No Matter What. Janice Johnson Kay
sorry to hear that.” He felt helpless, as he often did when talking to her. He couldn’t have offered her what Davis Noonan had. He’d had painfully mixed feelings about the advantages this man he’d never even met had given his children. His feelings about them losing those advantages were even murkier. “I’m betting you’ll rise to the top wherever you are,” he said in the hearty tone any self-respecting kid would see through.
“Oh, Dad.” Rolled eyes. He knew it. He’d been demoted to “Dad,” too.
“Trev is having a tough time,” he said abruptly.
“Yeah, he doesn’t say much.”
Unhelpful. “I was hoping he did to you.”
“Nuh-uh. I think he’s mad at Mom and you, too, but I don’t know why.” She paused. “Is that why you wanted to talk to me?”
“Partly,” he admitted, shamed. He tugged at his hair hard enough to hurt. “I always want to talk to you. You know that.”
“I kind of wish I’d come for the summer.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I wish you had, too, honey. I miss you. It’s been too long.”
Bree hadn’t spent this past summer with Richard, either. She’d seemed reluctant with her brother not coming, and Richard hadn’t pushed it. He was sorry now.
“Maybe I can come for Christmas,” she added. “Except then Mom would be alone, so maybe not. Plus I wouldn’t know anyone there.”
“You know me and your brother.”
She made a noncommittal noise. He tried to coax some more information from her about new friends, teachers, anything, but got nuggets like “not really” and “they’re fine.” Finally he gave up and they signed off.
In frustration he thought, This is as good as it’s going to get. I’ll watch her graduate from high school and probably college, help pay for a wedding, walk her down the aisle if stepfather number four or five doesn’t get the nod, and I’ll never really know her. My own daughter.
He’d actually had doubts about whether she really was, although he rarely let them surface. He hadn’t guessed when Bree was born that Alexa was sleeping around, but later… He’d wondered, that’s all. Unlike Trevor, she had her mother’s coloring and enough of her mother’s looks there was no being sure. It didn’t make any difference, though. He’d loved his little girl from the first time he held her, and never stopped. It didn’t really matter if biologically she was his or not. It was only that she was more like her mother. Girlie.
He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Brooding was getting him nowhere.
What he had to ask himself was whether Alexa had lied to him just now. He had a hard time imagining that she really had no idea what had turned their all-star son into a wannabe juvenile delinquent.
And—hell—what about Brianna? Was she lying, too? Was there something none of them wanted him to know? He grunted with near humor. If I were trying to keep a secret, would I confide it to my powder keg of a son? My mall-mad daughter?
No, for God’s sake, that was idiocy. Sooner or later, Trevor would blow up and all would be revealed. Had to happen.
Whether Richard could fix what was wrong, though, that was another story.
Sitting there alone in the quiet house, he admitted to himself that he could use help. None of his friends who were married had teenagers, though; they hadn’t started families as young as he had. Counseling would be useless without Trevor’s cooperation. And Richard would be damned if he’d ask for help from Molly Callahan, who cared so much she had only suspended Trev instead of expelling him. Big of her.
As much as he disliked her, Richard wished he could keep himself from noticing her luscious body, glorious hair and exquisite skin. Or the fact that she didn’t wear a wedding ring.
That didn’t mean she wasn’t married, he reminded himself, and then thought, Poor schmuck. She probably gave him that chilly, commanding stare over the dinner table until he ate every last bite of his broccoli.
Richard shook his head hard. Quit thinking about her. Get your head where it needs to be: on your own kid.
Yeah, that might be more productive—if he had the slightest idea what Trev’s problem was.
* * *
TREVOR DIDN’T GET WHAT was going on with Cait. She was shy when he saw her at school the day after they got it on the first time. He almost kind of liked that. He liked knowing he was the only guy she’d ever had. She’d been major tight, and he’d gotten a real charge out of breaking in. Hah! Like he’d fiddled and fiddled with the dial on a safe, and there’d been that magic moment when the numbers tumbled into place and the lock clicked open. Man, it felt good. But he knew it hurt her. So he’d resolved the next time to make up for it.
But her shyness hung on. And even though he’d screwed her, like, five or six more times since then, he could tell she wasn’t enjoying it. She lay there under him stiff, and seemed relieved when it was over. She didn’t talk to him the same way anymore, either. He thought she was avoiding him.
It was almost mid-October now. Determined to make her tell him what was wrong, he lay in wait outside school at the end of the day. She came out the usual door with a cluster of her friends. Something happened on her face the minute she spotted him. She said something to the other girls, who all turned and looked at him, then Cait separated herself from them and came over to him.
“Were you waiting for me?”
“Yeah, I want to talk to you.”
“I have dance.”
“I know you do.” It had kind of pissed him off that she would never ditch one of her dance lessons for him. She had lessons three days a week, and often went to the studio in the evening or even on the weekends for more informal sessions. She’d told him that, if she was going to stay limber and be really good, she had to work out and dance every single day. He’d gone to watch a couple of times, and she was good, he had to admit. She looked amazing in her leotard, too. And there was the way she moved. It was so different from how other girls moved. Even the other girls at the dance school. Cait looked like the real thing. Maybe she was, or would be. He knew she’d been in the Pacific Northwest Ballet Nutcracker for a couple of years when she was younger.
“Can I walk you over there?” he asked.
“Um.” She shrugged. “Sure.” They crossed the parking lot and reached the sidewalk. She sneaked a look at him. “What do you want to talk about?”
“You’re being weird lately. Like you don’t like me anymore.”
She kept her head down and her mass of hair hid her face. “It’s not you.”
“Then what is it?”
“Me,” she said softly. “It’s me, okay?” Her voice rose there at the end.
He caught her arm and turned her to face him. Her eyes were darker than usual, almost purple like storm clouds could be. She was so beautiful, he wanted to kiss her, but when he started to bend toward her she took a step back.
“I need time. I’m a little freaked, okay?”
Shock slammed him, like a fist in his gut. “Freaked about what? Me?”
“I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”
He waited, but she’d clammed up.
“And now you don’t want one?”
She squeezed her eyes shut for a minute. Her hands gripped the cloth handle of her dance bag so tightly her knuckles shone white. “I do, but…”
“You don’t.”
“I do! I just wish…”
He knew what