The Better Man. Amy Vastine
some reason, I have little faith in you, Mr. Jordan.”
Get in line, Max wanted to reply. Instead, he smiled and wished the junior Sato a good day before leaving. He certainly wasn’t going to prove anyone right or wrong standing in a conference room arguing with someone who had no idea what he was talking about.
* * *
MAX TIPPED HIS cab driver less generously on the ride home. Feeling deflated, he headed up to his condo with much less vigor than when he’d left. The guy from the second floor, who’d previously introduced himself as Charlie, was the hare to his turtle, nearly running Max over as he dashed down the stairs.
“Sorry about that, Floor Three.” Dressed in jeans and a navy T-shirt with the Chicago Fire Department logo on the front, Charlie gave Max’s arm a friendly punch. “I need to remember someone lives above me and might be on these stairs now and again.”
“No problem,” Max assured him, hoping for a quick escape.
“You home for lunch or something?”
“Or something.” Max continued his ascent.
Charlie stopped him. “I’m grabbing lunch down the street. Best burgers on this side of the city, and as a good neighbor, I feel it’s my duty to expose you to the finer things we have to offer around here. You have to come with me.”
“Maybe another time.” He didn’t want to be rude, especially since Charlie was nicer than anyone he’d ever met in L.A., but right now, he wanted to be alone.
Charlie relented with a smile. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”
Max didn’t doubt he meant it. He retreated into his condo and loosed his tie, pulled it over his head and tossed it on the couch. Stepping around a stack of boxes, he made his way to the kitchen to grab a drink. He’d had big plans to unpack and make this place a home, but work was always his default. His apartment back in L.A. had been spotless because he was only there to sleep. This place was going to take a little more effort once Aidan started coming around.
Max bypassed the television and headed for his music. His records were the first thing he unpacked when he got to Chicago. The vinyl collection really belonged to his mother, but she had lost her love for it long ago and he had happily taken it over.
Joanna Jordan currently lived in Portland, where she was exploring her newest fascination—healthy living. Max couldn’t complain. It was much better than her former love affair with alcohol or her cosmetic surgery phase. She’d traded her vodka in for kale shakes and did hot yoga instead of Botox injections. But Max knew it was only a matter of time before she moved on to something else. Another obsession. Another addiction. His mother re-created herself every couple of years. He never knew who she’d become, but he could always count on her to be different from the last time he saw her.
Max rarely benefitted from her frivolity, but the record collection was a wonderful exception. He had everything a music lover could want, from the Beatles to Buddy Guy. He slipped his favorite Pink Floyd album from its sleeve and set the record on the turntable. The music filled the room and Max lay down on the couch and closed his eyes, letting it take him away for a moment or two.
He patted his chest pocket, looking for something he knew wasn’t there. Old habits died hard. As a teenager, Max spent more afternoons than he could remember blowing off class, listening to music and smoking his mother’s cigarettes. It used to be what calmed him down, allowed him to escape his life.
Responsible parents didn’t expose their children to secondhand smoke, however. And Max was determined to be a better parent than either one of his had been. He’d failed thus far, but that was going to change. Giving up cigarettes was step one.
Scrubbing his face, Max sat up. Step one of a hundred. Maybe a thousand. He got up and went to the kitchen for more water and something to eat to keep his mouth busy.
The catalyst for his reform was taped to the refrigerator. The single sheet of monogrammed stationery was wrinkled from being crumpled up into a ball and thrown across his apartment back in L.A.
A little over four years ago, Max met Katie, who was on the rebound from some guy who had failed miserably at giving her the attention she desired. She was the stereotypical wannabe actress working as a waitress. Max’s nightclub was a favorite hangout for her and her friends.
Max, being Max, made her feel like the most important person he’d ever met. She was fun to be around when she wasn’t partying too hard and didn’t seem any more ready to settle down than he did. Neither one ever spoke of marriage or of moving things along too quickly. Not until she told him she was pregnant. Proposing was his first attempt at not being like his father, who hadn’t bothered to stick around when his mom dropped the baby bomb.
The marriage lasted about as long as the pregnancy. They fought about everything—Max’s work schedule, his friends, his cleaning habits or lack thereof. Things didn’t get any better when the baby came along. Aidan was born with what Max thought had to be the worst case of colic in medical history. He cried and wailed day and night.
Katie warned Max she would move back to Chicago to be closer to her family if he didn’t help out more, and he prayed she would. Aidan was three months old when she made good on that threat, and he had shamefully felt nothing but relief. Katie and Aidan left California and Max went back to the way things were before he met her. For the next three years, he worked hard and made a name for himself in the restaurant business. Life was good.
Until the letter came.
She had handwritten it, which made it that much more personal, more real. Her words leaped off the page in attack like they had fired out of her mouth when they were together. Her low opinion hadn’t changed over the years.
He was a deadbeat dad. He was an unfit parent. He was a pathetic human being. She wasn’t looking for any more of his money. She didn’t want anything from him except his signature.
Katie had remarried. She was Katie Michaels now. A swirly K and M were embossed in glossy black on the top of the heavy ivory paper. Her new husband was a brilliant attorney in Chicago. He was rich and well connected. He was the man Aidan called Daddy. He wanted to adopt Max’s son and change his last name. All Max had to do was give up his rights. When he refused to do that, Katie filed for sole legal custody of Aidan with no visitation rights, effectively finding another way to cut Max out of Aidan’s life forever.
It was the wake-up call of a lifetime. He had not only done what his own father had done, he’d let someone else be the father he had promised he was going to be.
He was Aidan’s father and it was time he acted like it. Every decision he’d made since that letter arrived was made with Aidan in mind. Those decisions brought him here to Chicago, where he was going to do things right. Max and Katie weren’t made for each other, but Aidan was made for them. Both of them. And no one was going to replace Max in his son’s life. Not anymore.
Max made himself a sandwich and pulled the lid open on one of the boxes. A father needed a home for his son to visit. This would be that home for Aidan.
SIMON DIDN’T STOP talking about his dad all through lunch. He had a thousand theories about what Trevor was doing on their street that morning. Kendall knew she should stop her son from fantasizing about his father being alive, but she couldn’t deny what she had seen with her own eyes.
The experience may have made Simon a chatterbox, but the shock of it all had left Kendall speechless. She was still trying to make sense of it long after they ate lunch. She didn’t even bother reminding him not to speak with food in his mouth as he hypothesized his father was a guardian angel and couldn’t stop for them because he had to save someone.
Kendall had no explanation as to why Trevor didn’t come home first to tell them he was an angel or why he might not have heard Simon yelling for him, especially since the little boy was fairly