Page 70 of Paths
“Ma’am, your cosmopolitan.” A drink appears in front of me and I look over to see the server speaking to Grady. “Can I get you something from the bar?”
“I made a mistake,” Weston goes on, ignoring our server.
“Beer,” Grady answers. “Anything’s fine.”
When the server steps away, I take a sip of my drink, but I can’t help if I sound a little sarcastic when I say, “You should move on. You didn’t have trouble doing that while we were together—it should be easy now.” I’ve been so worried about dinner all afternoon, I’m not quite sure where my sudden boldness is coming from, but I even swing my hand out while holding my glass, yet don’t spill a drop as I continue. “Just think, no hiding, no sneaking, you won’t have to juggle two phones, because Lord knows that was difficult, wasn’t it?”
“Enough,” Weston clips and takes my drink out of my hand, setting it on an end table. He didn’t even use a coaster—my mother’s sixth sense will eagle-eye that in no time. He has the nerve to grab my free arm. “I don’t know when you started acting like this, but it probably has something to do with him.” Weston jerks his head toward Grady.
Until now, Grady has remained a calm bystander, allowing my new-found assertiveness to do its thing. But the moment Weston laid a hand on me, that changed.
His body gets tight, his arm around my waist becomes a force of nature as he pulls me to him and out of Weston’s hold. “Keep your hands off her.”
Weston looks straight at Grady and seethes, “She’ll never be yours.”
“We’ll see. That’s up to Maya—but it looks like you need to get it through your thick skull she’ll never be yours.”
Weston’s about to argue further, when I hear his mother say smoothly, “Weston, this isn’t the time or place. Please allow me to welcome Maya properly.”
I’ve always liked Nancy. Even though she’s best friends with my mother, she’s always been genuine, like a real mom who wants the best for her kids, but to get that, her kids don’t have to be the best, like I did.
So when she pulls me into her arms for a warm hug, I let her. “You look lovely, dear. It’s good to have you home.”
“Thank you, and it’s good to see you, too, but we’re leaving tomorrow. I have to get back to work and only came to see Joe.”
“Maya,” Ron MacLachlan greets me, standing beside his wife. He tips his head, but his expression is bland, and that makes me nervous. He raises a brow and says pointedly, “I do hope you’ll rethink your decision and come home for good.”
Nancy grabs my hand and gives me a squeeze. “Please rethink this, Maya. Come home … give things a chance to mend.”
I shake my head and smile, because as much as Weston’s father scares me, I know Nancy loves her son and wants everything for him. But it’s not my fault he turned out to be a lying, cheating, murdering asshole—and I don’t think it’s hers, either. Her husband, on the other hand, I do blame.
“You’re a waitress and a glorified babysitter, Maya. You can leave your jobs at a moment’s notice,” Weston says, shaking his head.
“You’re a waitress?” my mother exclaims.
“Cool, she’s a waitress.” I hear the smile in Joe’s voice. “This is going to be fun.”
Grady corrects them as the server returns with his beer in a frosty glass. “She works in the tasting room of a vineyard and she’s the activities director for seniors. They love her and she’s good at it.”
“It was bad enough she didn’t pursue music in college like she should have.” My mother sighs and flips a hand toward me. “First you insist on physical therapy, and now you’re a waitress. This is embarrassing.”
I’m about to roll my eyes when I hear from behind me, “She’s back.”
I turn around and see my father. As always when he enters a room, his presence demands attention, but his is only on me. He’s just as I’ve known him to be all my life—tall, with dark eyes and hair that’s now peppered with gray, but it only adds to his demeanor, making him even more dapper and refined. He’s dressed the way he always is during the week, in a custom-made suit, fit to perfection.
My father is nothing like my mother. He’s not an asshole, but I wouldn’t enter him into any father of the year contests, either. He built his empire through hard work and long hours. Maintaining his spot on the Fortune 500 is no fluke, but by doing so, he had no time for his family.
He’s not an asshole—just absent. Even if he doesn’t see it that way.
Still, he walks straight through the crowd that has formed around us and comes straight to me. Leaning down to kiss my cheek, he says, “It’s good to see you, sweetheart. You look beautiful. I told everyone not to be worried, you were doing what you thought you needed to do.”
I give him a small smile. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Clint, talk to your daughter,” my mother starts in. “She’s working as a waitress and doing something at a senior center. It’s time for her to come home.”
My father looks down at me with a smirk. “You were never shy of a hard day’s work. Good for you.”
“Dad, this is Grady Cain. Grady, my father, Clint Augustine,” I introduce them.
