Page 115 of DadBod

ELIZABETH

“Happy Birthday, dear Calvin. Happy Birthday to you,” the group of about twenty people all sing to the little man of the hour, the brand new eight-year-old, in Rome’s living room.

“Thank you for coming.” Rome’s been standing about three feet from me ever since I arrived about an hour ago. I’m not sure what he hopes to gain from this attention, but I’m not ready yet. I’m still a little bruised from last night. Figuratively, of course. I’ve got more of a headache than anything else. That’s due to everything I’ve got on my mind. Like my brother and his possible parole.

I’m tempted to head home. The prison is two hours south of our hometown, which is good for me. It means it’s about a three-hour drive or, more appropriately, a six-hour bus ride from Chicago. I can stop there first. I don’t think I’ll be allowed into the actual parole hearing. I know the family of the girl, the victim, will be allowed if they choose. But I can visit him afterward. I read up on the process when he was up once before. The parole board will decide right away. If he gets parole, it could take up to six months for his release because of all the paperwork and legal stuff that has to happen first.

I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

But I really want to go. I can be a support for him no matter what happens, plus I’ve got an overwhelming need to be home. To be around people who love me no matter what.

“I came for Calvin.” Sure, that’s not the nicest thing to say, but I’m just not ready.

“Have you thought more about, well, me?”

Glancing back at him, I feel as though rolling my eyes may send the wrong message. “I think about you all the time, Rome.”

That gets a smile out of him.

“Not all of it’s good, though.”

Exit smile. Enter frown.

Pointing to the patio, I also use my head to give him the signal to follow me. He does. Once outside, I check the deck to make sure we’re alone. “Look, Rome.”

His arms wrap around me.

“I’m going home for a few days.”

“Why?”

“To see my family. I miss them. I’ve been meaning to visit.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“No.” I want to laugh. That’s how ridiculous this is. “I’m capable of taking the bus. Alone.”

“The bus?” He looks affronted. “Take the Subaru. I bought that for you, anyway.”

“No. Like I said, I’m very capable of––”

“It’s your car, Elizabeth.”

“My car? You mean it was mine to use while I was your nanny.” Let’s get that straight.

“No. It’s in your name.”

“What? Why?”

“I wanted you to have a safe, decent car.”

“You bought me a car?” A safe, decent car? Hell, why didn’t he tell me?

“It was used; I got a great deal.”

“Rome. No.” Shaking my head, I feel even more at odds than I did. The man bought me a safe, decent car. “You didn’t need to do that. Chicago has––”

“The world’s best transit system.”