Page 25 of More With You

I blink up at her like I’ve only just spotted her. “Huh?”

“I asked if you were okay, but I guess that answers my question.” Sandra puts a hand on my shoulder. “Do you want me to speak to John, see if he’ll let you leave early?”

I glance at my watch. It’s four. I’ve barely been in two hours. There’s no way John’s going to let me go early, unless I’m ducking down to puke in a bucket or look like I’m about to keel over at any moment. After a sleepless night that has my skin looking dull and blotchy, my eyes puffy with the salt of my tears, I could probably persuade him of the latter, but I’m not the dishonest type. I wouldn’t have worked the high stakes tables for as long as I have if I was.

“I’m fine,” I insist.

Sandra doubles down. “You don’t look fine, sweetheart. I’ve seen fresher faces stumbling off Bourbon Street at six in the morning.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You haven’t taken a sick day since you started. I’d say you’ve earned one.”

“I promise, I’m fine. Didn’t sleep much, that’s all.” Truth be told, I’m due a trip to see Ms. T. She’ll know what to do about my predicament. At the very least, she’ll let me talk it out until I’ve got nothing left to say.

Sandra’s lips purse. “You dropped cards, Summer.”

“I know.”

“If you’re shaky or your mind is elsewhere, it’s going to piss off the guests.” She’s clearly decided to switch tactics, but I need to stay. My grandma needs me to stay, and I’m not letting her down. She’d already be disappointed that I gave the figurative milk away for free, while knowing there was something I needed to ask first. Truth be told, I’m kicking myself for the both of us.

“I know.” I feel like a parrot, repeating the same two words.

Sandra sighs. “Well, if you change your mind, just catch me when I go by. I’ll smooth things over with John. Plus, he likes you and it’s dead in here, so he probably won’t kick up a stink about it.”

She walks away with a worried glance over her shoulder. I’ve done well here, and I can’t risk having a blip on my record because of one stupid, sleepless night. For twenty-six years, my greatest skill has been taking all of my personal and emotional baggage and shoving it in my staff locker whenever I step into work. I’m not losing that survival talent over a guy. Even if he might be the guy.

Six years old. She’s six years old. Where was I at six? Not playing on a beach in Italy with my grandparents, that’s for damn sure. I try to picture it, but my early memory has a way of mixing everything together in one big pool of misery that isn’t much fun to dip into. It’s not so different to mixing all the paints together in a dish, when you’re at elementary school—eventually, it all turns a murky, brownish gray green. That’s my past. A color no one wants to use or think about. And it sucks that, just when I was starting to see a brighter palette for my future, it all gets muddied again.

“Summer? Summer! Where is that stupid kid?” I hear him, echoing through two decades. Not my dad, but someone who thought he could treat me like he was. Not the nice kind of dad, either, who’d put their daughter on their shoulders or swing them around or take them out for ice-cream.

“Don’t mind her, honey. Come here,” my mom’s voice purrs at him, placatory and seductive. I hated it when she spoke like that. It usually meant loud music, a locked door, and a gnawing stomach, while the stench of cigarette smoke got worse. If I didn’t walk the twelve blocks to my grandma or will her to pull up outside to get me, I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep, either, unless I buried myself under my bed with a stack of pillows over my head to block out the blaring music.

What kind of dad are you, Ben? I know he’s not like the one who shares half my DNA, since that guy upped and left before I was old enough to say, “dada.” He has no face in my memory. No voice, either. Only the guys who came afterward do; the ones who either tried to pretend I didn’t exist or tried to adopt a role they weren’t suited to.

I suppose I can’t wrap my head around Ben’s initial omission. Does it mean he isn’t involved in Grace’s life? Did he forget about her, and was too ashamed to admit it? Or is he ashamed of the fact he wasn’t sure if I was going to be around long enough to know about her? Am I a summer fling to him—is that why he slept with me and didn’t mention it first? The irony isn’t lost on me. Then again, he sounded genuine when he said he wasn’t giving up and that he was sure about me. He also sounded pretty annoyed about his parents taking her away for half the summer.

If I’d seen you with her, around town or if you’d brought her to the yacht club, what would I have said? Would I have stopped things before they began? I dread to think. My heart still wants him. My head is terrified. I’m not stepmom material. I’m not even fun aunt material. Whatever I’m made of, it’s not remotely maternal. That bit got cut out of the fabric of me, long ago, or maybe it was missing since birth, considering my mom doesn’t have a stitch of it, either.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” A cold voice sparks me out of my thoughts, though it’s the last voice I want to hear today.

My gaze drags up from the green felt of the table. “Pick another table, Levi.”

“But I want to sit at this one.” He hops up on the stool, rippling a chip between his fingers. He’s probably practiced that a thousand times, just to show off a skill that’s only impressive when the guy doing it isn’t a colossal asshole.

I glare at him. “I mean it, Levi.” I lean closer. “Fuck off. I don’t want you here.”

“The establishment doesn’t have a problem with where I sit,” he counters, smirking. “You know, I had a feeling you’d be sour with me today. I take it you had words with my old friend, Ben?”

I grip the edge of the table. I’m not losing my job over lashing out at Levi, as satisfying as it would be to punch him square in his snub, pompous nose. “If you’re playing, play. I’m not paid to speak to you. If you want that, you can shell out for a seat with the VVIPs, where the hostesses will smile and nod and listen to you drone on.”

“I did you a favor,” he insists, putting one measly black chip onto the circle to place his bet. One-hundred dollars.

I eye it with disdain. “This is a high-limit table.” I glance back at the pit boss hoping he’ll veto the bet, but he only nods us on to proceed. Damn.

“I’ll work up to it.” He grins, as I reluctantly draw cards from the shoe. He “hits” with seven and “hits” again at thirteen. “Did you hear what I said? I did you a favor. Both of you, actually.”

I focus on the cards. “I’m not interested.”

He “busts” with a nine, and I sweep the table clear, willing him to be out of money so he can buzz off and bother someone else. I’m sure he’s got quarters if he’s still got a gambling itch to scratch.

“He’s the heir to the DuCate dynasty, Summer,” Levi carries on regardless. “You’re… this.” He gestures around him.

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