Page 550 of One More Kiss

Mick

I mademy way around the small apartment, straightening my meager belongings as I went. Even though I'd spent nearly two hours cleaning every surface, it hadn't improved the tiny shithole I currently called home. The Formica countertop in the kitchen was cracked and peeling in several places, and the wooden cabinets were scarred and gouged. An entire drawer was even missing in one spot, but I hadn't bothered to replace it. It wasn't like I had stuff to fill it anyway.

I had exactly four plates, bowls, and coffee mugs to my name, along with a set of flatware. I'd picked it up cheap at the store, and I basically reused the same plate over and over, washing and drying it each time I ate. The mugs had yet to be used. I despised coffee, and I'd never tried tea. Everything else I drank either came out of a plastic bottle, or I used the plastic cup I’d gotten at a fast-food joint and filled it with tap water.

I glanced around the room to make sure I hadn't missed anything. The perpetually dingy, cracked linoleum floors had been swept, every surface wiped down with a rag. Dust was caked on the outside of the windows and a small leak in the corner of one had stained the drywall, but I couldn't help that. The landlord had told me someone would be by to take care of it, but that had been two weeks ago. Judging from the exterior of the building, it had been multiple years since anyone had bothered to clean them, let alone repair anything.

A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts, and I crossed the room to open it. As I flipped the lock, I peeked through the peephole. The familiar face of my parole officer, Ronald Miller, filled the distorted space, and I stepped aside as I swung the door inward. “Good afternoon.”

“Hello, Mr. Romero,” he returned as he stepped inside. “How's everything going with you?”

“Fine.” I closed up the door and gestured to the single couch that made up my living room. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” But instead of sitting down, Ron Miller made a slow circuit of the small room, winding his way around the couch and into the kitchen. Though the clipboard he carried stayed tucked under his arm by his side, his gaze swept over every pathetic inch of the apartment before returning to mine. “Still no TV?”

“Nope.” I shook my head. I couldn't afford any of the cable or satellite options, so it didn't make sense to buy a TV just to watch the three local channels.

He nodded a little. “Mind if I have a look around?”

I knew it wasn't a question, but I nodded regardless. “You've seen most of it, but be my guest.”

Miller had been in the tiny apartment right after I first moved in, and since then I'd added a bed, a couch, and a handful of books. In lieu of watching TV or spending time with Andrea and Maddie, books were my only form of entertainment. I snagged them up for pennies from the local library or yard sales when I had a chance. They were better than TV anyway. I'd enjoyed reading in jail, too, when I could escape the dreary walls of my cell by jumping between the pages of a book.

I followed behind as Ron moved down the short, narrow hallway then stopped first at the bathroom. He opened the vanity beneath the sink and reached in. He felt between the folds of the single towel inside, then closed it back up again. Rising to his feet, he opened the rusted, cracked mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. Inside, a razor, toothbrush, and tube of toothpaste peered back at him. He gave a little nod and moved on, this time to check inside the tank of the toilet, then the shower.

I wasn't stupid; I knew exactly what he was looking for. Some ex-convicts wouldn't have hesitated to get back into drugs a month after they'd been released. But I wasn't that guy. I hadn't wanted anything to do with drugs twelve years ago, and I had even less desire to do so now.

I took a step backward as Ron exited the bathroom, then turned and made the short six-step journey to my bedroom at the end of the hall. The only furniture in the room was my bed, which rested on a flimsy, inexpensive metal frame, not even a headboard attached to it. The few clothes I owned were hung neatly in the closet, and Ron’s gaze flicked over them before he met my eyes and gave a perfunctory nod. “Let's head back to the living room.”

“Staying clean?” he asked once we’d seated ourselves on the couch.

“Yep.” I didn't bother to tell him that I'd never been a drug user even though I was charged for it. No one had believed me then, and I seriously doubted he would believe me now.

“How's the job going?”

“Great.” I'd turned my work information in as soon as I knew I would be working at my cousin’s garage. “Travis just promoted me to manager a couple weeks ago.”

“Sounds like everything is going well,” he commented. “How are you adjusting to everything else?”

I lifted a shoulder, resolved to stay silent about my relationship with Andrea. “So far, so good. I keep to myself, don't go out to the bars.”

It wasn't against my parole to do so, but I didn't want to do anything to jeopardize my good standing. I already had enough stacked against me; I didn't need to add anything else to the list.

After a few more minutes and several notations in his notebook, Ron pushed to his feet. “Everything looks good. I'll be in contact to schedule another visit soon.”

“Okay.” I was less than thrilled about the invasion of privacy, but I had no room to dispute it.

I showed Ron to the door, then closed up behind him. Andrea would be getting off work soon, and I was supposed to be at her place by seven for dinner. The thought filled me with both anticipation and worry. We'd been seeing each other for almost a month now, and things between us were great. Almost too good to be true, really. Although I went to their house almost every afternoon, I spent my nights at home. Andrea didn't want to deal with Maddie’s questions if I was there in the morning when she woke up, and I'd agreed.

I was fast falling for the little girl. It was hard not to. She was so sweet, it was impossible not to love her. It seemed to have all happened so fast, and it scared the hell out of me sometimes. Andrea had never hinted at anything more permanent, but I couldn't help but think of the future.

I was an ex-con, not exactly father material. Was that what Andrea was looking for? Did she want someone to be a husband and father? She’d never brought it up, and neither had I. She’d mentioned once that her ex wanted nothing to do with her or Maddie, and she’d left it at that. She hadn’t seemed interested in talking about it anymore, so I’d let it go.

But if things progressed, we’d have to have a serious conversation about our expectations. In truth, the idea of being a father figure was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. My own father had skipped out when I was barely a toddler, and my mother had raised me on her own, often working two jobs to make ends meet. She’d never dated that I could remember, always saying that I was enough for her.

Would I be a good father to Maddie? I had no idea. I wanted to be the kind of man she could look up to, but I didn’t even know where to start. I’d had no example to learn from, no father figure of my own. I was afraid that my past was destined to influence my future, and I didn’t want it to affect Maddie—or Andrea—in any way. What if their friends or family found out I’d been incarcerated? What would they say? And how would Andrea handle it?

There were a thousand questions, none of which I had the answers to. All I knew was, I wanted both of them in my life as long as they’d allow it. They made everything better, and I looked forward to seeing them each day.

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