The Good Father

BRETT HAD HAD a meeting in San Francisco first thing Wednesday morning. Just a stop in to go over the monthly books at a local nonprofit gay and lesbian support house. He flew in and out of Burbank and made it home by midafternoon. But as tempted as he was to drive by the hospital, look for Ella’s car and then wait for her to get off shift just so he could assure himself she was fine, he took a roundabout way home to avoid the hospital altogether.

Changing into his golf clothes, he thought he’d take himself out to hit nine holes. Saw his bike and changed his mind. And his clothes.

In black jeans, a black leather jacket and shades, he felt free, and completely innocuous as he took Coastal Road One and sped along the ocean for more than an hour. He’d always loved riding. From the first time he could remember being on the back of his dad’s bike. He’d been given the ride—which he’d been begging for for what seemed like forever—as a gift for his seventh birthday.

He’d ridden with Jeff for a while in college.

And then quit.

Because eventually, he’d shut out everything in his life that reminded him of the good times he’d had growing up.

Because every single time he revisited them, they led to the bad times. And the pain of their loss served no purpose.

He’d been a fool.

He hadn’t had to lose the joy of riding.

He pulled into his driveway just as the sun was starting to set. Maybe he’d go out for dinner.

Go down to the corner and have a sandwich and a beer.

He hadn’t seen Ella’s car as he’d gone roaring up to the garage. She’d parked it in the gravel parking area to the side of the house—put there by the former owners who’d used the old home as a bed-and-breakfast.

But he saw her as she stood up from a white wicker rocker on his front porch and came toward him.

He stared. Felt his jaw drop. And just kept staring.

In jeans that hugged every inch of her long legs and a tight, short-sleeved T-shirt, the evidence of their child was on display for him to see.

She’d left her hair down, and it curled around her arms and shoulders, her breasts.

“It’s not polite to stare.”

He’d give anything to change his past. And be able to scoop her up and carry her to bed.

“You...look...beautiful.”

“I’ve come to ask a favor, Brett.”

He’d give her the moon if he could. Problem was, most of what she needed, he didn’t have. “Ask. You know I’ll do what I can.” Hooking his helmet over the handlebar of his bike, he smoothed a hand over hair that was too short to stick up far, and walked toward her. Intending to take her into the house.

She stopped on the driveway.

“I want you to trust me. Completely trust me,” she said.

Frowning, Brett studied her face, wishing he still had the ability to read her. “I do trust you. Trust has never been an issue between us.”

“I mean really trust. As in, you’ll go along with whatever I say—whatever I ask of you over the next hour or so. No matter what. Just for an hour. Not a lifetime.”

An hour he could do. Couldn’t he? An hour was only sixty minutes.

Even he wasn’t convinced by his own nod.

“I mean it, Brett. But we’ll take it slow. If you really can’t handle it, as in you’re going to have a heart attack or throw up or start seeing stars or something, you tell me and we’ll stop.”

He had no idea what they were talking about. And Ella’s expression was as serious as he’d ever seen it.

He nodded again.