Dirty Daddies(60)

I’m about to call defeat at six thirty and suggest we go take a drive to look for her, but the sound of the front door has both Mike and me jumping to our feet.

Carrie tries to catch her breath in the hallway, cheeks flushed pink as she doubles over.

“I… I’m sorry…” she wheezes. “I lost my fucking bus ticket and I had no money for another… my phone was out of credit… and I didn’t have money to make a call…”

I hear Mike sigh and I slap him on the back in unspoken victory.

“How did you get home?” I ask and she holds up a finger for a moment while she catches the rest of her breath.

“Hitchhiked,” she says, “and walked the rest.”

I feel Michael leap up the fucking pole. “You hitchhiked?!”

She shrugs. “Yeah, was alright.”

“Could’ve at least put your new boots on for the walk,” I comment, gesturing to the same old pair on her feet.

She looks so uncertain as she stares down at them. “I didn’t get any,” she admits and Mike flashes a glance at me.

Carrie heads on through to the kitchen and we follow her, staring on in interest as she pulls a box and a little bag from her backpack.

She hands the little bag to Mike. “For you,” she says and her smile is nervous enough to break my fucking heart.

He opens it slowly. “For me?”

She nods. “Yeah, for you. A present.”

He looks so touched I can’t stop grinning. A tie. A decent one too. He runs it through his fingers.

“Do you like it?” she asks and he nods.

“I love it.”

Her smile makes my heart stop.

“That was a really nice gesture,” I say to her, but she won’t look at me. She picks up the box and hands it over to me but she won’t meet my eyes.

“And one for you. A present, and a sorry. That’s why it’s bigger. It’s two in one.”

“Two in one?” I repeat and she nods.

I open the box with clammy fingers, surprised at how fucking excited I am. And I should be. I really should be.

The glassware inside the box is no auction piece, but it doesn’t matter.

It’s beautiful and stylish with perfectly coloured flecks of aqua and green.

I stare at Mike and he’s staring at me, and I knew it. I was fucking right about everything.

I was right about trusting her with money and timekeeping, I was right about how a little discipline would help her feel loved.

It feels so fucking good to be right. Mike nods and he knows it too.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “I’m really touched, Carrie.”

She breathes out a sign of relief. “Phew,” she says. “I was crapping myself that you’d hate it.”

I hold the sculpture in my hands, admiring every facet and curve of it. It may not be a one-off designer piece, but there’s no doubt about it. I love it more than I ever loved the original.

“What did you get for you?” Michael asks and I take a step forward to see what else she bought, but she’s already dropping her backpack to the floor. Empty.

“I didn’t,” she says. “I spent it all on you. But that’s cool. My boots are fine.”

“Hey,” I say, and finally she looks at me. “You did good.”

She smiles. “I did?”

“Yes,” Mike says. “You did.”

She shrugs like it doesn’t mean anything, but it does. It’s written all over her pretty face.

“Shit, you guys. Getting all emo.”

I place my new sculpture on the top of the cabinet where it belongs, before any of us get too fucking gushy and make a tit of ourselves, and then I grab the beers from the fridge.





Chapter Nineteen





Carrie



I did good.

It feels so good to do good. Buying presents for Jack and Michael was everything I hoped it would be. It’s not just in the way they say thanks over and over, and it’s not in the way I feel so proud as Jack places his present up on the cabinet where the other one used to be. It’s not even in the way Michael looks so fine as he tries his new tie on over his shirt.

It’s in the way they smile, the way they look at me.

The way their appreciation makes me feel so loved.

I do feel loved here. I feel accepted and wanted and bothered enough about that they work through my shit rather than give up on me. I feel safe when I wake up in the morning, and like I belong right where I am as I walk through the fields behind the house.

I never want to let this go, not any of it. Not this house, not this life, not Michael, and not Jack, either.

I’ve never liked TV, not shows nor films, but after a couple of cold beers in Jack’s kitchen, laughing and joking through a load of old jokes they have to fill me in on, I think that maybe watching TV with these two guys won’t be so bad.