He cleared his throat. “I’m going to step out for a bit,” he finished as his heart rate continued to climb. He was on the brink of sensory overload. He turned to Jerome, who simply nodded.
His people skills were shit. He knew this. It was nothing new. But today, they took the cake—literally.
He snaked through the workstations, took the stairs two at a time to the lobby where Chantel used to sit behind reception, which, in his defense, had completely hidden her giant abdomen. He bolted from the Gale Gaming building with one destination in mind—the one place where he could talk candidly without any fear of repercussions. He headed for the park across the street, and his hammering pulse evened out when he spied the remedy for his situation.
He needed to get his shit together. He had too much on his mind. An office party had been the exact opposite of what he needed to clear his head.
He surveyed the area near a small playground where older gentlemen gathered to play cards, chess, and dominoes when the weather cooperated. He found what he was searching for, and his anxiety dialed down a notch. In a tattered navy blue peacoat with a brown newsboy cap and a bushy gray beard, well-past its need for a trim, the man he knew only as Chuck sat contemplating a configuration of dominoes.
He jogged the rest of the way as the old man looked up, then tapped a can with a note taped to the curved surface.
Five dollars a game, win or lose.
Rowen sat down across from Chuck and watched as the man turned over twenty-eight dominoes, then mixed up the pile with his weathered, gnarled hands in preparation for their game.
“Pick seven from the boneyard, my young friend. I can see you’re in need of a domino ass-kicking,” the man deadpanned.
Rowen released a slow breath, thankful for this crusty codger and his well-worn set of dominoes. He joined the man at the table, then slid the tiles from the boneyard—slang for the pile of unused dominoes. While there were many ways and variations to play, he and Chuck kept it simple. They always played draw dominos. The first person to play all their tiles won.
Easy and elegantly simple, it hid the complexity between choosing which domino to play and how to outwit your opponent.
“Remind me why I subject myself to your abuse,” he replied, keeping his tone even as they fell into their usual banter. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t bring him comfort. Especially during this past tumultuous year, he’d found himself sitting across from Chuck more often than usual these days.
The old man met his gaze. “You’re here because I’m some old man playing dominoes in the park who doesn’t want anything from you besides swindling you out of five bucks.”
Rowen chuckled. “Fair enough.”
Chuck wasn’t wrong. He’d come upon the man a few weeks after he’d gotten back to Denver. He wasn’t one to seek friendship or companionship, but something about Chuck drew him in. He resembled a pirate with his wiry gray hair, bushy beard, and piercing blue eyes. And there was something familiar about the man, something he couldn’t quite place. But it was more than that. There was an ease in speaking with him—a strange connection that allowed him to say things he wouldn’t share with anyone else.
“Let’s do this,” Chuck said with a twitch to his beard.
Each man displayed their tile with the most dots. Chuck won with a double six and placed it in the center of the table. Rowen followed with a six-three, building off the double.
“How’s your little girl? What’s her name? Fiona, Felicia?” Chuck asked, playing the six-five tile.
Rowen tensed. There it was—his complication.
He stared at his line of dominoes, then slid the five-three tile into place. “She’s not my little girl. She’s my niece, and her name is Phoebe.”
Phoebe Cecelia Gale.
He didn’t mean to sound callous. Of course, he cared for the child. She was his dead brother’s daughter. But never in a million years could he have imagined that he’d become her guardian. Not only that. He didn’t know a damned thing about kids—let alone six-year-old girls.
He’d decided long ago that his life wouldn’t include a family of his own. He wasn’t husband material, and he sure as hell wasn’t equipped to be a dad. He had no memories of his biological mother, and at the thought of his biological father, a person he’d had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing, a sickening sensation twisted in his chest.
Chuck frowned and played the double three. “But you’re responsible for Phoebe, aren’t you?”
Rowen pushed aside the past and slid the four-three domino into place. “I’m only helping my mother.”
“Has she recovered from her stroke?” Chuck continued as he played the five-two tile.
Jesus! He’d divulged quite a bit to Chuck over these last couple of years. Rowen stared at his shit selection of dominos. He didn’t have a play. He drew a domino from the boneyard. Four dots with a blank. It worked. He slid the tile into place. “No, she hasn’t recovered. The doctor says the damage is permanent. While she’s much improved, she can’t care for Phoebe on her own,” he finished, grateful for his ability to parrot information without injecting even a modicum of emotion. But this—thinking about almost losing his adoptive mother so soon after losing his adoptive father—took everything in him to remain stone-faced.
“So, you’re the dad now,” Chuck countered, down to his last two dominoes.
Rowen pretended to study the tiles as he swallowed the emotion threatening to break free. That damned sensory tsunami! “Lots of questions from you today,” he chided. Again, he had no play and chose from the boneyard. He pulled the six-two, then placed it on the board.
“I’m an old man. I have time to be inquisitive. How about we change the subject? Tell me about your video game,” Chuck replied smoothly as he slid the six-one piece onto the board.
