Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

Ellie’s beloved flavor, which also became my favorite—whether for its actual taste or because of the ecstasy with which she used to devour the cone—is full of healthy fats. A double scoop of it could serve as a meal on its own, and I still haven’t had dinner.

I turn on the corner and bend onto West Encanto Boulevard. After passing by several large villas, I cross to the other side and cruise along the park’s perimeter. Soon Encanto’s big attraction, the Enchanted Island, comes into sight. Children with flushed faces intercept my path—their loud protests about not wanting to go home mix in with their parents’ soothing voices.

I zig-zag among them until the street is clear again.

I continue toward the park’s clubhouse, beside which my destination should lie. I spot the blinking pink lights before I can even see the contours of the ’50s-style ice cream shop’s white building. The tiny parlor is nestled between palm trees, giving it the feel of an oasis.

My phone rings.

I retrieve it from my pocket, fearing that it might be another unwelcome attempt of my father to reach me, but as I look at the screen, my brows arch.

Mom? 

It’s an unusual time for her to call. Without knowing why, my stomach hardens; I hit the reply button. “Hi, Mom. Is everything okay?”

“Of course, why would you think it wasn’t?” she answers in an upbeat tone that’s just a tick off. “I just wanted to know how you’re settling in?”

“Fine, all is good. I unpacked all my luggage.”

“Ah, that’s great.” Her exaggerated cheerfulness reminds me of the times she tried to camouflage my father’s drunken state.

The uneasiness that had dripped in my stomach spreads to my chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting your book club tonight?”

She coughs. “Ah, yes. But the meeting got…uhm got canceled. Devon’s mom and father are leaving for Cape Cod tomorrow, so we postponed it. This way Diana can prepare for their trip.”

“Are you sure?” I ask while advancing toward Daisy’s Creamery.

“Yeah.” Her soprano gains a strained edge.

I stop in front of the chalkboard menu listing this week’s specialties, but I can’t seem to make sense of the colorful lettering.

Why is Mom lying to me?

The buzzing whir of a blender filters out of the ice cream shop, so I saunter a few steps farther to the nearby palm tree and rest my back against its trunk.

I clear my voice. “I just visited Devon, and his mother called while I was there. She seemed rather eager to share her last cozy mystery read with all of you tonight.”

“Oh.” After this one syllable, Mom grows silent.

“Mom, what’s going on? Why did you skip your meeting? Did something happen?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, spill the beans.” I shift my weight, and the fibrous threads covering the trunk between the tightly stacked bases tickle my shoulder blades through my cotton T-shirt. “What are you not telling me?”

Mom draws in a deep breath. “I got a call from your father.”

“Whaaat?” 

This is what his “another way” meant, darn it.

My yell is so loud that an elderly man who’s walking his dog—a sort of medium-sized, twisted, dirty mop—stops and glares at me. He shakes his head, then continues his stroll.

I follow his animal’s grayish dreadlocks with my gaze, but every fiber in my body is alert and waiting for my mother’s explanation.

“Mason called just as I was about to head over to Diana’s. Our chat stretched out, so I skipped the book club,” Mom mumbles.

Stretched out? “How long did you speak?”

“I don’t know. Twenty minutes. Thirty, maybe?” Mom’s voice shakes as if she’s afraid of admitting this.

I need all my energy to suppress the bestial growl I want to make. “Let me get this straight. He calls you out of the blue, and you, instead of sending him off to hell in a handbasket, prattle with him for half an hour?

Mother sniffs.

“What did you even speak about?” I count silently to ten. Ellie said that doing such an abstract task will allow my limbic system and frontal lobe to connect—or something along those lines—and bust my instinctive flares of fury.

Mom sighs. “Life. You. A lot about you. He was so interested to know about your career. In fact, he said he’d like to—”

“I don’t care what he would like to do,” I snap, quitting my exercise at eight, “and you shouldn’t either.”

“Your father sounded different on the phone. Calm and caring. I think he might have changed.”

“Men like him don’t change. They just don’t,” I bark, not even trying to count anymore.

“Please, don’t get angry with me,” she whimpers.

“I’m not angry with you.” Though the pounding in my ears and my curling fingers definitely contrast this statement.

How can my mother be so naïve?

The man who mistreated and abandoned us didn’t develop a conscience.

“Your father only wants a chance to atone,” Mom says. “Perhaps we owe him that…”

“We owe him nothing. Nothing. Dad doesn’t want forgiveness. He’s probably motivated by some selfish need. Perhaps he needs money to paint the town red. I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“Then why did he call me, then? I don’t have any money to give to him,” Mom says.

“Because I refused to take his calls, that’s why. You were surely just a gateway for him to get to me.”

“Your dad’s been trying to reach you, and you didn’t tell me?”

Mom’s voice is accusing, but I don’t feel guilty for keeping the truth from her. Dad isn’t after redemption. He doesn’t want to make up for all the pain and suffering he caused us.

“Yes, he’s been pestering me with messages and calls. But, unlike you, I didn’t answer him.” It’s hard to keep the blame from my voice.

Mom gasps. “I can’t believe you kept me in the dark about this.”

“Because I feared you’d react like you are now. You never saw Dad for the scumbag he is, even after he left you. If he’d stayed, you’d still be serving him as a slave.”

A choking sound echoes in the phone.

Shoot, I’ve gone too far.

It’s not my mother’s fault. She’s got a