Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
And I could pull myself together.
I thought I’d been through it all, thought I was tough. I played the tough guy pretty fucking well, but being a father? Yeah, that made a man of me.
Leaving the house, even with Judith and Maisie there, felt like a betrayal because I didn’t want to leave Mabel and Avery. Worse, I felt guilty as fuck because a small and fucking selfish part of me was thankful for the break, to be able to get on my bike and ride past the ocean and just fucking breathe.
Horrible. Selfish.
I wouldn’t take them away, not for the fucking world. But I’d give myself less of a fucked-up childhood so I knew how to step up for them.
I had no father figures beyond variations of stepfathers who came in and out of my life, ranging from apathetic to sadistic. A mother who stayed in the picture long enough to fuck me up royally. Not to mention the other abuse.
I hadn’t told my mother about her granddaughter yet. We weren’t close like that. Especially after seeing Judith, the perfect grandmother. My mother wouldn’t be that. She’d find a way to make it about herself, she’d find a way to make me take care of her. And I didn’t need that. Avery didn’t need that.
I’d considered myself evolved—I’d gone to therapy, accepted my trauma, whatever the fuck. But if parenting had taught me anything, it had showed me all the ways I still needed to parent myself.
And I had to. Fucking had to. Not just because I planned on being there for every moment of Mabel’s life, and Avery’s too. But I planned on Mabel adoring me, never questioning my love for her or her mother.
I had to pull myself together.
“It’s Kane ‘The Dad’ Rhodes!” a voice exclaimed, making me jump.
I’d been sitting on my bike, helmet in my lap, staring into space. Who knew for how long. I was supposed to be out on a pastry run, not fucking wallowing in self-pity.
I glanced to where Kip was sauntering out of the bakery, coffee in hand. I’d seen him and his business partner Rowan a handful of times around town, mostly at the bakery since their wives owned it, and they made it their business to be near their wives, something I’d come to understand about them.
Part of me knew we’d get on well. Both seemed nice enough guys—Kip a little more outgoing than Rowan–but I saw they were good people. Though I was a little gun shy with letting anyone into my life since Brax. Yeah, my internal alarms had warned me to be careful with him, but I’d thought he was harmless.
And he’d almost ruined my fucking life.
My fists clenched, thinking about him, and I wondered, not for the first time, if I’d made a mistake in not taking my brother up on his offer.
“You look how I felt for the first year of June’s life, brother.” Kip grinned at me in a way that told me the expression was second nature to him. He slapped me on the shoulder as I got off the bike.
“Fatherhood,” he sighed. “It’s hard.”
I hummed in agreement.
His hand, still on my shoulder, tightened, and his eyes narrowed on me. “No, bro, it’s hard. I’ve been in combat. I’ve had people shooting at me, I’ve been this close to death.” He held his thumb and finger millimeters apart. “But I’ll tell you, fatherhood is harder than war.”
I looked at him, not able to tell if he was joking or not.
He shook his head, the haunted look leaving his face. “But it’s worth it. I promise. And it gets easier.” He took a long sip of his coffee, seemingly in thought. “Kind of. I know you guys are still in the newborn trenches, and let me tell you, I know they’re fucking trenches, but once you’re out, we’ll come over. Me and the wife and June. We’ll show you there is life after this.” He squeezed my shoulder again, quite obviously unafraid of physical affection with a man he barely knew.
“For now, copious amounts of coffee, sugar, and for fuck’s sake, don’t ever tell her you’re tired. You’re apt to get your face metaphorically clawed off, if you’re lucky. No matter how tired you are, they are 1.000 percent more tired.”
He winked then turned to leave.
I looked at the pink bakery I’d become a regular in, my bike parked on a Main Street that could only be described as quaint with what I was almost sure was spit-up on my shirt.
I was exhausted—obviously not more exhausted, never more exhausted than Avery—not from an all-nighter, not from training for the Olympics, not from crashing at the X-Games and narrowly avoiding death. Nope, drained from an eight-pound baby who liked to be held and fed and hated sleeping anywhere that wasn’t on her mother or me.