Page 46 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
Wondering if it’s Ryder standing on the other side of the door—and hoping it is—I leave the robe untied over my T-shirt and underwear, loosely grasping the edges closed.
“Just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” I say, opening the door.
“No, I couldn’t,” Paul says, as he takes a good look at me. “But it looks as if you were expecting someone else.”
Chapter 9
I yank my robe closed, tie it hurriedly, and close the door to a thin crack. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour, Paul?” I hiss.
“I had to talk to you.”
“It’s one o’clock in the fucking morning, and I told you we’d talk next time I dropped Nate off.”
“That’s in two weeks, and I can’t wait that long.”
I close my eyes and work furiously to batten down my temper. “Well, regardless of what it is you so desperately need to talk to me about, please understand this: you absolutely cannot ever show up at my house unannounced, especially at one o’clock in the goddamn morning.”
“It’s important, Laurel.”
“Are you dying or something?”
He frowns, rearing back as if struck. “What? No!”
“Then it’s not important enough to show up at my front door at one in the morning. Or at my front door ever, regardless of the time.”
He grinds his molars together, a sure sign of his burgeoning temper. “I have every right to insist we talk, Laurel.”
“No, you don’t. I owe you nothing. You owe me, in fact—because you don’t pay me shit for child support or alimony, and instead of reporting that to the court I let it slide because I don’t want or need your money, but have you ever stopped to think about your son and what he needs? God knows you’ve never been able to hold down a job for more than six months…” I realize my voice is rising, and I force my voice back to a whisper. “Go home, Paul. We’ll talk next time I drop Nate off for his visitation.”
“Why are you being so cruel, Laurel?”
I flinch. “Cruel? I’m being cruel? I put up with your unpredictability and jealousy for years, Paul. I did everything I could to take care of you, but it was never enough. Nothing I could ever do would ever be enough for you, and I eventually realized that. We…are…DIVORCED! I am the mother of your child, and that’s it! I am not your friend; I do not owe you anything—and certainly not explanations of where I go, or what I do or with whom. My life is my business, not yours. I don’t know what you do with your life, and frankly, I don’t care, as long you treat our son with love, and protect him when you’re with him.” I sigh, rubbing my face. “I’m not doing this with you right now, Paul. I’m tired, I was just about to fall asleep, and you’re pissing me off. And if you wake Nate up, I swear to god you’ll regret it forever.”
He breathes out slowly. “Just…give me five minutes, Laurel. What I have to say I can say in five minutes.”
“Now? At one a.m.?”
“Yes.”
I tug my robe closed tighter, retie the knot, make sure the front door is unlocked, and step out onto the porch. I put my back to the door and cross my arms. “Okay. I’m listening.”
Paul closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath, relief on his features. “I know I wasn’t always the best husband to you.” He pauses, and I have to stifle the urge to make a nasty retort. “And I don’t think I’ve ever truly apologized for that. So…I’m sorry, Laurel.”
“Apology accepted.” I make to open the door, but he keeps speaking.
“The thing is, us divorcing was, in a weird way, the thing I needed most. It showed me that I…that I was a disaster. That I had problems I’d never resolved, issues I was ignoring.”
I again stifle the urge to snap at him. “I’m glad you’re coming to these realizations, Paul.”
“I’ve actually been seeing someone.”
I blink. “Wow, um. Okay. Good for you.”
He pales, stammers. “NO! Not—I don’t—I didn’t mean like that. I meant as in a therapist. A psychologist.” He searches my face. “It’s been life changing, to be honest.”
I sigh—I can’t stifle that one. “I’m really happy for you, Paul. For real.”
He shakes his head. “Laurel, I don’t think you’re hearing what I’m saying.”
I frown. “You’re finally getting the help you’ve always needed—I’m hearing you, Paul.”
He shakes his head again. “I’m on medication—staying level. I know it’s something I need, and that it’s not something I’ll ever fix, that I’ll always need it.” His eyes turn to mine, sincere, pleading, and my heart thumps, pounds with the realization of where he’s going with this.
“Paul…”
“I’m not—I’m not saying I’m fixed, but…I’m better.”
I count to ten, eyes closed, breath held tight in my lungs. Then, as calmly as I can manage: “Paul…don’t. Please don’t.”
