Page 23 of Badd Daddy
“How do you know what I see when I look at you?”
I shrugged. “I don’t. But the fact that you can look at me at all tells me it’s probably best I ain’t shared some of the shit I done.”
“We are all flawed, Lucas. I am far, far from perfect—as a wife, as a mother, as a woman.”
I laughed. “Good thing I ain’t about to tell you about the worst moments of our lives. You’d run screaming for the hills, sweetheart, and that’s a fact.”
“You don’t know what would send me running,” she said, lifting her chin. “Perhaps I’m neither as weak-minded nor judgmental as you seem to think.”
“Now hold on a goddamn second. I don’t think you’re either of those.”
“Then quit trying to hide your past from me.”
“Why? You really want to know?”
“Answer me a couple questions, and then we’ll see.”
I shrugged. “Okay, shoot.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
I sighed, sort of laughing but not quite. “No. Thinkin’ back on some of the bar fights I was in back in my younger days, it’s a wonder I can say that. But no.”
“Have you ever raped a woman, or done anything without express consent?” Her gaze was razor sharp, watching for the least sign of evasion or untruth.
“Fuckno. I want a woman to want me her own self. I sure as fuck ain’t some knight in shining armor, but I can say I taught my sons the value of a woman. Mainly ’cause they never had one in their lives that was worth a damn, but I did teach ’em to get the yes instead’a taking what they want.”
“You already said you never beat them,” she continued. “So that answers the big questions.”
I cackled bitterly. “Liv, if your standards are so low that having never killed anyone, raped anyone, or beaten children is all it takes, then you need new fuckin’ standards.”
“That’snotwhat I meant,” she snapped. “Those aren’t mystandards—not in the way you mean. I only asked that much because if you were able to say yes to any of them, I would say perhaps we shouldn’t be friends. You seem to think the worst of yourself, which is an odd juxtaposition for a man with as much bluster and brawn as you have.” Her eyes and her voice both softened. “But I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit.” Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at it. “I have to go. My daughter wants to talk.”
“Listen, I appreciate you helpin’ me paint.” I glanced around the room, now brightened and softened, soothing yet still somehow masculine. “I really did have a good time today.”
“You never answered my question.”
“Which one?”
“What would you do? About Poppy.”
“I don’t know the situation.”
“Well, the short version is that she is an artist, living in New York attending Columbia, studying for a degree in art history. But she’s coming to realize she hates the city, hates the degree she’s studying for, but she’s too stubborn to give up. She got an amazing scholarship to one of the best universities in the world, and she’s spent over a year working toward the degree. But she says her circle of friends are…well, not very good friends, and she has no time to do the one thing she really loves, which is make art. And she wants me to tell her what to do so she doesn’t have to make the decision, but…as her mother, I’m just torn. If I tell her what to do, I’m worried she won’t learn anything from the experience and will rely on me, or maybe even blame me if she ends up doing the wrong thing. But I don’t want her to suffer or to waste precious time chasing something she doesn’t want and won’t use in life.” She sighed, rubbing her cheeks with both hands. “Plus, I’m worried if she leaves Columbia, she’ll move back in with me and never leave. Not that I don’t love my daughter and want to spend as much time with her as possible, but…she has to make it on her own. And I’m just torn.” Her eyes searched my face. “So. What would you do?”
I mulled it over a moment or two. “I’d tell her a degree, even from someplace like Columbia, is only worth what you make it worth. If you’re doin’ somethin’ you hate, that degree ain’t nothin’ but toilet paper, and you may as well wipe your ass with it. If she decides to leave, and needs to get back on her feet, give her a few months to figure her shit out. I’d let her come home, but only temporarily. Don’t let her get too comfortable. You’re her mama, not her best friend, so in the end you gotta give her the straight hard truth—that sometimes, you gotta waste time in order to realize that’s what you’re doin’, that there’s somethin’ else you want more. And then you gotta want it bad enough to do what it takes to go get it.”
“Wise words.” She smiled at me. “Thank you.”
I waved a hand. “You’d have done that regardless. You love your girl, and you’re a good mama.”
“I feel like a bad mama for thinking how I just really hope she doesn’t end up living with me again. I mean, if she needs to, I’ll let her, but after twenty-odd years of raising the five of them and taking care of my husband and all that, I must say, it has been rather nice only having myself to care for.” Her expression darkened. “I don’t mean that.”
“Hey, it’s okay to mean it.”
“They weren’t a burden, and that’s how I made it sound.”
“No, you didn’t. You dedicated your life to caring for your family. Now you have yourself to take care of. Don’t mean you didn’t care about them, love them, and do what you did happily.”