My Stepfather and His Friends novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Terms

Graham says it again, slower, and Tessa sets the rules for the six weeks before Warren sells the house.

"Say it again," I told Graham. "All of it. Slowly."

He didn't look at Warren for permission.

"You're twenty-six, you're barefoot, and you just drank my whiskey without flinching."

His eyes went down my bare legs and back up, and he let me watch him do it.

"I've wanted to put my hands on you since the wedding, and I've been polite about it for five years."

Owen made a sound.

Caleb stood up.

I thought he was leaving, but he only moved to the window, as far from the table as the den allowed.

Warren hadn't moved at all.

His glass was still in his hand, and his knuckles had gone pale around it.

"Thank you," I said to Graham. "That's the first honest thing anyone in this house has said about me in fourteen months."

"Tessa," Owen said. "He's had four drinks."

"So have you."

"I haven't been saying things like that."

"No," I said. "You've been saying them quieter."

He opened his mouth and shut it again.

I walked around the table and sat in the fifth chair, the one beside Warren, because it was empty and its glass was waiting.

Up close, Warren smelled like cedar and rye.

I picked up the glass.

The ice in it was nearly gone.

"Who poured this?"

"I did," Warren said.

"Who for?"

He took a moment too long.

"Whoever wanted it."

I drank half and set it down.

"Here are my terms," I said.

Graham's mouth twitched.

"Terms," he said, like it was a word he liked.

"Nobody in this house talks about me behind a wall again. Not the pool, not my swimsuit, not what I might say yes to."

"Agreed," Graham said.

"If you want something, you say it to my face, and I'll say yes or no to my face."

"Tessa," Owen said again, with more weight on it.

"You don't have to want anything, Owen. You can leave right now and I'll never mention it."

He didn't leave.

He took off his glasses, folded them, and held them in his steady surgeon's hand.

"You were crying at the graveside," he said quietly. "I held your hand. I'm not going to be the man who takes advantage of that."

"I was twenty-five when she died," I said. "I'm twenty-six now. You held my hand that day, and I don't owe you anything for it."

His throat moved.

"I wouldn't," he said.

"Then you don't get to decide for me."

Owen looked at Warren.

Warren said nothing.

That was the part I kept noticing.

Warren had spent five years correcting every word anyone used about me, and tonight he sat there with his hand on his glass and let it happen.

"One more rule," I said. "Nobody moves on me in a crowd. One at a time, one day at a time, and I pick the day."

"A schedule," Graham said, delighted. "She's drawing up a schedule."

"You can call it whatever you want."

"Friday?"

"Not Friday," I said. "Friday is for whiskey and an open door. I'll start tomorrow."

Caleb turned from the window.

It was the first time he'd looked straight at me all night.

His eyes were light blue, and nothing in them was surprised.

He picked his jacket off the back of a chair, nodded once at me, then once at Warren, and walked out.

I heard the front door close softly.

Owen stood too.

"I'm going home," he said. "I'll call you tomorrow, Tessa. If you tell me to stay away, I will."

"I won't tell you that."

His ears went red, and he left.

Graham stayed in his chair, still smiling.

"I like her," he said to Warren. "You didn't warn me."

"Go home, Graham."

"Tomorrow, then," Graham told me, and he pulled his jacket on and went.

The front door shut again.

Then it was only the two of us in the den, with the ice melting and the window dark behind him.

Warren set his glass down very carefully.

"You need to hear something," he said, and he didn't look at me. "The house is sold. Closing is the last day of August."

"The house is what?"

"I put it on the market in June. I didn't tell you because I didn't know how."

The math hit me before I could stop it.

It was the middle of July.

"That's six weeks," I said.

"You can stay until the closing. After that, I'll find you something. A place of your own, whatever you need."

He still hadn't looked up.

A place of my own, from the man who had left the den door open every Friday for fourteen months and never once said why.

I picked up my mother's bottle, poured two fingers into his glass, and watched his hand close on it.

"Then I have six weeks," I said.

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