CHAPTER 51 (1)

This morning, there’s no alarm to wake me to start working. There’s no screaming from downstairs, no sound of Sophie shrieking, no daycare. But I’m awake and warm and itchy. I’ve been at Dad and Haley’s for four days. The first couple of nights, I slept through without waking. Since Timothy left for LA, though, I’ve been restless and turned on. I still haven’t found the breakthrough I need with my final song, and I know Ian’s breathing down my neck. Soon Miranda will be, too. So, this morning, I give myself this one thing. I slide a hand down the front of my pajamas, where I’m already wet. It’s a bad idea to fantasize about a man you can’t have. I didn’t let myself do it when we were apart, save for a couple of times when I gave myself a pass on account of being too tipsy to regulate my fantasizing or having a really brutal day of rehearsing or, once, when he did a spread for this magazine where I swear he was looking right at me and seeing every dirty thought I’ve ever had about him—when we were together and since. A few sweaty minutes in the studio—no matter how earth-shattering—doesn’t change anything. What about you calling him before his show? I did it to prove that all the months he was on the road, I hadn’t held him at a distance because I wanted him out of my life. But it didn’t play out the way I expected. It was better with you. It sounded as if he didn’t only mean the show. I wanted him to mean that. But I can’t fall for Timothy Adams again. My heart wouldn’t survive it. When he comes back later today, there’ll be no more longing looks, no more flirty winks, and definitely no more thinking about how the only thing terrible about having his tongue in me was that it wasn’t his cock. As a consolation prize, I give myself the best solo orgasm I’ve had in years. The release seems to shake loose a few ideas, and when I get out of the shower, I jot down half a page of notes in the notebook on my desk. Then I dress and go downstairs to grab coffee with Haley, who’s sitting on a chair with her feet on another. “You okay?” I ask. “Fine. Your dad was hoping to talk to you. He’s staining the gazebo. I swear he went out and made millions of dollars so he could live like he had his own home reno show.” “You love it.” She grins. “Yeah, I do.” I turn that over as I go to find him. I weave through the manicured lawns on the other side of the house, around a grove of trees. Sophia’s playing with her trucks in the grass a dozen feet away from the gazebo my dad built for Haley with his band’s help. “Emily! Play trucks with me. This one’s Boom. And that’s Mice.” “Mouse?” I ask. “Mice.” “She named it after Mace,” Dad weighs in from where he’s painting one of the beams, sweat dripping down his face. “Emily, you’d be a red truck.” “Perfect.” My gaze drifts back to my dad. “Haley could use some love.” My dad cocks a brow, and I shudder. “Not like that. Just… whatever, you do you.” I take in the gazebo, its graceful beams and arches. “Didn’t you just build that five years ago?” “People think building things takes effort. But maintaining them is harder.” He takes a seat on the top step, balancing the brush on the edge. “When something’s in my care, I keep it a certain way. Maybe it’s the right way, and maybe it’s not. But I can’t apologize for doing things the best I know how.” “Can you apologize for hurting the people you love?” He doesn’t answer, but I see the strain in the tight lines of his face. “There’s something I need to say to you,” he goes on at last, and I hold my breath. This is it. An apology. “The scholarship you got at Vanier that covered the rest of your tuition and living expenses through graduation. That was me.” I stiffen. “What are you talking about? I told you I didn’t need your help.” “And I didn’t accept that.” My mouth works. “All you had to do was say you were wrong. Instead you had to control the situation again and manipulate me into taking your money.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “That’s not what it was.” “No?” His groan has Sophie looking up over her trucks, her curious gaze cutting between us. “I don’t want your money. I mean, it helped,” I concede, shoving a hand through my hair. “I can’t pretend it didn’t. But all I ever wanted was for you to respect me. To see me as an equal.” “You’re not equal to anything. You’re my child. You will always mean more to me than anything in this world has a right to mean.” My throat swells at the emotion in his words. “I just want you to know that I can handle myself. That you’d bet on me if I wasn’t your child. I want you to think I’ve grown into the kind of person you’d believe in.” I hold out a hand for the paint brush. “Go hang with Haley. I’ll finish it.” His gaze finds mine, surprised. “And watch your sister?” I lower my voice. “I’ve pulled together changes from a whole host of writers. I can handle a four-year-old and a paint brush.” My dad looks as if he’s about to say something, but in the end, he hands me the brush. After finishing up at the gazebo, I scrounge some lunch for me and Sophie before taking a call with Miranda while my sister plays. We talk about the work, catch up on Ian. I let her know he’s pushing me. “I emailed and told him I’d send him what we have next week.” “What did he say?” I huff out a breath. “Nothing, yet. But I have to go,” I say to my writing partner as I look up to see Sophia climbing on the windowsill and jumping on the seat. “I know you’re dealing with family issues, but we need to finish that song.” “I will.” If my voice has an edge, it’s in response to the urgency in hers. “I have a version, Miranda. And it’s good. But it’s not right.” “You have good instincts. If there’s something more you can get from it, I trust you to try.” “Thank you. I know it’s your dream to co-write a show from the beginning. We’ll make it work.” What happened with Ian was my mistake, not hers, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt us. After hanging up, I get Sophia off the windowsill. “I want to swim,” she decides, peering up at me. “Okay. But after, we need some quiet play time so I can work.” I get her changed, and she insists on bringing the trucks with her. My gaze cuts toward the hedges and the parking lot beyond. “That’s Timothy’s car,” Sophia informs me. “Yes, it is.” His flight was supposed to get back from LA around noon, and I chastise myself for being so obvious a toddler could figure it out as I usher her toward the pool. “Why’re you so into trucks?” I ask as she’s clinging to the ladder, her water wings keeping her afloat. “They get things done. Like Mommy.” I laugh. “Not Daddy?” She wrinkles her nose. “No. Daddy makes messes. Mommy cleans them up.” “That’s true.” I coax her off the ladder, stabilizing her with my hands as she kicks wildly. “Where’s your Mommy?” she pants. Her question catches me off-guard, and I stare at her freckled little face. Apparently Dad and Haley have had this conversation with her—or at least part of it. “Um. I’m not sure.” “Why not?” “Because she lives somewhere else. I haven’t really talked to her.” Not since the letter she sent me. “Why not?” I lift my feet from the shallow bottom, sculling with my hands. “Because she’s not really part of my life right now.” “Do you think she gets things done or makes messes?” “I don’t know, Soph. I guess I always picture her getting things done. Like your Mommy.” I shake my head. “Come on. We should get out, or we’ll turn into prunes.” We get out, and I help her get the water wings off. She tosses them on the patio with a scrunched-up face. “I hate those.” “Then why’d you want to swim?” Sophia peers up at me, squinting against the sun as she grins. “Because you like it.” She says it like it’s obvious, and my heart melts. “You will always mean more to me than anything in this world has a right to mean.” I swallow as I think of my dad’s words. I can’t pretend I know how hard it would be to have kids, how they test your patience.