“Flash mobs? Jesus. It’s not 2014. Don’t listen to him,” Whit says. “How about this? We rent out the rink. Stage some charity event. You dress up as the Wolf and skate out onto the ice, ok?”
“I can barely stay upright on skates,” I tell him.
“So that’s your commitment level? You want Book back, but not if it involves doing something you’re not good at?” Knox says, leveling me with a look.
I want to point out that there is a difference between “not being good at something” and potentially breaking a bone, but instead, I say what’s really on my mind. “Look, these are good ideas, but how do I show him I won’t run away again? How can I prove that I love him enough to let him stand up for me, to let him take care of me?”
Whit thinks for a moment, but before he comes up with another scheme, Ty speaks up.
“Ok, this is gonna sound crazy, but hear me out.”
I nod, leaning in.
“Maybe,” Ty says, “you should talk to him. You know, have an actual conversation. Apologize. Ask for a second chance.”
His words hang in the air for a moment before Knox and Whit bust up into fits of laughter.
I check my watch and see that it’s time for me to go. “Look, I gotta head to the coffee shop, but I appreciate your help. Seriously.”
“Let me know your t-shirt size,” Whit calls as I head out of Wolfie’s. I do appreciate their suggestions, but I’m just as clueless now as I was a couple hours ago. And if there’s anything I hate, it’s being clueless. I’m supposed to be the guy with the answers, but lately, all I have is a bunch of questions.
* * *
I startmy shift at the coffee shop, grateful for the mid-afternoon rush. But even as I’m busy ringing up customers and making drinks, my mind is on the conversation I had with Booker’s boys. I can’t help but think that maybe Ty has the right idea. Not that my guy doesn’t deserve a grand gesture, just that maybe a conversation is a good place to start. There’s a lull in the action, so I grab my phone.
Ian: I have no right to ask this, but can we talk?
I stare at my phone, hoping like hell that the universe is taking pity on me and that Book’s looking at his phone, too. But a few minutes go by, and…nothing. No response. He’s probably busy. Or maybe he doesn’t want to talk and that's fair. Afterall, when he wanted to talk, I refused to hear him out. I need to respect that, even if I hate it.
Before I can overthink myself into a spiral and text again, the baseball team walks in and I’m busy as hell for the next half hour.
By the time the last BU player has a latte in his hand, I look up, grateful to see an empty shop. I’m about to do something I’ve never done and ask Mel if she minds if I take my thirty off-site. But the bell on the door jingles and someone walks in. My heart hopes it’s Booker Zabek.
But my heart is wrong.
It’s his father.
I say nothing. Mel’s on register and I’m on bar, so I busy myself with wiping the spotless counter and waiting for his sticker to come through. But it doesn’t.
He strides past the checkout and sidles up to my section. The slim counter is the only barrier between us.
“Ian McBride?” Grant Zabek’s eyes try to burn a hole in my soul, but I don’t let them. I’ve worked in retail too damn long, and this is hardly my first rodeo. I smile and say sweetly, “Mel can take your order up at the front.”
At the sound of her name, Mel waves while shooting me a look that says,Is that who I think it is?
I give a nearly imperceptible nod, but I have no doubt Mel catches it. She’s good like that.
But Mr. Zabek isn’t so easily deterred. “I’m not here for coffee, Mr. McBride.”
“It is a coffee shop, sir, but is there something else we can get for you? Tea, perhaps?”
“What you can do for me, Ian,” he says, his voice steel, “is cut the crap. I’m not here for a drink. You know that and I know that.”
“Then why are you here?”
“You need to stay the hell away from my son. You may have won this round, may have twisted the university in to believing your story, but you will stay out of my son’s life. He has a bright future ahead of him, a future that does not include you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say, confidence springing from some deep reserve inside me. “I love him. And he loves me. At least, he did, before I fucked it all up. But I’m going to fix it. I’m going to apologize. I’m going to treat him like the irreplaceable, incredible man he is. When he’s in my arms, he’ll know every damn day just how much I love him. No matter if we live in the same room or hours apart, Booker will always know that I love him. That he matters. That I need him. That I rely on him just as he relies on me. He’s going pro. Now or next year, it’s his choice. Did you even know that? And when some asshole on his team or some closed-minded fan makes a comment or drags him, he’s coming home to me so I can take care of him, whether that’s on a phone or face-to-face. And when I’ve had a shit day at school or am on a deadline or stressing myself out, he’s going to take care of me. That, Mr. Zabek, is how love works. Not that I think you have any experience with the concept.”
