“Anyway, how’s your new supervisor?” I change the subject. “What was her name? Janet?”
Dan’s wide shoulders loosen as he tells me about the woman who replaced the last woman who replaced the guy who knocked up his secretary who was half his age …
And meanwhile, I make a mental note to call around this afternoon to find a good medical malpractice attorney, someone who can review the settlement the clinic offered. I’d be stupid to walk away from free money, but I want to make sure they’re not trying to pull one over on me. I’d be remiss not to ensure I’m getting the best possible deal for Lucia’s future.
After lunch, we head to the alley parking lot, stopping at my car. Since Dan was working from his actual office today, we drove separate, though he offered to swing by and pick me up. Typical Dan—always going out of the way for people.
“You know you can’t lie to me,” he says as I unlock my door. “I can see through all of it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and Fabian.” He speaks softly and lifts a hand in protest. “And I get it. You don’t have to confirm or deny it. You’re allowed to be with whoever you want, and it’s none of my business. But someone like him, Rossi? That’s heartbreak waiting to happen. And not just yours, but Lucia’s, too. And it isn’t a matter of if, but when.”
“Seriously, Dan, it’s not like that between us.” The words taste bitter on my tongue, as if my head and my heart are at odds over the statement.
“Maybe not yet,” he says. “But think about it. He’s got this big, fancy life back in California and he packed it all up to live with you for a month? He’s trying to sweep you off your feet.”
I stifle a laugh, wishing he could know it has nothing to do with me.
“He might say the right things and promise you the world,” he says, “but at the end of the day, people like that … people like him … are always going to be looking for the next new thing.”
I take a step back, digesting his words, tucking them in my pocket should I lose my footing with Fabian again.
“If you ever want to talk to me about anything,” he says. “I’m your man.”
Without hesitation, I throw my arms around him and wrap him in a hug. Never mind that he’s a whole foot taller than me and I have to rise on my toes just to reach his shoulders. When I pull away, he’s smiling, though it’s a tight, sad sort of smile. I’m sure the gesture meant more to him than I could possibly know. He’s lonely, and the one person he wants is giving all of their time and attention to someone else.
It has to hurt.
“You’re an amazing friend,” I tell him. “Know that.”
Heading home, I turn the corner to my street, and my stomach sinks at the sight of my empty driveway. Pulling into my garage, I snap myself out of it. I have no business being excited about Fabian’s company in any capacity, and allowing myself to entertain that path is a reckless, slippery slope.
He’s my child’s donor.
He’ll never be more.
He’ll never be less.
I press the garage remote on my visor, and climb out. Only the second I shut the driver’s side door, I catch a glimpse of Fabian’s blacked out Range Rover pulling up.
Without an ounce of permission, my stomach somersaults.
Chapter 18
Fabian
* * *
“Any updates?” I park in Rossi’s driveway Tuesday after practice, taking a minute to check in with Steen and Farber before heading inside.
“We’re getting close,” Steen says. “They’re dragging their feet, but they know we have the upper hand here. Hoping we reach an agreement by the end of the week, next week at the latest. But I’ll keep you posted.”
Hanging up, I kill the engine.
My phone dings with a text from Tatum, the tenth one today. Swiping across the screen, I delete the group of messages without reading a single one. And then I waste zero time calling Coach.
“Tatum needs to back off,” I say when he answers.
Not that the man has an ounce of control over his spitfire spawn.
The two have a complex relationship. Coach was never around when she was growing up, mostly traveling and touring with me or the hopefuls who came before me. And when he wasn’t elbow deep in the pro tennis circuit, he was chasing the bottom of a whiskey bottle. It wasn’t until a few years ago I realized the man had a serious problem. I’d found him lying face down in an alley outside a bar in Dublin, having been mugged and then beaten an inch within his life. In an ironic twist of fate, the near-death experience was exactly the wakeup call the man needed to find a newfound appreciation for sober living, and it was during his early days in AA when he reached out to his estranged daughter to apologize for his absence and attempt to make amends.