Page 42 of Watch Me

We don’t say anything. I flatten my palm against her back, wanting to lift her chin and kiss all this away, but I don’t. After a moment, she straightens. I unlock the car, and we get in.

We drive home in silence. It’s impossible to speak. The only thing I could possibly say is how much she means to me. How I would do anything for her. That if she needs me, I will always be there. And it’s too painful to articulate.

For, as unbelievable as Zoë may be, she is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my entire life. A father seducing his son’s girlfriend? I am as despicable as they come.

So I let the silence hang between us, and neither of us says a word until I pull into the driveway. I turn off the engine and look over at her, and Zoë says, “I should move.”

I can’t let her see the blinding agony that rips through me, because of course she’s right. She can’t live here. I should never have let any of this happen. So I only say, “There’s time to figure everything out.”

* * *

It’s still grey and misty out when I pull up to Rebecca’s house in the morning, the sun only a clouded shimmer low in the sky. She answers the door in a bathrobe, looking perplexed and pissed, and tells me that Tate is asleep. Obviously, I know that, but, “Wake him up, please,” I say. “Tell him it’s important.” And then I go back out to my car to wait.

Something about my unlikely arrival time or my impatient tone must convince her, because about ten minutes later Tate stomps out to the car, wearing a tank top and sweat pants, a heavy scowl on his face. He gets into the passenger seat and closes the door with slightly too much force, and then turns to look at me with an arch, stony expression. It’s a version of my son I saw last night, but now instead of being belligerent, he’s authoritative and righteous. For the first time, he has the upper hand. And we both know it.

I turn and look out the windshield. A light rain is starting, drizzle speckling the glass.

It’s impossible to know where to start. It could take years to explain myself. So I decide to cut to it.

“Do you love her?” I ask.

He balks. “That’s what you have to say?”

But it’s the only question that matters. How else do I quantify the damage I’ve done? And maybe justify it, too?

“Do you?”

I turn to look at him, see him shake his head, roll his eyes. He clocks the suitcases in the backseat and then looks back at me with a narrowed, suspicious expression.

“No,” he answers defiantly. “Do you?”

In a thousand years, I could never have imagined myself in this situation. I can still remember the positive pregnancy test that made Rebecca and I cry together twenty-three years ago. How tiny and utterly defenseless Tate was when he was born. That love I felt for him from the moment I found out he existed was like nothing I’d ever felt before.

Love is powerful. It’s inexplicable. And it’s uncontrollable.

“Jesus Christ,” he curses when I don’t reply, and opens the car door.

“Tate!”

But he’s already outside, slamming the door shut, stalking back to the house. What else can I say? My silence said it all.

ZOË

SIX MONTHS LATER

“Amazing show tonight, sweetie.”

Andre clasps my shoulders, and we quickly air-kiss before he heads off to the showers. I stay backstage, slowly stretching out my Achilles tendon and rotating my ankle, making sure I do everything my physiotherapist prescribed to avoid straining the tendon again.

I’m performing three nights a week, and I definitely don’t want to take any time off while my show is still new.

By the time I’m done my stretches, Rachel and Tomas have also grabbed their things and headed out, and I’m alone backstage. I pick up my bag and head to the shower, too. But unlike Andre, who uses the public showers in the club, I head down the corridor to the boss’s office to use his private washroom. I’m quote-unquote “not allowed in the club,” although I’m of legal age, and there’s nothing David can do to prevent me from going. But I observe his wishes out of respect.

At least, I always have until tonight.

David has been an amazing friend to me, and I owe him everything. Respect is the least of it. But I’m twenty-three years old now, and he knows how curious I am to explore the club. Hell, I work here. Expecting me to head directly home after the show every night is unrealistic.

I’m permanently at the periphery of a world of sex and indulgence, and I just want to open the door and cross over the threshold already.

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