Not the Marrying Kind Read online

I thought about Max, tilting my face up with his fingers in my hair. The rough, reckless desire in his voice when he said, I need you. The memory had my heart hammering against my rib cage.

  “Yes, I am considering it.”

  For a man who didn’t do relationships and was moving in ten days.

  His lips quirked up. “Let me guess. This gentleman does not conform to that contract of yours.”

  I gave him a knowing look. “No. He does not.”

  “And what did you tell your sister when she swore up and down I wasn’t the right man for her?”

  Oh god, this was terrifying.

  “I told her to go for it.”

  I crossed my arms, smirking. He mirrored my pose, eyebrow raised again.

  “Roxy’s been a bad influence on you.”

  He laughed, casting his eyes over at my sister in the back. “She certainly has. And I’m grateful for it.”

  My sister came swaying over not a minute later, snapping off her gloves and beaming when she saw me. But she pulled up short as soon as she got close. “Hold up. What’s going on?”

  “I’ve been hit by Hurricane Max.”

  She nodded in full understanding. “Right on schedule. Sounds like it’s time to go be brave, Fi.”

  “How come I want to puke?”

  “That’s the bravery talking.” She patted my shoulder. “Now go chase your fucking joy.”

  23

  Max

  The next morning, Pop was in a chipper mood, which wasn’t like him at all. He strode into the office with a pink box of donuts and an expression that was more smile than scowl.

  Meanwhile, I was all scowls.

  “It’s like a nice day and shit out there,” Pop said, setting the box of donuts down on top of a stack of dusty files.

  I narrowed my eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” he grumbled. “Can’t I want to see my son and congratulate him on his new fancy job?”

  I glanced over at the old clock on the wall. “It’s nine in the morning. You went to bed six hours ago.”

  He shrugged. Stuffed a glazed donut into his mouth and peered at the show calendar while tapping his foot in time to The Smiths album I’d turned on. For the first time in a while, I was cranky and out of sorts and wanted Morrisey’s sad-synth-pop to soothe me. Being in this office and trying to get a handle on Pop’s files was stressful enough. But I’d tossed and turned all night, torn between excitement over my new job and this desperate worry that I was making a mistake. Made worse by the fact that Fiona was clearly a magical sex witch who’d cast a spell over me. In one week’s time, I’d gone from confident playboy with a reputation for dirty sex to clumsy goofball who just wants to kiss the girl he has a crush on.

  “Earth to Maxy.” Pop’s smoker rasp snapped me out of it. “Are you happy about your new job or what?”

  I sighed, refocused on Pop. He was sitting on the edge of the desk, hands on his knees, with a look on his face that tore my goddamn heart out. After Mrs. Rivera cooked me the most delicious arroz con gandules—and only chastised me a little bit—I’d swung by The Red Room to fill Pop in on the good news about my new gig at Rusty’s. He’d been excited, like always, but I caught the same disappointment I’d seen on Fiona’s face earlier that night.

  He seemed sad about my news but didn’t want to show it.

  “Of course, old man,” I said. “Who wouldn’t be? I’m just a little preoccupied with the concert, making sure things come together and all. We’ve only got eight days to go.”

  He cleared his throat. “How are things going?”

  “Good,” I promised. “We’re at 200 tickets sold, so 150 left. I’ve confirmed eight bands total, including The Hand Grenades as the headliners. You could tell the crowd tonight at the Electric Roses show, drum up a little extra interest?”

  “I like that idea,” he said, smiling again. “Unless you think folks won’t support me. Support us. It’s a lot of my private business out there.”

  I nodded. I got it. “This community loves you and loves this place. Besides, everyone in the audience tonight has had their damn rent jacked up by some landlord. This is New York. They’ll get it. They need this place as much as we need it.”

  I kicked back in the chair and tossed my feet up on the desk. Thought about Pop telling Fiona that things could be busier. Thought about Mateo, telling me that Pop had seen his engagement video way before I had.

  Nudging him with the tip of my boot, I gestured for him to hand the box of donuts over. “Pop, why didn’t you tell me things had been tight? Even when far away I would have listened. Offered help or ideas if I could.”

  His expression shifted, and it reminded me so much of Mateo telling me I couldn’t get away with doing my Max Devlin thing. Fucking up and charming my way out of every situation because I was a likable guy. The donut I was eating turned to ash in my mouth, and I struggled to swallow it.

  “Ah, I know,” Pop said. “And you know I’ll, uh, I’ll miss you all the time when you’re out in California. That’s far. The farthest you’ve gone, huh?”

  I shrugged, casual. “Not so far I can’t call you all the time. Continue to be here even if I’m not physically here.” I tapped the files with my finger. “Help with this stuff.”

  He rubbed his bald head, wincing. “I don’t mean this in a mean way or anything. But when you were a teenager, I could tell you weren’t gonna be the kind of kid who hung around with his dad forever. Watching you leave that day, on your bike, that was, uh… that was a tough day for me.” That wasn’t my memory at all. Although I’d been so excited, I didn’t pay attention to the friends and family as I kicked off down the road.

  “I don’t always tell you things because it feels like you’ve got other stuff going on. Important stuff. You always wanted to be like your mom anyway. Not your stick-in-the-mud dad.” He touched the same files. “Didn’t think this would interest you, to be honest.”

  I couldn’t tell him he was wrong. I’d literally just told Fiona that I loved teasing my dad about how he wasn’t the “fun” parent. Not like my free-spirited mother, who was always happy and always on the go. But what seemed like a badge of honor now made me feel awful. Like I’d abandoned the person who’d sacrificed everything to raise me as a single parent.

  “You’re not a stick in the mud, Pop.” I cleared my throat. Made sure he didn’t look away. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t as interested when I should have been. I’m here now, and I’ll make it right.”

  At least until I leave again in nine days.

  “It’s okay,” Pop said, forgiving me immediately. As usual. “We’ll make it right. Together. We always were the best team, weren’t we?”

  My smile came easy and relieved. I glanced over at the framed picture next to his old monitor, one of the only pictures he’d ever framed and kept out. A newspaper had written a story about a beloved local band playing a sold-out show at The Red Room and a photographer had taken these behind-the-scenes pictures. I couldn’t be more than six or seven, and Pop is chatting with the band, who are pierced and spiked and tattooed to within an inch of their lives. He’s holding my hand, and I’m holding some toy truck of mine, gazing up at the musicians like they are gods. It was such a perfect encapsulation of my childhood here and all the quiet ways he brought me into his life, no excuses.

  “Hey Pop?”

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded over at the picture. “Where was Mom that day?” I’d never asked before.

  His jaw went tight. “Atlantic City for the weekend with some friends. She told me she was feeling cooped up and needed a little space. I only remember because that show was a huge fucking deal and we had reporters coming. No one was able to help that weekend, so I brought you with me the whole time.”

  That didn’t settle in my stomach right.

  “You hear from her recently?” he asked.

  “Uh… no. It’s been more than a year. She was out in Vegas for a bit,” I said, uneasy. “I did text
her when I got here, to let her know I was back in town for two weeks. But she never answered.”

  “Maybe you’ll see her more, if you’re in L.A.,” he said. “She always wanted to live there.” He crossed his arms, foot tapping again not on the beat. I eyed him, concerned, because his face was turning beet red right in front of me.

  “Pop, are you okay?” I asked, growing alarmed.

  He scoffed. “Yeah. I want to know if you can help me with answering Angela. She emailed me this morning.”

  My eyebrows shot up in surprise, my alarm smoothing over to relief. “So that’s what the donuts and the I just want to see my son spiel was about. You want my help in the lady department.”

  “Yeah, you gonna give it?” he asked, a new twinkle in his eye. “You were always like an expert in that area.”

  I settled in front of the computer, bringing up his email account for him. This was another real way I could help, to prove that I wasn’t here to swing through while being a shit son or a shit friend.

  “I’ve been called a bit of a Casanova in my day.”

  Though one sexually charged almost-kiss with Fiona had me walking around with fucking stars circling around my head.

  I clicked on a string of messages from Angela at the top of the screen.

  “This is her second one, but I was too nervous to open the first,” Pop admitted.

  “I get it,” I said. Remembered my embarrassing finger-guns incident. “Want me to read it?”

  “Sure, yeah.”

  Clicking it open, I scanned Angela’s first email, which was friendly. She lived in Brooklyn, had two grown sons with wives and children, and loved her urban rooftop garden. Her second email was short and to the point, and the honesty in it reminded me of Fiona and her quest for love.

  It’s okay if you don’t write me back. I understand how hard it is to make a connection these days. I lost my husband ten years ago, but my desire for romantic love and partnership has recently re-appeared in my life, and I am now looking for a special someone to make me laugh and drink coffee with me on my front stoop. From your profile, you seem like a kind man with a love for his son. That’s all I’m looking for right now—a kind man with a love for family who’d like to get to know me a little better.

  My throat tightened. Usually this kind of swoony, romantic stuff sent me packing. But this woman believed in love so much that even after losing her partner, she still believed she could love someone and be loved by someone. Even though it had to be scary, right? I pictured telling this story to my mom and her scoffing—sounds like a recipe for pain to me.

  “She seems very nice, and very friendly, and wants to meet casually and get to know you better,” I said over my shoulder. He squinted, reading the screen. “Good thing I uploaded that picture of you where you look normal and not like a murderer.”

  He made a grumpy harrumph sound. “Maybe she won’t like me.”

  “Pop.” I smiled and nudged him. “You haven’t even met yet. Give her a chance, yeah? I’ll write the email. You tell me what you want to say.”

  “I might need some help with the words.”

  “I’ve got words,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Nice words. Romance words,” he said, smirking a little.

  I laughed. “Excuse me. You ask me for my help and then accuse me of not having any romance words? Ask anyone. I know some romance words.”

  “I can confirm that Max doesn’t know a single romance word.”

  Fiona appeared in the door of the office. Those same stars exploded across my vision. Her golden hair was loose and wavy around her shoulders. She wore a long, light-pink dress and sandals—she looked relaxed and happy, like she was on her way to a picnic date at Central Park with some douchebag named Brett.

  In her hands was a colorful bouquet of flowers.

  “See? Fi knows what I’m talking about,” Pop said.

  “Uhhhhh.” Apparently, that was where I was now whenever Fiona entered a one-mile radius of my location. I’d debated calling her a hundred times last night, to clear the air over whatever had happened in Mateo’s garage. Now she was showing up like an actual dream come true.

  “Are you just saying hi?” Pop asked.

  Suddenly shy, Fiona extended the bouquet of flowers my way. “I thought I’d bring Max flowers to congratulate him on his new job.”

  No one had ever gotten me flowers before.

  I took them from her hands, remembered how awful and awkward things had been after I’d taken that call. There was a card, stuck between two white daisies. I flipped it over. In her perfect handwriting, Fiona had written: Congratulations on your new job. I’m so happy for you.

  And beneath that: P.S. You did a great job of convincing me last night. My crush on you is now bigger than ever.

  The message she was sending slammed into me like a truck on the highway. My eyes shot to hers, and I was rewarded with a smile so pretty I almost dropped the flowers.

  “Do you like them?” she asked.

  “I do.” My voice was hoarse. “More than you realize.”

  Her smile broadened. I knew goddamn well what Fiona wanted from her next relationship. And that meant, if I was craving her kiss and up all night thinking about her and having minor sweat attacks and doing finger guns and forgetting how to say words, then—

  Holy shit, I wanted to date Fiona.

  “So is there something I can help with?” she asked, turning to Pop. I set the bouquet down, carefully, before checking in with Pop for his comfort level.

  He gave a short nod. “Yeah, that would be okay. You’ve got nice words.”

  I stood up, gestured to the chair for Fiona to sit. She brushed past me, releasing her scent of warm sun and fresh strawberries.

  “Are you writing a love letter?”

  His laugh was part grimace. He toed his boot against the floor. “I met a nice woman online through a dating website. Max has been helping me reply to her emails since I’ve never been good at this dating thing and I’m definitely not good at emails.”

  “I’m happy I came by. I think I can come up with a better, more romantic email than Max any day.”

  I leaned against the desk next to her, crossed my arms. “That a challenge, Fiona Quinn?”

  She was clicking around on the screen. “Not a challenge if it’s the truth, Devlin.”

  Pop actually chuckled.

  “No fuckin’ respect around here,” I said, swiping my thumb across my lip. A loud voice that sounded like the beer distributor called up the steps. Pop walked to the door and poked his head out, yelling down a shorthand I no longer understood. While he was distracted, I tapped Fiona’s chair with my foot.

  “You don’t think I’m good at romance?”

  She gave me a cheesy, happy smile. “Convince me.”

  I didn’t hesitate to grip the back of her chair. Slowly dip my mouth to the smooth shell of her ear. “You take my breath away. I barely slept again last night. You know why?”

  I heard her quiet gasp. “Why?”

  “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I sat back up and held out my hands as Pop ambled back in. “Are we sending this email or what, old man?”

  “Don’t rush me,” he grumbled. “What does Fiona think I should say?”

  I looked down at Fiona. She was holding her fingers to her lips. They were trembling. “Princess?”

  She brightened, snapped out of her trance. “Let me think for a moment. Get the creative juices flowing and such.”

  It was goddamn affirming to know that smart and successful Fiona seemed to be losing it as well. I clenched my own trembling fingers around the edge of the desk.

  She typed rapidly, and thirty seconds later waved my dad over. “Angela seems really nice, by the way.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Are you seeing anyone these days, Fi?”

  She bit her lip. “Maybe.”

  Maybe. She was teasing me now.

  I was going to kiss the
hell out of that maybe.

  Pop rubbed his head and gave her a sheepish look. “You used to break the hearts of every boy your age in this place. You and your sister both, always causing trouble.”

  “Only because my parents were causing trouble up on stage.” She laughed. “Max probably doesn’t remember, but when Roxy was in her early twenties and I was still in college, she started a massive fistfight here because she’d been dating three guys at once and they all found out about it during a pretty ragey punk show.”

  Pop chuckled softly. He’d already laughed and smiled more today around Fiona than he had in the past week. I forgot, sometimes, how close he was to Fiona and her family, all the threads of this community and how we were connected.

  “Max might have been moved out by then, but I remember. Your parents and your sister stayed late with me to clean up.”

  “And Roxy broke up with all three of them.” Fiona spun slightly in the chair, foot tapping to the music, of course. “That was one time I can claim total innocence. It was finals week, and I was holed up in the library at NYU for ten straight days.”

  “How’d you do on those finals?” I asked.

  “Straight A’s, naturally,” she said.

  “Thank god for Fi or none of us would know what we were doing,” Pop said. The lines of her mouth tightened, and I thought about what she said yesterday. The ways she kept her family going when they were too busy living their lives like, well, me.

  “Speaking of, let me read you what I wrote. You tell me if it sounds like you, okay?” she said.

  “The less it sounds like me the better, probably,” Pop said.

  I punched his arm. “Hey. Go easy. That’s my dad you’re talking about.”

  “Dear Angela,” Fiona read. “Thank you for your email. You got it. I am nervous. It’s been a while since I went on a date. But I would like to meet with you, maybe for a walk at Central Park? Your family and your garden both seem really nice, and I would like to hear more and get to know you better.”

  As Fiona read an email that sounded straight out of Pop’s mouth, his body language loosened.

  “You made me sound like a gentleman,” he said.