Nellie And The Bastard

Author's Note:

This is a stand-alone story that is part of a larger series about the titular character, Nellie. Each story that follows can be read on its own or together, in any particular order, though they will be posted in chronological order. The stories may fall under different categories, but all will tell tales of Nellie's various adventures.

In the eleventh story of the Nellie Belanger series, it's time for Nellie to grow up. She's not doing it without a fight, though. This story follows the events of Nellie & The Scare and is the finale of the current series.

**

"Eleanor! What a... surprise."

I nearly spilled melted chocolate on my dress at the sound of my name. Glaring, I glanced up, ready to snipe that my name was

Nellie

, not Eleanor, but the words didn't pass my lips.

"Mrs. Marchand," I said instead, hating the fake politeness in my voice. "Nice to see you again."

"Please," she said, extending her hand to me. "Just Mariette is fine."

I smiled tightly and shook her hand. Her husband stood next to her, regarding me stiffly.

"Eleanor," he said.

"Mr. Marchand," I repeated. "Just Nellie is fine, please."

"Hmmph," he said.

"Be polite, Jean-Luc." Mariette's tone was pleasant and biting at the same time. "I'm so surprised to see you here. I thought things between you and your father were... tense."

I tried to smile, but based on the slight uptick of Mariette's eyebrow, it must have come across as a grimace. "We have our ups and downs."

"Certainly, all parents and children do," she said. "We have our ups and downs with all our children. Well, Jean-Paul mostly, but he's quite free-spirited."

The only thing that could be more awkward than running into the parents of the guy I was casually fucking was running into them at my father's cocktail party. Talking around the situation in some kind of elaborate and complicated charade of a dance made everything far worse.

That was saying something, considering they only knew I was casually fucking J.P. because we'd had a pregnancy scare the previous month, and they only knew

that

because my childhood best friend and J.P.'s sister, Anne-Marie, had told them.

And Anne-Marie only knew because we'd used her as a distraction so J.P. could sneak a pregnancy test over to my dad's.

And she was only a distraction because she'd discovered we were sleeping together. Rather than feeling betrayed that I'd been fucking her brother for months, she was obsessed with the idea of J.P. and me as a couple, which

neither

of us wanted. I'd tried to distance myself from her, but we had needed an excuse for J.P. to come over with the pregnancy test, so Anne-Marie and her big, gossipy mouth were present when everything went down.

As if that wasn't enough dramatic bullshit, J.P.'s mom also knew that my father and I had a falling out that day because my dad overheard me blurt that I might be pregnant to Anne-Marie. That snowballed into finding out that my dad's girlfriend, Kimberlee, was pregnant, and that she was apparently sick and tired of him treating me like a particularly valuable piece of property.

I didn't know when my life had gotten so fucking complicated. I missed the days where my biggest worry was which guy I was going to take home from the bar, and my best solution was deciding to take them both home so I could get double-teamed by a couple of cops. I missed the days when I revealed my tits to people in public, not my personal secrets.

It was probably J.P.'s fault. The bastard.

Calling him "free-spirited" was Mariette's polite way of saying he was making poor life choices and that I was one of those bad decisions. She wasn't wrong; I was a horrible life choice for J.P. to make, albeit an incredibly fun one. Considering how often we'd hooked up, he didn't seem to mind too much. Still, I bristled at her words.

"As long as he's happy, though, right?" I said.

Mr. Marchand snorted. "Of course. Who cares if he's broke and jobless, as long as he's

happy

."

I frowned, but before I could ask for clarification, Mariette let out a loud, high-pitched laugh.

"Jean-Luc!" she admonished playfully, though the tone didn't match the glint of freezing anger in her eyes. "You'll have to excuse him, Eleanor, my dear husband is a bit of a grump tonight."

"Uh... okay," I said.

"Well, anyway, I thought we'd best say hello," she continued. "Jean-Paul was not able to make it tonight, though I'm sure you knew that."

"Of course," I said, smiling fakely and holding the expression as the Marchands excused themselves, then immediately dropping the act.

I

hadn't

known he wouldn't be here, but that was because he didn't even know I was in town. After the disastrous Thanksgiving debacle, we'd drifted a bit apart. We still texted once in a while, but things were strained. I couldn't blame him; no one wants to be the guy who knocks up his friend-with-benefits. That had to be scary on its own, not to mention he'd been witness to my dad's tirade against me that culminated with both me and Kimberlee leaving. And I mean, he had been more than kind to me after that. He didn't

have

to let me stay the night at his place or stand up for me to my dad, but he did anyway.

That should have been it. I should have walked away from the whole situation, refused to take my dad's calls, and moved on with my life. The problem was that Kimberlee was pregnant, and I wanted to eventually meet my baby brother or sister.

Still, I resisted allowing him to apologize for weeks. Well, for the weeks after he'd decided he wanted to apologize. I was too cynical to think that it was because he'd genuinely changed; more likely, it was that two weeks went by with Kimberlee refusing to even speak with him until he considered making the changes she had demanded. Knowing my father was a stubborn, calculating jackass, he had probably silently stewed the entire time, determined to wait until she came crawling back so he could graciously allow her back into his life.

The problem was that he didn't quite understand how much strength Kimberlee had, and how fiercely protective she had gotten. When he finally seemed to realize that she wasn't going to crawl back to him and that if he wanted to be part of his child's life, he'd have to at least pretend to change his ways, he gave in.

It could be that he truly loved Kimberlee and realized he was going to lose her if he didn't. However, the chance of me deciding I wanted to settle down and get in a serious relationship or something was much higher. Since the chances of

that

were practically zero, it seemed pretty unlikely.

The first call came two weeks after that Thanksgiving.

"You've got to be kidding me," I said, glancing at my phone as it vibrated on top of the bar.

"Who is it?" asked my best friend, Sydney.

I didn't have to respond; she glanced down and gasped, grabbing the vibrating phone as she studied the name.

"What does he want?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Don't know and not going to find out."

I rejected the call, dismissed the notification that said I had a new voicemail, and deleted it without listening to it a few hours later.

He called again the next day, while I was in class.

"...in the second case study, you can see the bullet's trajectory through the internal organs..." Dr. Spitzki froze as my ringtone suddenly started. "Miss Belanger, is that—"

"I'm on it!" I said, digging through my bag frantically.

"Out," he said simply.

"Dr. Spitzki, please, it was a mistake and I—"

"Out, Miss Belanger."

I sighed, not even able to come up with some witty retort as I collected my things. That, more than anything, made him stare at me as I left the room. As soon as I was in the hallway, I went to delete the voicemail message but jumped as Dr. Spitzki called my name.

"Yes?" I asked, turning towards him.

"Is everything all right?" he asked suspiciously. "I've kicked you out of my class almost weekly for the past two years, and you've never left without a snarky remark."

My mouth twitched as I tried to smile. "Yeah, it's fine. Just some personal stuff. Sorry to disturb the class."

I could feel him staring after me as I walked down the hall, but I was so annoyed and on edge about my father's calls that I couldn't even appreciate Dr. Spitzki's obvious befuddlement. That just served to annoy me more. I

lived

for driving Dr. Spitzki crazy, and now my dad was ruining that, too.

He called again that evening and again the next morning. For the first time in my adult life, I turned my phone off during class. When I finished for the day and turned it back on, there was another missed call, and most surprisingly: a text message.

From my dad.

Who did

not

text.

I resisted looking at the text for a long time. I could almost picture what it said:

Eleanor, answer my calls or I'll have your landlord evict you.

Dear God, would you grow up and show some class? Call me by the end of the day or I will ensure you cannot graduate this year.

Enough is enough, Eleanor. There's a charity event next weekend and you WILL be present; otherwise, I will take you to court. Oh, you don't think a father can sue his daughter? Well, I'm enough of a dirtbag that I'd consider trying it. Perhaps Jean-Paul will provide you with some legal advice if you're able to take his dick out of your mouth long enough for him to string some sort of coherent argument together.

By the time I conceded that I probably imagined the message to be a little worse than it likely was and that I should just consider reading it, my phone rang again. It wasn't my dad this time, though. I almost laughed as the name "K. DUNN" flashed on my screen.

"If you're using Kimberlee's phone to call me under the assumption that I'd answer it, you're right, but I'm going to hang up if this isn't her," I said as I answered.

She laughed. "So you

are

ignoring Max."

"Of course I am," I replied.

"I wasn't sure," she said. "He said he was trying to call but that you wouldn't answer. I didn't know if I should believe it or not."

"So you're taking him back, then?"

"There are conditions," she said. "One being that he needs to apologize to you."

I laughed so hard that I dropped the phone. It took me a good chunk of time before I could even lean forward and pick it up off the floor.

"I never pegged you to be a comedian," I finally managed to say. "Damn, Kimberlee. That's funny."

"I'm not joking."

"Are we talking about the same person here?" I asked. "My dad? Your... whatever, baby daddy? Hell will freeze over before he apologizes to anyone for anything."

"He apologized to me," she said softly.

I sighed heavily. "And you believe him?"

"Yes, Nellie, I do. Please consider talking to him. Come by next weekend, if you want."

When I hung up from Kimberlee, I hesitated again, then checked the text message from my dad.

Can we please talk, Nellie?

The following Saturday, I drove to Montreal and had the most awkward conversation of my life with my dad. It was almost surreal to sit across the table from him as he apologized for how he had treated me, committed to doing better, and acknowledged that he would understand if it took time for me to forgive him.

The words were stiff and carefully-constructed, but beneath them was sincerity. I didn't think my dad could stop speaking like a businessman—there was a high probability that he'd show up to the hospital in a suit and greet my baby brother or sister with a handshake as soon as Kimberlee gave birth—but rather than cloaking his meaning, he was actually being genuine. It was that, more than anything, that left me speechless.

Of course, it was only a small step. I didn't think Dad could change completely, and obviously, Kimberlee wouldn't have wanted him to; she'd fallen in love with him as he was. He proved that shortly after I agreed to let him try to earn my trust again.

I protested; I grumbled; I pointed out that this was the exact type of thing he'd expected me to do in exchange for paying my tuition. I told him it made me question if he was actually apologizing or just doing it because he wanted to keep Kimberlee around. Hurt flashed across Kimberlee's face when I said that and I felt terrible, though not entirely wrong. It was only when my dad calmly pointed out that they'd made plans to have a cocktail party before I'd decided to visit.

"If you truly do not want to attend, you can stay upstairs," he said in a tone so reasonable that I barely recognized his voice. "Or you could go out. I would just ask that you not decide three hours after it starts to come downstairs in your pyjamas and help yourself to leftovers. If you are attending, I ask that you conduct yourself accordingly."

"There will be a chocolate fountain," Kimberlee said. "If that changes your mind at all."

It did, and I hated the fact that it did. I tried to hold a grudge, to pout that even immediately after apologizing for buying not my love but my obedience, my dad was falling into his old ways, but I couldn't quite convince myself that was true.

Begrudgingly, I asked Kimberlee to help pick an outfit for the cocktail party, and she kindly didn't laugh at my change of heart.

It was only when people started arriving that I cursed myself for falling into the trap yet again. It was easier to blame Dad and Kimberlee for telling me it was just a small gathering and not informing me of who was on the guest list than it was to remember how easily I could be bought. Dad had bought me by paying my tuition, rent, and expenses; I'd finally managed to break free of that, only to find myself right back where I came from under the promise of a chocolate fountain.

I didn't recognize most of the guests. Clinton Thibault was there with a pretty girl who looked up at him with wide, glazed eyes. I wasn't sure if she was love-struck or drugged, though knowing Clinton, I would've put my money on drugged. His parents arrived shortly after, his mother giving me a dirty look as she caught sight of me standing next to the bar.

Other people my dad worked with arrived: investors, clients, acquaintances. People whose names I didn't know and didn't care to learn, even as Kimberlee introduced me to them. I smiled fakely, shook hands, repeated the same piece of small talk ad nauseam, and kept one eye on the dessert table so I could be first in line when they turned the chocolate fountain on.

Occasionally, I watched the dessert table with two eyes, which must have been why I didn't notice when the Marchands showed up until I was heaping chocolate-dipped everything onto a small porcelain plate.

I intended to gorge myself on as much chocolate as I could without actually dipping my entire head in the fountain, then sneak upstairs to my bedroom and spend the rest of my night in stretchy pants watching Netflix while the society types continued their charade downstairs. Unfortunately, Kimberlee caught me on my third or fourth plateful of strawberries and pineapple slices, smiling prettily as she took my arm and brought me into a discussion with some people I just

had

to meet.

"Elizabeth is my sorority sister from university," she said, introducing me to a tall woman with short hair and impeccable lipstick.

"Cool. Nice to meet you," I said politely.

Kimberlee laughed lightly and patted my arm. "Elizabeth, I just

had

to introduce you to Nellie. This is Max's daughter."

Elizabeth nodded, her face measured. "Oh right, the one who's still in school?"

Kimberlee smiled brightly. "Yes, taking her degree in forensic science."

As it turned out, Elizabeth had some sort of connection to someone who worked for a government agency that ran a forensic lab in Toronto. That high-society dance started again as Kimberlee spoke; she couldn't just

say

that she was asking Elizabeth to put a good word in for me or to let me know about any upcoming opportunities, and Elizabeth couldn't just say "yes" or "no." No, I had to stand there with a smile that looked crazier and crazier as my chocolate-covered pineapple sat on my plate instead of in my mouth.

If it weren't for that delay, I wouldn't have had to deal with the Marchands again, but they came up to talk to Kimberlee while I was still mourning the fact that most of the chocolate had stuck on my plate.

"Oh, how

are

you, Mariette?" Kimberlee asked.

"Just lovely, dear," Mariette said, plucking a glass of wine off a tray. "What a wonderful little soiree you've put together."

"Thank you," Kimberlee replied. "How are things with you?"

"Just fine," Mariette said. "Anne-Marie is doing well in school, of course, and Marc-Andre is enjoying his first year. He's doing quite well, isn't he, Jean-Luc?"

"Hmmph," Mr. Marchand said. "Doesn't seem to quite have the aptitude to get into law school, but I'm sure he'll try his best."

"He'll do wonderfully," Mariette said firmly. "Besides, if he wants to do something else—"

"—then he had better say something now so I can figure out what the hell to do with my firm," finished Mr. Marchand grumpily.

"Jean-Luc," Mariette laughed, putting a hand on his forearm in a way that seemed to mean "shut up."

I glanced back and forth between them, confused. It would be entirely inappropriate for me to ask the question that I wanted to. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kimberlee looking at me, likely hoping I would keep my mouth shut.

So, of course, I opened it.

"I thought the plan was to get J.P. to take over your firm," I said.

Mr. Marchand turned to me slowly. It was strange; he looked a lot like J.P., but colder. Both were tall and shared the same thick blond hair. Both had similar bone structure, although J.P. did have Mariette's eyes. He also often had a mischievous smirk on his face, but the playful glimmer in his eyes kept him from looking arrogant. His dad, on the other hand, did not have that playful glimmer. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, looking down at me with an air of condescending humour.

"I would expect you, of all people, to know," he said simply.

"We're just friends," I said defensively.

"I'm surprised you'd say such a thing, given the situation that occurred last month."

If he was trying to embarrass me, it wasn't working. Mr. Marchand didn't seem to know that I had no sense of shame.

"You mean the one we keep having to dance around talking about because it might be considered improper in present company?" I said innocently.

He laughed, surprising me. "Yes, that one. Young ladies don't generally admit to, ah... well."

"Sleeping around?" I finished helpfully.

"Nellie!" Mariette said, shocked. She looked to Kimberlee, seemingly searching for some kind of verification that I was acting inappropriately.

I was pretty sure that Kimberlee wasn't so bad, but I fully decided that she was actually cool when she covered her mouth with her hand as she tried to stifle a laugh.

"I suppose you could say it that way," she giggled.

Mr. Marchand shook his head disbelievingly. "Jean-Paul has decided to take a job with some do-gooder firm. He has no interest in working at

my

firm. Apparently,

someone

inspired him to 'make a difference.' I'm curious to know who it was since it wasn't you, it seems."

I think he meant for that to be a biting remark, that he was trying to imply that maybe J.P. had feelings for someone who wasn't me. Rather than protest that J.P. and I were just friends or point out that it had been me who told him to make a difference if that's what he wanted to do, I just smiled.

"Well, good for him," I said brightly. "You'll have to congratulate him for me."

"Hmmph," Mr. Marchand said again. "If you're such good friends, I don't see why he wouldn't have told you himself."