Hold Tight
Nash put a hand on her shoulder. “It can’t be helped right now. You understand that, right?”
She nodded, looked straight ahead. “But someday?”
“Yes, Pietra. Someday. When we finish this up, we will let him know the truth.”
22
WHEN Guy Novak pulled back into his driveway, his hands were at two and ten. His grip on the wheel turned his knuckles white. He just sat there, foot on the brake, wanting so much to feel anything but this tremendous impotence.
He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hair was thinning. He was starting to let the part in his hair drift toward his ear. It wasn’t a noticeable comb-over, not yet, but isn’t that what everyone thinks? The part moves so slowly south you don’t notice it on a day-to-day or even week-to-week basis and the next thing you know, people are snickering at you behind your back.
Guy stared at the man in the mirror and couldn’t believe it was him. The part, however, would continue to drift. He knew that. Better the wisps of hair than that shiny chrome up top.
He took one hand off the wheel, shifted into park, turned the ignition key. He took another glance at the man in the rearview mirror.
Pathetic.
Not a man at all. Driving by a house and slowing down. Wow, what a tough guy. Show some balls, Guy—or are you too afraid to do anything to the scumbag who destroyed your child?
What kind of father is that? What kind of man?
A pathetic one.
Oh, sure, Guy had complained to the principal like some tattletale baby. The principal made all the right sympathetic sounds and did nothing. Lewiston still taught. Lewiston still went home at night and kissed his pretty wife and probably lifted his little girl in the air and listened to her giggle. Guy’s wife, Yasmin’s mother, had left when Yasmin was less than two. Most people blamed his ex for abandoning her family, but in truth, Guy hadn’t been man enough. So his ex started sleeping around and after a while, she didn’t really care if he found out or not.
That had been his wife. Not strong enough to hold on to her. Okay, that was one thing.
But now we were talking about his child.
Yasmin. His lovely daughter. The only manly thing he had accomplished in his entire life. Fathering a child. Raising her. Being her primary caretaker.
Wasn’t his first job to protect her?
Good job, Guy.
And now he was not even man enough to fight for her. What would Guy’s father have said about that? He’d sneer and give him that look that made Guy feel so worthless. He’d call him a sissy because if someone had done something like that to anyone in his old man’s inner circle, George Novak would have punched out his lights.
That was what Guy so badly wanted to do.
He stepped out of the car and started up the walk. He had lived here twelve years now. He remembered holding his ex’s hand as they approached it for the first time, the way she smiled at him. Had she already been screwing around behind his back then? Probably. For years after she left him, Guy would wonder if Yasmin was really his. He would try to block it, try to claim it wouldn’t matter, try to ignore that doubt eating away at him. But after a while he couldn’t take it anymore. Two years ago, Guy surreptitiously arranged a paternity test. It took three painful weeks to get the results, but in the end, it was worth it.
Yasmin was his.
This might again sound pathetic, but knowing the truth made him a better father. He made sure that she was happy. He put her needs ahead of his. He loved Yasmin and cared for her and never belittled her like his father had done to him.
But he hadn’t protected her.
He stopped and looked at the house now. If he was going to put it on the market, it could probably use a fresh coat of paint. The shrubs would need to be trimmed too.
“Hey!”
The female voice was unfamiliar. Guy turned and squinted into the sunlight. He was stunned to see Lewiston’s wife getting out of her car. Her face was twisted in rage. She started toward him.
Guy stood without moving.
“What do you think you’re doing,” she said, “driving past my house?”
Guy, never good with fast retorts, replied, “It’s a free country.”
Dolly Lewiston did not stop. She came at him so fast he feared that she might strike him. He actually put his hands up and took a step back. Pathetic weakling yet again. Afraid not only to stick up for his child but of her tormentor’s wife too.
She stopped and put a finger in his face. “You stay away from my family, you hear me?”
It took him a moment to gather his thoughts. “Do you know what your husband did to my daughter?”
“He made a mistake.”
“He made fun of an eleven-year-old girl.”
“I know what he did. It was dumb. He is very sorry. You have no idea.”
“He made my daughter’s life a living hell.”
“And so, what, you want to do the same to us?”
“Your husband should quit,” Guy said.
“For one slip of the tongue?”
“He took away her childhood.”
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“Do you really not remember what it was like back then—being the kid who got picked on every day? My daughter was a happy kid. Not perfect, no. But happy. And now . . .”
“Look, I’m sorry. I really am. But I want you to stay away from my family.”
“If he hit her—I mean, like slapped her or something—he’d be gone, right? What he did to Yasmin was even worse.”
Dolly Lewiston made a face. “Are you for real?”
“I’m not letting this go.”
She took a step toward him. This time he did not back up. Their faces were maybe a foot apart, no more. Her voice became a whisper. “Do you really think being called a name is the worst that can happen to her?”
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“You’re going after my family, Mr. Novak. My family. The people I love. My husband made a mistake. He apologized. But you still want to attack us. And if that’s the case, we will defend ourselves.”
“If you’re talking about a lawsuit—”
She chuckled. “Oh, no,” she said, still in that whisper. “I’m not talking about courts.”
“Then what?”
Dolly Lewiston tilted her head to the right. “Have you ever been physically assaulted, Mr. Novak?”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a question. You said that what my husband did was worse than a physical assault. Let me assure you, Mr. Novak. It is not. I know people. I give them the word—I just hint that someone is trying to hurt me—they’ll come by here one night when you’re sleeping. When your daughter is sleeping.”