“Don’t give me this solidarity crap,” I said, squeezing her hand before I let it go. “You’re on your own, kid.”
She scowled and crossed her arms.
“We normally have brunch with Lydia afterward,” Emery informed me. “You could meet us at—”
“That’s all right,” I said quickly. “I don’t wanna interrupt your family time. I can walk around and get better acquainted with the town.”
“No,” Olivia whined, walking over and wrapping her arms around my waist. “I don’t want you to be by yourself.”
“I’ll be fine, love.”
But she didn’t appear convinced.
Emery made ham and cheese omelets for breakfast, and listening to him explain about the sanctity of the omelet pan to me while Olivia shook her head and April rolled her eyes was fun. He made ours with avocado and salsa as well, and made hash browns from scratch, and finished it off with slices of cantaloupe on the side. I offered to clean up so they could all get ready for church.
“Are you sure you don’t want to meet us for brunch?”
“I’m sure, thank you.”
But he didn’t move.
“What?”
“Yesterday you said that you didn’t know if you’d make a good nanny because you yourself were never truly able to be a child.”
“Oh, that’s noth—”
“Please, Brann,” he soothed me, hand on my bicep, squeezing gently. “Please trust me with something personal. You know practically everything about me.”
I knew too much, that was the problem. “My mother died when I was really young, like not even two, and my father wasn’t really parent material.”
“So you said,” he replied softly, giving me all his attention, his thumb sliding back-and-forth over the same spot.
“He drank,” I explained, not wanting to get into the part about how he took me to the bars with him and let me watch him shoot pool, and if he won, I got treated to hot dogs on the good days. “He drank a lot. And when he did, he banged me up a little bit.”
Emery took a breath. “Just a little bit?”
I nodded. “It wasn’t like—you know. That.”
“I do know. I’m a teacher, after all,” he said, hand cupping the side of my neck as he stepped in closer, checking on me, his gaze locked with mine.
“Yeah, so… you understand.”
“And where is your father now?”
“The drinking finally took him.”
“Oh, Brann, I’m so sorry.”
I shrugged, because it was a long time ago, but I could still remember what life with Raymond Calder had been like on the bad days. If I could make it to school, there was lunch there, and that was it for the day. When I got on the breakfast program as well, I made sure I was there even if my old man had knocked me around the night before and I was still sore.
Weekends were rough but if I was lucky, I got invited over to a friend’s house and camped out both days, not leaving until Sunday night. All my friends’ parents liked me—I washed dishes and mowed lawns, made sure I was super helpful so they had no problem with me. By high school, I had my own job as a barback because the club owner wanted to get in my pants even though I was only sixteen. I made great tips as a runner, because my jeans were tight and I flirted hard. I actually had to give a blow job now and then or get a reputation as a cocktease, but it had been a reasonable trade-off to be able to eat regularly.
My father signed my enlistment papers when I was seventeen because, what the hell did he care, and a year later, as soon as I graduated from high school, I was gone. I left San Diego behind, with everything I had in the world packed into one large backpack. A year later I got the news that he’d remarried. Three years after that, he died of cirrhosis of the liver. Apparently he hadn’t stopped drinking in time. His new wife—I didn’t remember her name—sent paperwork for me to sign because he had life insurance money that he’d left to me. I signed it over to her instead. I got a note six months later, thanking me and saying that if I was ever in Santa Monica, to please visit.
It was the last I heard from her.
“Brann?”
“Sorry,” I said quickly, smiling for him. “You should go shower. I’ll see you guys later.”
His face broadcast his concern. “I don’t feel right leaving you.”
“I’m good,” I assured him. “And thank you for asking about me—about my life. It means something to me.”
The furrow of his brows, the way he hesitated instead of leaving the room, I could tell he was uneasy.
“I promise you, I’m fine.”
They were all stunning when they left, the girls in chunky sweaters and leggings and boots, swaddled in their long puffer coats, and Emery in a navy Hugo Boss suit that fit him like a glove. The black cashmere trench he put on over it completed the look of style and sophistication. I felt strange, left out, and it made no sense, because I’d been invited to go, but I realized there was no suit in my duffel, and the nicest thing I owned was my Navy dress uniform back in Chicago.