Entanglement: Falling for Dad's Bestfriend

With only a duffel bag and the crushing weight of my stunning failure, I found myself alone in the driveway of my boyhood home when the taxi's engine quit.   Three days ago I was Isabella Romano, a Wall Street analyst with a view of the corner office and an engagement ring that was worth more than the yearly pay of most individuals.   Once again, I'm just Izzy, in financial disaster and embarrassment, creeping home like some pathetic cliché.

  My phone buzzed for what feels like the hundredth time today.   An additional blocked number.   Another vulture reporter, no doubt, keen to comment on the insider trading case that ruined my career.   Although I was plainly too innocent to see the trap my own fiancé was laying for me, I was ironically too honest to be a part of the scheme that caused half of my company to fail.  I can't get the irony out of my mouth.

  *Former fiancé* I can't stop thinking about it.   In Manhattan, I saw Marcus tangled with my supposed best friend, Sarah, in the bed I helped pay for, so I threw that expensive ring in the gutter.  It must remain.  My stomach turns every time I think about it.

  With the entrance door half open and construction contracts and plans scattered around, Dad is most likely buried in his office.   My text message from the airport was probably overlooked by Vincent Romano.   It seems to the man that his phone is an alien device designed to torture him.

As soon as I walk in, I catch that familiar whiff of vanilla—the candles Mom used to love. Dad’s been lighting them ever since she died. Five years now. It’s weird how something so small can hit so hard.

“Home,” I mumble.

It feels off. Like I’m saying it out of habit, not because it still feels true.

  "What, Dad?"   My voice cracks a bit, and I hate being young.   I am so pathetic, God.   I ran home to my father at the age of 23 because I was failing in the real world.

  Not a thing.   I can hear muted sounds even if his office door is closed.   Most likely Dom.   Well, Dominic Castellano has been living here for the past fifteen years when he started working for Dad's company.   Uncle Dom showed me how to throw a punch and change a tire.

I knock once, then just push the door open like I always do. No need to ask.   "I—" said Dad.

  My throat is caught with the words.

  Dad's desk is occupied by Dom, but my father is not there.   Dom’s shirtless, facing me, struggling to fix a bandage on his shoulder. He’s messing with the knot with one hand, but blood’s already soaking through the cloth. His muscles are all tense.

He mutters, “Shit,” not even knowing I’m there.

  It is so dry in my mouth.   When I was younger, I had seen Dom without a shirt at a number of pool parties and summer cookouts, but never in this manner.   He had shoulders that tremble with barely controlled force, pants that hang low on his tiny hips, and dark hair that curls at the base of his neck, but I was never mature enough to appreciate any of these features.   I've never felt heat rise in my stomach while running and had my heart race just by looking at him.

  I'm surprised at how calm my voice sounds as I add, "You're bleeding all over Dad's office," despite my internal conflict.

  At the sound of him turning around, I nearly pass out.   The intensity of his dark eyes, which seemed to be able to see straight through my mask, had slipped my mind.   He’s got a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw, and there’s this cut on his lip that suddenly makes my fingers itch to touch it — totally wrong, I know.

“Izzy.” He says my name like it’s rough whiskey and gravel in his throat. “What are you doing here?”

“This is where I live.” Or maybe I was. I drop my backpack and just walk toward him without even thinking, pulled in by something I don’t really want to figure out.   "How did you manage?"

  An accident during construction.   I was unprepared for Rebar.   As I go closer, his eyes track my movements and something about his appearance changes, making my skin feel too tight.   "Your appearance has changed."

  Sure, I do.  I’ve swapped out the fancy suits and perfect blowouts for clothes that actually fit me and hair that just falls how it wants. I don’t look like that polished Manhattan version of myself anymore — the one I used to work so damn hard to be.

  "Let me assist you in that."   He grabs my wrist before I can touch him, and I grasp for the sheet saturated with blood.

  I feel his rough, warm hand engulfing my smaller one.   My awareness explodes, and I gasp as the contact sends lightning flashing through me.   I wonder whether he can feel my heart pounding hard against his thumb.

  "Izzy."   My knees become weaker as his fingertip delicately brushes my pulse place, even if his discourse now includes a caution.   "You should not—"

  Stop being so stupid.   I’m eighteen now, Dom. I step back but don’t really move away, trying not to freak out because my body’s doing its own thing.

This place is a total mess. Dad would freak if any blood got on his fancy Persian carpet.

I carefully loosen the knot, feeling every time my fingers brush his warm shoulder. He goes quiet, breathing deeper, like he’s just… still under my touch. There’s this weird kind of closeness between us — I can smell him, like sawdust and sweat — and holding him there, half-naked and helpless, it feels like something alive between us.

  "In that location."   As I patch the wound with a new piece of the bandage, he hisses between his teeth.   I apologize.  

  "I'm fine."

  "Hey, you're bleeding through your shirt."   I wrap my breasts over him and grab the first aid box, which I know Dad keeps in his desk drawer, rubbing against his back.   The instantaneous, completely accidental encounter gave me the impression that I had been struck by lightning.

  Dom clenches his hands into fists at his sides.   "You must—" Izzy was saying.

  "Keep motionless."   I apply antiseptic to the wound, very aware of every little sound he makes, every tense muscle.   When I press the gauze pad against his shoulder, his head turns slightly, and we are inches apart.

  I can now see the exact moment when his control starts to wane because his pupils are dilated and his eyes are black.  He glances down at my mouth, and without even meaning to, my lips part a little. The air between us is heavy, like something’s about to snap — like that split second before a storm hits.

“What the hell happened in here?”

Dad’s voice slices through the room, and we spring apart like we just got caught making out behind the bleachers or something. His eyes go straight to Dom—shirtless, bleeding—and then to me, way too close, like the air still hasn’t settled. The whole thing probably looked exactly like it felt. My heart’s going nuts in my chest.

  Dom adds, quickly pulling his shirt from the back of the chair, "Construction accident."  “She was just helping with the bandage,” she says.

I can see it in Dad’s face when he looks at me—he’s worried, but there’s love there too.   "Why are you home, sweetheart?   I thought you wouldn't come until Christmas.

  Guilt strikes me like a blow to the body.   I'm going to have to tell him everything—the controversy, Marcus's treachery, and my complete failure to thrive in the world he so proudly sent me into.   His eyes are so disappointed that I'm going to die.

 “I just needed to come home, Dad.” I try to smile, but it feels all wrong, like my face might crack or something. “I missed you.”

For a second, his whole vibe shifts—serious, like he’s not buying the joke. I can tell he’s about to dig deeper, start asking stuff I’m not ready to answer… but then his phone rings, cutting him off.   His entire face changes as he stares at the TV; the color fades away as though it had been disconnected.

  But his tone is strange, strained with what might be fear. "I must accept this," he responds.   "Please—never mind, Dom.   This will cause everything to change.

 He picks up the call, and I catch the start of the conversation before he walks off down the hallway.

Then I hear him say, “I told you never to call me here,” and it’s in this voice I’ve never heard before—low, kind of cold, and nothing like the dad I know.   Should someone find out about the collaboration agreement...

  The blood runs down my cheeks as he leaves, but the rest is gone.   Contract for a partnership?   What is the partnership contract?   What the devil is going on?

  Dom is buttoning his shirt with sharp, angry movements, and I look at him, stretching his arm muscles.

 “Is it some kind of deal or something?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t move his hands. I swear I catch a flicker of guilt on his face for a split second, then it’s gone so quick I half wonder if I even saw it.

  "Ask your father," he finally says.

  But I can tell everything I need to know by the way that he avoids making eye contact with me.   The secrets of this home abound.   enormous beings.   ones that destroy families and leave bodies behind, for example.

  They all seem to be poised to fall on us, too, which makes me anxious.