Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“It’s okay. How would you have known?”
I blow out a shaky breath. “I …”
I stumble with words. They all feel wrong and heavy—inappropriate. I hate that I don’t know what to say to him and even more that I put him in a position to discuss all of this.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Good, because I don’t know what to say. I feel like I just stuck my foot in my mouth.”
He runs a hand down his face and groans. “Monica and I weren’t a thing. We never were.”
Oh. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I know. I don’t. But if I don’t tell you, it’ll hang between us and make things weird.”
“Okay …”
He takes a long, deep breath. “I was working in Michigan after a storm. We were there for about a month trying to get shit back together. Then one night, I met Monica at a little pizza restaurant, and we started talking.”
“I’m a grown-up, you know.”
He furrows a brow.
“I get you did more than talking. You have a kid,” I say, teasing him in hopes it’ll lighten him up.
He shakes his head … and grins.
“So you’re talking to her,” I say, motioning for him to continue. “I’ve already gotten you this far. There’s no turning back now.”
He holds his hands out. “There’s not a lot more to say. I came back home after the job. We talked a couple of times, but she never told me she was pregnant or wanted anything more with me. I had no idea, or else I would’ve been there.”
“Why didn’t she tell you?”
“I have no idea.” He sighs, meandering through the room. “I was here living my best life, and she was …” He laughs sadly. “I don’t even know where the hell she was or what was happening to her. I’ll never know.”
None of this has anything to do with me, and a part of me thinks I should stay out of it and stop asking him questions. But when he stops moving and looks at me, there’s an expectant look in his eye as if he wants me to ask. Like he wants to talk about it. Like no one has ever asked him this story and how he feels about being left out of his daughter’s life—for years.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “How did you find Kennedy?”
“Child Protective Services called me one Tuesday afternoon. I hung up the first time, figuring it was Luke being a prick. But, no, I had a four-year-old child I’d never met sitting in an office in Ann Arbor.”
“Wow. I’m … speechless.”
He snorts. “Well, I wasn’t.”
I smile at him.
“Monica was killed in a carjacking, and Kennedy was strapped in a car seat in the back.” A flash of anger bolts through his features. “They found her crying in the parking lot of a gas station that night.”
“Oh, Chase.”
He nods, agreeing with the sentiment. “I’m just happy they found me, you know?”
“How did they find you? I mean, if she hadn’t contacted you before, how did anyone know you existed or how to find you?”
“Monica had written down my name and where I worked and gave it to her best friend. Just in case.” He smiles sadly. “Just in case.”
I have so many questions. How does he feel about all of this? Did Monica take care of Kennedy? Was she okay? But as I consider which to ask first, my stomach knots.
Instead, I stand. “She’s really lucky to have you, you know.”
He rolls his head around on his neck.
“Thank you for sharing all that with me,” I say. “You didn’t have to, but I think it’ll help me understand Kennedy better.”
He stands before me, taking me in like it’s the first time he’s ever seen me. And I probably like this look the most out of all I’ve gotten so far.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I’m still hungry.”
His cheeks split into a wide smile. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
My laughter follows us out of the room.
Chapter Fourteen
Megan
I’ve never seen the sky this dark.
Water droplets fall to my shoulders, and I dab them quickly with my towel. Whiffs of roses, peonies, and other intense florals dance through the air every time I move. Kennedy showed me where she keeps her shampoos and soaps, kindly offering to let me use them. The flower bomb body wash was her favorite, so she thought I’d love it too. It felt like a peace treaty, an extended hand drowning in freesia. I couldn’t say no.
But by my budding headache, I wish I had.
The house is quiet—strangely, it’s too silent to be comfortable. The absence of sound gives my brain too much leeway to think. Unfortunately, thinking isn’t always good.
I toss the towel onto the chair and grab my phone off the bed.
“Hey, Meg,” Mom says after two rings. “Are you okay?”