A Much Younger Man - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,78
It’s not about me. Mom’s right. He’s too young to fall for someone like me.”
“She doesn’t know that. Neither do we. It’s up to him who he falls for.”
“But—”
“Oh, I know. I heard all the arguments. You’re both right about one thing. It could go horribly wrong.”
“Well, when you put it that way, where do I sign up?”
He gave me a shove, and I lost my balance, stepping into the water with a splash that soaked the hem of my jeans. “Hey.”
“Do you think it couldn’t end horribly if you got together with Dylan? Or had stayed with Nick?”
“That did end horribly. Rico loves reminding me.”
“That’s my point.” He clapped me on the back. “Even if you were exactly the same age and perfect for each other, there’s no telling what could happen. Whatever you’re worried about, it could happen to anyone.”
“Dad, I’ll be sixty when he’s forty. He could end up being more of a caregiver than a lover.”
“You remember your cousin Celeste?”
I winced. “Yes.”
Celeste had gotten married right after college, and her husband died around his thirtieth birthday from ALS.
“Life’s not predictable,” Dad said.
“I know that. But shouldn’t we play the odds?”
He waved his hand as if to say, fifty-fifty. “There are odds and then there are odds. From what your mother tells me, the odds of you going on a second date with anyone anymore are pretty goddamn slim. What are the odds you’ll ever connect with someone else the way you do with this boy?”
I turned toward the waves. “Based on experience, not good.”
“You love him?”
“Could be.” Understatement of the year.
“A special someone.” The hand Dad laid on my shoulder warmed me through my shirt. “Now that doesn’t come along every day, does it? I believe that even if something goes horribly wrong, you won’t be sorry you had your time together.”
“Mom thinks—”
“Shush. Your mom got her say. This is mine. You’re not chasing after all the boys half your age. You met one guy who happens to be young, and things clicked, right?”
I nodded. “Right.”
“I’m thinking your mom reinforced the doubts and fears you already had. But what if he’s your actual soulmate and you walk away because you’re scared?”
“I…never thought of that.”
“Well, think about it now.” Dad squeezed my neck and shook me a little. “In the end, any partnership is between two people. And those two individuals are the only ones who know whether it’s right or not.”
“Consenting adults.”
“Duh.” He gave me another shove. “Your boy’s twenty, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“So. Now you know what I think. Just leave your mother to me.”
“She’s going to go nuclear.”
“No, she won’t.” Dad jerked his head toward the stairs. “She’s going to love anyone you love who loves you back. Full stop.”
It was a lot to think about.
Was he right?
Borrowing trouble was probably the number one pastime of people contemplating relationships. After sex.
“I may have already ruined everything.” I didn’t need Rico to say it.
“Well, first, let’s go get dinner. Everything looks better after a good meal.”
“Right.” As I followed him up the stairs, my heart beat twice as fast as the exertion required.
Dad’s right.
Loving someone—really loving them—and walking away because things might not work out? That was just stupid. If what I felt in my heart was real and if Beck felt the same way, then we had something precious.
Oh God. I’d fucked up. Could I fix it?
And what about the naysayers—my mother’s disapproval, the ribbing from my staff, and the likely censure from some of my peers? Was I so afraid they were right, so caught up in how things looked to them, that I didn’t consider how things actually were between Beck and me?
Could I live with that? Why let other people make our decisions for us?
In order to find out if I had what it takes to reach for joy, I had to give up my ego, go all in, and make things right with Beck.
Chapter Twenty-Six
At midnight, I rang the doorbell at Cooper’s place.
I’d walked to Cooper and Shawn’s, loose from a couple glasses of wine at home but not at all drunk. What I did feel was giddy, breathless excitement, like the snap of energy you feel when you meet someone’s eyes and that spark of chemistry bursts into flame.
I’d brought a wagon loaded with Rico—in his bird cage—and a wooden step stool so I could sit down while pleading my case. I’d also brought my guitar and a hastily printed Beatles song I could probably play at least serviceably. Halfway there,