice going tight.
Our eyes lock, and as second pass we don’t look away. The intensity that flows between us feels like a shockwave that shatters everything fragile for miles.
And then it hits me.
“Is that what this is about?” I continue. “Is this why you don’t want to be seen in public with me?”
“What?” Incredulity clears up any ambiguity in his expression. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Gloves are off.
“The evidence is pretty clear, Andrew. We’ve only ever had dates in private places. You only see me at night. You wouldn’t go for a walk with me when I really needed you at the Fenway. You told me you were worried about photographers. You still haven’t introduced me as your girlfriend to your dad or, obviously, to Terry. He was just here and had no clue! And now you dug up the truth about my father—a truth I knew a long time ago—and what else am I supposed to think?”