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He doesn’t. At first.
I feel somewhat like Christian Bale inBatmanwhen I demand, in a deep growling voice, “Tell me where they are!”
Parker laughs. “Jesus, dude. Fine. They’re at North Italia.”
I hang up.
Now, do you see me there on my dirt bike in the driveway ready to head into Santa Monica? I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking something along the lines of Jesus dude, let it go. She deserves better than you, ya crazy fuck.
I know this, but do you think I care?
I don’t have to be just River’s caregiver. I can be other things. I should be living my life still and enjoying the same things I did before I gained custody of her, right? Even new parents still go out without the kids. It’s completely normal and even healthy to still have your own life outside of being a parent. Even at twenty-three. Especially at twenty-three.
That’s what Tracy tells me when I leave River with her Monday night at my apartment with Kona. We’re not technically living at my apartment yet, but I’m trying to get River used to the idea of staying someplace other than the house in case it’s sold.
I didn’t want to go out tonight, but Tracy tells me I can’t keep spending all my time with a traumatized three-year-old, but then again, I want to. I hate being away from her. My mind drifts to River and her face when I left her with Tracy. It was like she was afraid I was never coming back and burning the memory of me inside her brain.
She’s not all I think about. My mind is on Tiller. Always, almost instinctively. There’s this game Tiller and I play. A push and pull. I think endlessly about him. I’m hopelessly lost in the idea of him and terribly confused by the action of him. What’s worse? I fell madly in love with the harshness of everything disturbing he does to gain my attention. That’s wrong. That’s unhealthy, but as I’ve said, I crave the gnarly ones.
That in itself tells me I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be on a date with Cody, when I know my heart will always be Tiller’s. But here I am, seated in a corner table at North Italia.
Nervously fidgeting with my hair, and then my napkin, I’m impressed by their cocktail menu. To be honest, I’m mesmerized just staring at their bar. I love modern decor and the edgy furniture and ambiance of North Italia is something out of a chic Pinterest board come to life.
It’s beautiful and the food is amazing. Everything’s made fresh to order. Even the pizzas. They specialize in traditional Italian food with a modern twist. I could spend hours looking at the menu, but I focus on the drinks because that’s what I’m going to need tonight. They have sangria and I’m pleasantly surprised to see they offer a pitcher of it!
Would that be lush of me to order a pitcher and drink the entire thing to get through this night?
Yes. Don’t make a fool of yourself here.
Cody clears his throat, my eyes lifting to his as he hands the menu to the waiter. “I’ll have a glass of Zinfandel and the Strozzapreti.”
It’s my turn to order but I can’t pronounce half of the meals on the menu, so I simply point to save myself the embarrassment. “I’ll have the coffee and this.” I point to the burrata tortelloni.
The corners of Cody’s lips twist at the corners. He’s cute, in a boyish way with dusty blond hair that falls hopelessly in his eyes and a joker’s smile when he thinks something’s funny. He’s completely unlike Tiller, and I think that’s why I agreed to go out with him. Where Cody’s nice and sweet and is opening doors with gracious smiles, Tiller’s nothing like that.
Stop thinking about him!
The waiter hands me my drink. Though the sangria looked amazing, I went with the Italian coffee. It’s an iced coffee made with espresso, Caffe Borghetti, Amaretto, and vanilla whipped cream.
Now I could tell you all sorts of things about that dinner with Cody, but I’m not sure you care. Or do you? Do you want to know the part where he talks about traveling to Brazil or that he’s been taking care of his eighty-year-old grandmother who has dementia?
He’s literally so sweet, I have a toothache.
He asks questions like we’re playing a game of twenty questions. And then he asks, “How’s River?”
Drawing in a deep breath, a familiar lump in my throat rises, and I know where this is going. “She’s doing well. Sleeping seems to be the hardest thing for her as is having my sister show the house constantly to potential buyers.”
My mind drifts back to Friday morning when Alexandra showed the house to someone with us there, cooking breakfast. She didn’t call first, didn’t ask for us to be gone, nothing. Just brought some of her friends over, let herself in and paraded them around trying to sell them on the house.
River was so distraught by them going into her parents’ bedroom, she locked herself in the bathroom for twenty minutes. The only reason I got her out was because I offered up McDonald’s chicken nuggets.
So not only will she have to see a therapist for the emotional trauma of seeing her parents’ death, she’s going to have high cholesterol and maybe even diabetic by the time she’s four.
He gives an understanding nod. “Was River with them when it happened?”
I flashback to the night. Images of the blood on her dress, the shocked lost look she held and the way she twirled my hair around her fingertips. My heart pounds painfully, harsh beats that take my breath away.
“Can we. . . talk about something else?”