I fiddle with the heat vent, considering this proposition. “Maybe. If things don’t work out with Daniel, I guess.”
“Right,” he says, distracted as he parallel parks in front of the building. “Here we are.”
I expected Daniel’s workplace to be an all-glass modern skyscraper. But upon arrival, it’s a Romanesque medium-rise with ornately detailed windows and doorways. It’s bougie, kind of old-school.
The prospect of coming face-to-face with Daniel after nearly twenty years is hot flash–inducing. I imagine him in a corner office, thumbing through urgent files, dressed in a perfectly tailored sharkskin suit. He channels some Devil Wears Prada energy, icing out his staff with just one glance. Everyone knows Daniel doesn’t do small talk. His receptionist only bothers him with important stuff, although he will take calls from his beloved mother.
As I gawk up at the building, Trevor nudges my arm over the console. “Look, three o’clock. Pale, six-foot, brown hair. Is that him?”
I scrunch my nose, watching the pimply-faced teen with an oversize backpack as he shuffles past the passenger window. “Mr. Metcalfe, you need your eyes checked. That kid is like fourteen. At most.”
“I don’t have a lot to work with here. You didn’t have a photo of him on your hit list,” he retorts.
This is how it goes for the next fifteen minutes as we watch people filter in and out of the front doors. Trevor has, somehow, transformed from miserable twerp to James Bond. He’s checking his mirrors, murmuring physical descriptions of passersby, none of whom are Daniel. He might as well be a Man in Black with one of those fancy earpieces, speaking into his watch.
Since this isn’t my first rodeo being a certified creep, I’m well aware that surveillance in the movies is much more exhilarating than it is in real life. But it doesn’t make it any less dull, especially for an impatient soul like me.
Out of nowhere, Trevor reaches over the console. I suck in a sharp breath at his hand’s proximity to my legs. For some reason, the mere prospect of the splay of his palm spanning my thigh floods me with heat, like a wave of caffeine or straight-up sorcery, jolting me alive.
Something heavy drops over my knees. It isn’t his hand. It’s the glove compartment. Before I can even reconcile my dangerous thoughts, he extracts one of my paperback thrillers. Ignorant to the hammering of my heart and the crimson shade of my entire face, he casually flips to the middle of the book, silently picking up where he left off.
Did I really get that excited at the prospect of my womanizer roommate’s hand inches from my leg? Am I that desperate for human affection? Maybe my followers’ comments advocating for a room-ance with Trevor have somehow wormed their way into my subconscious.
I will those errant, nonsensical thoughts to a decrepit, condemned corner of my mind and padlock it for good measure. But now I’m far too aware of the heat blasting through the vent. In fact, I’m sweltering under my layers. Trevor’s car, which was perfectly comfortable two seconds ago, is now a claustrophobic, shrinking closet.
“Wanna go sit in the lobby? I need to stretch my legs,” I say, rolling the window down for some much-needed air.
Trevor is alarmed, like I’ve proposed a mass atrocity. When I unbuckle my seat belt, signaling I’m going with or without him, he relents with a heavy sigh, following me inside.
The lobby itself is your standard corporate space with shiny marble floors and gold elevators lining the back wall. An oak reception desk blocks our ability to reach the elevators, although there’s currently no one occupying the desk. Next to it is a row of three turnstiles where a man in a dowdy suit scans a badge to enter.
Trevor parks himself on a leather tufted bench next to the turnstiles. It’s the perfect view, directly across from the elevators.
I plop down next to him, kicking the snow off my boots. “By the way, I forgot to mention, guess who I met at the hospital the other day when I was visiting Angie?”
“My sister-in-law?”
“Yup.”
“She look okay?” A hint of concern tinges his tone.
“She looked a little worn down. She kept calling me Taryn.”
“Yeah. She’s been working her normal job at the bank and waitressing at night to keep up with Angie’s medical bills.”
“I can’t imagine. Sounds like she could use a break.”
“Sometimes I think staying busy is the only way she can cope. Otherwise, she’d worry herself sick at the hospital. I’m pretty sure Angie would get sick of her too.” A flicker of a smile is visible.
“Does Payton date?”
“She had a boyfriend last year, but when Angie got sick again, he bailed too.” His brow furrows. “Guess a kid with heart disease was a deal breaker.”
“For assholes,” I point out. Selfishly, I use this as a springboard to pose my burning question. “What’s this drama with your brother all about?”
I expect him to tense up and shirk my question, but he nods like he expected it. “It’s complicated. Logan and Payton weren’t together when they got pregnant. They moved in together right after. That went about as well as a Jerry Springer episode,” he explains sarcastically.
“Does he know the extent of Angie’s heart problems?”
“I keep him updated, even though he doesn’t bother asking. I think he just expects I’ll tell him if there’s anything important. He’s no Dad of the Year, that’s for sure.”
“What about your dad?”
“He and my brother are a lot alike,” he admits. “He was barely around before my parents split. Moved down to Texas for some construction job when Logan and I were in grade school. We never saw him except for the odd holiday visit, even after my mom died.”
“I can’t believe he didn’t step up after that.”
He lets out a bitter sigh as a boisterous crowd of people make their way through the turnstiles in front of us. “It was probably for the best. He was kind of a dick when Logan and I didn’t want much to do with him. Didn’t understand why we were standoffish. He moved back here when I was sixteen and randomly started picking us up from school on Fridays. He’d take us to Burger King because it was all he could afford. It was weird. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time or something. Logan was always a bit indifferent. He was at that age where he didn’t want to spend much time with anyone. So my dad and I had a lot of one-on-one time. We got pretty close, actually.”
I stay silent, trying to avoid spooking him with any given reaction.
“I’d ask him for advice on girls and money. He was a cheap bastard too. That’s where I learned it.” He chuckles softly. “After a few months, I forgave him for being a shit dad. And then he moved for another job and it kind of felt like the first time he left, all over again. But it was almost worse, because I blamed myself. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t good enough for him to stick around.”
Instinctively, I place my hand on his forearm. When his muscles clench under my touch, I remove it. “Him leaving had nothing to do with you.”
His hard eyes search mine. “You either.” Without explaining, I know he’s referring to Seth.