I wanted to pass out from the dizzying pain her answer brought me. Swal owing the lump in my throat, I held onto the table in front of me, forcing myself to speak. “Lizzie, I’m so sorry.” Even if it hadn’t always been the case, even if I’d spent the first five years of her life wondering about her, longing for her, there had been a day I’d believed this child would ruin my life.

“It’s okay, Daddy.”

There was nothing okay about what I’d done, but I accepted it as her way of tel ing me she’d already forgiven me.

I leaned heavily against the table, lowering myself so I could look up at my child’s face. “I need you to know, Lizzie, that as long as I live I wil never leave you again. Do you understand?”

She smiled a simple smile, one of sincerity and trust. “I know that, Daddy.” She grinned and asked if she could have another soda.

It was just after three when I pul ed into the spot with my name engraved on a silver plaque in the parking garage of my building. I jammed the up button several times, wil ing the elevator to hurry. I’d been due for another round of board meetings at three o’clock. After spending the hour after lunch at a nearby park, I’d dropped Lizzie off at the smal , one-level house Natalie and Matthew shared. With a smile, Natalie had invited me in. She’d enveloped me in an encouraging embrace when I explained I had to get back to the office.

What felt like five minutes passed, which in reality was only about thirty seconds, before the elevator doors slid open. I breathed a sigh of relief when I stepped out onto our floor a minute later, rushing to my office to grab the files I needed for the meeting.

I nearly tripped over my feet when I found my father sitting at my desk, his face twisted in disapproval. “So very nice of you to show up, Christian.”

Recovering from my surprise, I shook my head and crossed the room to find the paperwork. “Nice of you to let me know you were coming into town,” I threw back at him.

Standing at the front of my desk facing my father, I rummaged through the files, grabbed what I needed, and shoved them into my briefcase.

“I just thought I’d pop in and see how things were coming along here.” He waved his hand around the room.

“They’re coming just fine.” He was already wel aware of this. Sure, we’d had a few snags in the beginning but nothing that wouldn’t have been expected.

“Doesn’t look that way to me.” I stil ed my frenzied activity and stared down at the man sitting in my chair, staring back at me, his dark eyes gleaming with contention.

“Care to tel me why I’ve been sitting in this very spot for . . .

oh . . .”—he glanced at the Cartier around his wrist—“the last three hours while you were nowhere to be found?” I knew my father expected me to live my life the same way as he, tied to the office with concern for nothing but the elevated title he’d given me.

I refused.

“I was with my daughter. Do you have a problem with that?”

He looked as if I’d just smashed a paperweight against the side of his head, reeling with the blow I’d struck him with.

The shock was quick to morph into fury. He jumped up, his palms pressed flat on the desk. “You hooked back up with that money-hungry little whore? Are you real y that stupid, Christian?”

The briefcase I held smashed against the wal , glass shattering on the impact, frames fal ing to the floor.

I’d just told the asshole he had a granddaughter, and instead of thinking to ask her name, he thought of money?

I couldn’t stand to look at the pathetic man in front of me—his black hair salt and peppered around his ears, only worn that way because he believed it gave him a look of distinction—couldn’t stand to watch him trembling with rage over what I knew was his embarrassment over my bastard child.

I hated him for it.

With a shaking hand, I pul ed my wal et from my back pocket and dug out the smal picture of Lizzie I kept there. I slammed it down on the desk in front of him and made a decision I was sure I would never regret. “You can count that as my resignation.”

I had no idea what I believed anymore, where I stood. A door had been opened, a line crossed, and I couldn’t decide how I felt about it. I knew I’d let it happen, had been a partner to it, had even pushed for it. How easy it would have been to cal my mother or my older sister when Matthew’s phone had gone to voicemail.

But no, I’d cal ed Christian.

In the time it had taken him to drive to our house, I’d agonized over that decision, what kind of mistake I was making, and its ultimate effect on my daughter. Did I stil believe he would harm her?

Then when he’d knelt before her, his worry and tenderness enough to engulf us both, enough to chase away my baby’s fears and assuage the panic pounding against my chest, I’d thought, No. He never would.

It wasn’t difficult to trace it back to its origin, to the moment I’d sat beside Claire and she’d made me question everything I’d held onto for so long, everything I thought I understood.

I tensed when a too intimate hand ran down my upper arm and rested on the smal of my back. “Hey, Elizabeth, Anita asked me to finish up for her today. Do you need any help with anything?” Scott leaned over my shoulder and looked at my computer screen. He was so close I could feel his breath against my neck.

I shrank forward, the movement minute. With mouse in hand, I clicked through the daily closing procedures, brought up my reports for the day, and pressed print. “I’m just finishing up here.” I handed him the smal stack of papers, ending drawer, and key. “Here you go.” Scott was my friend, and I smiled at him in a way to indicate that was the only thing he was. His green eyes glimmered with misunderstanding. He’d been bold of late, his touch no longer a hint of desire, but overt want. He examined the documents for what seemed like minutes when it should have only taken seconds—stal ing.

Shifting my feet, I tried to remain patient under his scrutiny of both my work and my body while he stood inappropriately close. Al I wanted to do was rush out, grab my phone, dial Natalie, and ask her how the day had gone.

Today had been Christian’s first day to pick Lizzie up from school.

“Looks good, Elizabeth,” Scott said as he nodded and took a step back, stil lingering.

“Great.” I glanced around, hoping for an easy escape.

“So, uh . . .” He looked back at the papers in his hands before looking back at me. “Do you have any plans Friday night?”

I grimaced, wishing he would stop continual y putting me in this position, the one where I had to let him down. He was starting to make things uncomfortable between us.

“Scott . . .” I sighed and looked away, pushing my bangs from my face in exasperation.

“Elizabeth,” he pled low as a whisper. “I’m tired of waiting.” His dipped his eyes, searched my face. “Please, just . . . try.”

“I can’t.”

His voice raised a fraction in frustration. “Why not?”

“Please, Scott, you’re my friend.” Don’t ruin that, I wanted to beg.

He stepped back and huffed before he turned and left me staring at his back as he stalked away and into the break room.

I placed my hands flat against my counter, sighed, and flipped off my computer monitor while I wondered why I couldn’t force myself to say yes. It was just dinner. Why did it have to be such a big deal?

In the break room, I gathered my things from my locker and powered my phone, anxious to be in the privacy of my car so I could make the cal . Tension fil ed the room, radiating from Scott as he trained his attention ahead, brooding as he refused to look my way. Selina offered a brooding as he refused to look my way. Selina offered a smal understanding smile, a sympathetic shrug.

“Night everyone,” I cal ed as I slung my purse over my shoulder and rushed from the room, through the lobby, and out into the cool evening air, the sky grey with overcast. I breathed it in and wondered when things had become so complicated. Walking along the side of the building, I studied my feet, counted my steps, and tried not to think of Christian and his pain that had echoed through my house, cal ed to me, almost caused me to cave.

It was pointless. He pursued me in my thoughts and dreams—waited against my car.

I froze when I saw him, a deep ache stirring in my stomach.

He leaned against my trunk, slouched with his hands deep in the pockets of his dark grey suit, his focus intent on the spot where he dug the toe of his shoe into a smal divot in the pavement.

“Christian?” I cal ed, startling him, and his anxious face whipped up to meet mine.

In two seconds, I crossed the lot and stopped a foot away from him. “What’s going on?” My first thought had been worry for my daughter but knew I would have heard from Natalie had something been wrong.

Christian sat up tal er, crossed his arms over his chest, and jerked a hand through his hair as he bounced in agitation. His demeanor caused the ache in my stomach to swel , transform, and rise in apprehension. The dol he’d given Lizzie lay beside him on the trunk of my car, and he picked it up and handed it to me. “Lizzie left this in my car picked it up and handed it to me. “Lizzie left this in my car today. I thought she might miss it.” He feigned calm, though the tight creases at the corners of his eyes served to belie it.

I studied the toy with narrowed eyes as if it held some sort of answer. I looked back at him. “Christian?” It was obvious the dol had nothing to do with the reason he sat against my car.

He groaned and ran his hand through his hair again, the movement causing it to fal in his face.

“I had a fight with my dad.” He quaked as he spoke the words, appearing as if his world had been rocked, shattered.

I shook my head, trying to process why this seemed so pivotal.

“I quit,” he clarified with a tight nod as if he were trying to convince himself that his action had been the correct one.

He quit.

Tears sprang to my eyes, and I stepped away. “You’re leaving?” slipped from my mouth, slow and hurt, more an accusation than a question.

I couldn’t believe he would do this, not after everything, after I’d welcomed him into my home. I was such a fool.

Christian appeared confused, which then bled into the same sadness he’d watched me with for the last three months. “God, no, Elizabeth. Of course not.” That sadness thickened as he watched me come to comprehension, watched me wipe away tears of perpetual distrust and then the ones that fol owed that fel with the relief that he was staying.

“I’m not going anywhere.” His eyes shone deep with the promise, intense as they seemed to search mine for understanding—for acceptance.

I bowed my head and closed my eyes as I clutched Lizzie’s dol to my chest. Would there ever be a day when I would believe, when I’d stop waiting for him to leave?

I lifted my face to find his. “I’m sorry, Christian.” I regretted my assumption, my knee-jerk reaction, and wished I could take it back and put the focus back on him.

Once I final y stopped thinking of myself, I realized he’d come here for a reason. He needed support and comfort as he confided in me that he’d quit his job.

Since the day I’d met Christian, I’d known that working for his father had been what he’d strived for, what had pushed him further, made him work to be the best. While I never agreed with the reasons behind it, I knew how important it was to him.

And now he’d walked away.

I felt like a complete jerk.

Christian cringed with my apology, blowing air through his nose while he shook his head. “Don’t apologize to me, Elizabeth,” he commanded softly as he looked back at me in what appeared complete understanding, his grievance only with himself.

Taking an unsure step forward, I looked up at him under his partial y bowed head. He had slunk further down against my car, his hands shoved even deeper in his pockets as he kicked at smal pebbles with his shoe.

“Are you okay?” I asked careful y, searching his face.

Frowning, Christian pursed his lips as if he were asking himself the same question.

Final y he shrugged and offered a feeble I guess, though it was clear he didn’t believe it any more than I did.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Richard Davison was probably the least kind, most difficult person I’d ever encountered in my life, but Christian had always just dealt with it. I couldn’t imagine what would cause him to throw it al away now.

A fiery anger flashed across Christian’s face as he held his jaw rigid. “No, I think I’l spare you those details.” He released a heavy breath, slumped his shoulders and he stared at his feet. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I’ve spent my entire life working toward a place in my father’s firm, and now . . .” He looked up at me, lost.

I wrestled back the urge to comfort him, to bestride his legs crossed at the ankles in front of him, to wrap my arms around his neck, and to promise him it would be okay.

Instead, I shuffled a little closer and tapped the side of his shoe with the tip of mine. “Hey,” I urged softly, “You’l figure it out. It’s going to be okay, Christian.” He glanced down at our feet and then back at me with a frown stil marring his mouth. “I’l never make as much working in another firm as I was for my father.” He looked at me as if he were waiting for my reaction, how I felt about this news.

“Is money real y that important to you?” The question came out low, probing, as if his answer meant everything—

came out low, probing, as if his answer meant everything—

as if it would somehow change something inside of me.

Because almost six years ago, his answer had been yes.

He shook his head, so slow, the movement fil ed with comprehension of the root of my question. “No, Elizabeth . .

. not anymore. I just need you to know things might be different now.”

Once again, Christian blurred the lines of who we were as my mind final y caught up to why he was here, where his concern laid.

He wanted my approval as if we were a family and there was a family decision to be made.

The step I took back was slight, almost imperceptible, but enough to place some distance between us before I completely lost myself in this man. I swal owed down some of the emotion, desperate to lighten Christian’s distress and at the same time desperate to distract myself from the need I felt to reach out and comfort him.

“Are you asking me for a loan, Christian?” It came out rough, il timed, though I couldn’t help but giggle over how ridiculous my attempt at cheering him up sounded.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he chuckled through his nose. “You never know, Elizabeth, you never know.” A ful smile broke through as he looked up at me, his expression relieved. “Thank-you.” I smiled back at him softly, it becoming harder and harder to hide the love I’d kept for him for so long. I chewed on my bottom lip and nodded, wishing I could offer him something more than another exhausted goodnight, Christian.

“Goodnight, Elizabeth,” he whispered, his eyes warm as he stood up. He reached out in a smal wave before he turned and got into his car parked next to mine.

I couldn’t move as I watched him go.

“That’s the reason you won’t say yes?” I jumped when the harsh, hurt voice hit my ears. I twisted to look over my shoulder to find Scott standing near the wal of the building, shaking his head in injured disappointment. “You’re taking that asshole back, aren’t you, Elizabeth? After everything he’s done to you?”

I gaped at Scott, his beautiful face flushed with anger and disbelief. I swal owed down my urge to defend Christian, remembering how many times I’d maligned Christian as I’d cried on Scott’s shoulder. Did I real y expect him to think wel of Christian?

“No.” I shook my head, quick to counter Scott’s assertion. I knew what it must have looked like to him—

what it had felt like to me.

“No,” I said again to convince both Scott and myself. I wasn’t taking Christian back. I couldn’t. He’d caused me too much hurt, and I’d never survive another broken heart like that.

“No?” Scott asked, his tone skeptical, chal enging,

“Then have dinner with me.” He pushed away from the wal and stepped forward. His voice lost its bite as he implored,

“Just once, Elizabeth. If you don’t enjoy yourself, then I

promise I’l never ask again.”

I wanted to tel him to go to hel , to ask him how he thought he had the right to manipulate me this way.

Instead, I gave in. I persuaded myself that it was only dinner, that it wasn’t that big of a deal, that there could never be anything between Christian and me again—and I told Scott yes.

The ful -length mirror in the corner of my bedroom mocked my stupidity as I stood before it smoothing out the white blouse and black skirt that fel just above my knees. I was anxious, agitated. My thick, blond waves had been transformed into a mound of curls, my eyes lined, lashes coated, and a thick sheen of clear gloss across my lips.

“You look pretty, Mommy,” Lizzie said. She sat with her legs crisscrossed on my bed and grinned while she watched me get ready.

I smiled halfheartedly back at her through the mirror and slipped my feet into a pair of black pumps, fighting off another wave of guilt.

As the last three days had passed, realization had slowly seeped in, acceptance of the real reason I’d agreed to this date. For two years, I’d been successful at dodging Scott’s affections, at putting him off, and in one weak moment at Christian’s feet, I’d panicked. I’d felt the need to prove to myself that I was stronger than the surging emotions I felt for Christian, stronger than the need for him that was threatening to boil over.

Now I readied myself for a date I didn’t want to go on—

prepared myself to lead on a man who’d only ever cared for me and been my friend.

The doorbel rang. Lizzie jumped from my bed and flew downstairs in anticipation of her father.

I grabbed a light jacket and my purse, my hands shaking as I shrugged the coat onto my shoulders. Il at ease, I sighed and glanced one last time in the mirror before forcing myself to leave my room.

Hovering at the top of the stairs, I watched Christian kneeling in the foyer with our daughter in his arms, his face buried in her hair. For the first time on a Friday evening, he was not wearing a suit but rather jeans and T-shirt, a stark reminder of his choice to leave his father’s firm just days before.

Taking a shuddering breath, I descended the stairs, tentative and slow, as if my subconscious believed if I were quiet enough, I’d go unnoticed, my compulsive, irrational actions overlooked and unseen.

Of course, Christian looked my direction. His face spread into a timid smile, his eyes appraising as he took in my appearance. “Hey, Elizabeth.”

“Hi.” I held onto the bannister, reticent to take another step. I felt so exposed, as if he could see right through me, could decipher my intentions.

“You look real y nice.” His face flushed with the compliment, self-conscious, but he pressed on. “Are you going out?”

Maybe he could.

Swal owing, I nodded and took the last step into the tiled foyer, my mind working for a way to explain myself, a way to justify what I was getting ready to do. Another part of me insisted I didn’t need to give him an account of myself, but somehow tonight that line of reasoning felt wrong.

Before I could answer him, there was a light tapping on the front door that sat only partial y closed. Scott peeked through the crack, pushing the door the rest of the way open with a smal bouquet of handpicked flowers in his hand.

“Hey,” Scott said almost breathless when he realized what he’d just walked in on.

While I felt Scott surveying the room, wary of its occupants and the distinct tension that had just set in the air, I couldn’t even look at him.

My attention was on Christian. His face paled when recognition dawned, and his eyes flashed to mine, grieved, and then fel to the floor. His hands shook as he stooped in front of Lizzie and helped her into her thin coat.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he murmured to her as he used both hands to free her long hair that was trapped inside her jacket, his tenderness for his daughter unaltered in his distress.

It was clear Lizzie was not immune to the intensity of the room, of the sadness in the quiet of her father’s voice, or my discomfort for causing the whole situation. Her focus darted between her father and me, her worry salient.

I took a step forward and placed a hand on her shoulder as I leaned down to her. “You have a great time with your daddy tonight, Lizzie. I’l be home before you are.” My words were meant as a reassurance for them both, an attempt to pacify my daughter’s concern and a promise to Christian that I would be back.

“Okay, Momma.” Lizzie took her father’s waiting hand, and he led her out without a parting word. Christian paused for a passing second when he encountered the smug demeanor Scott wore. Every slanderous word I’d said against Christian played across Scott’s face, a gauntlet thrown. It was as if Christian watched it fal to the ground, an unreciprocated provocation, unarmed for battle, his feet treading my sidewalk in surrender.

The heavy breath I released was not in relief the way Scott interpreted it.

“You’re not kidding,” Scott said as he stepped through the threshold. His expression was sympathetic as if he felt bad for me. “That was real y . . . uncomfortable. You’re a saint for putting up with al of that.” He waved toward the sidewalk in the direction Christian and Lizzie had just departed, as if he understood everything, how I felt, how hard it was to watch my daughter leave with the man I loved every Friday night and act as if it didn’t affect me.

His assumptions roused a spark of bitterness, an irritation with him for goading me into this date. But I knew I couldn’t blame him for this. This was my mistake. Yes, he’d badgered me into it, pestered me until I’d given in, but that was only because I’d never been clear with him. So many times I’d told him we could only be friends, though my reasoning had come weak, given with a false hope that maybe in the future I’d be ready, even though I’d known I’d never be. I’d just never wanted to hurt my friend’s feelings.

Scott handed me the smal bundle of purple, pink, and white flowers, which I thanked him for and took to the kitchen to place in a vase of water. I used that moment to regroup, to remind myself that it was only dinner. It was only dinner.

By the time I’d placed the vase in the center of the table and locked the door, Christian was about to get into his car, having already buckled Lizzie in the back. This time his eyes didn’t fal . They burned into me, blue anguish fol owing me to the curb where Scott was parked on the street, unwavering as Scott settled me into the passenger seat of his black sedan.

Did this hurt him as much as he’d hurt me? Could he feel anything close to the devastation I’d felt the night he’d thrown me from his apartment? His expression told me yes, at least some of it.

I found no satisfaction in it, no triumph in his misery.

Instead, I wanted to cal out to him that I was sorry.

“Ready?” Scott asked as he dropped into his seat and

started his car.

Forcing a smile, I lied with a nod, hating the person I’d become.

I ran upstairs, rushed through the buttons of my blouse, the zipper on my skirt, kicked out of my heels, trying to shake off my guilt.

It didn’t work.

I was a terrible person, plain and simple.

I’d used my friend.

Digging through my dresser, I pul ed on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. Aggressively, I pul ed a brush through my head ful of product and ironed in curls and twisted my hair into a loose ponytail, wishing the action could somehow erase every memory of this night.

Scott had been so eager, excited even. He seemed sure I’d final y crossed that bridge and I would be his at last.

It had been there in his eyes, in the way they gleamed when they’d wash over me, in the light brushes of his leg against mine under the table—in the kiss I’d avoided with a jerk of my head, the one that had landed in rejection against my jaw. I’d felt it then, standing at my doorstep, the way Scott withdrew his unreturned affections, his hands stil firm in their hold on my shoulders while he tore the rest of himself away.

His eyes had been kind, lacking the reproach they should have held when he stepped back and uttered an apology of contrition. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I shouldn’t have forced you into this.”

I’d choked on his apology, angry that I’d caused him to feel the need, and insisted that I was the one who should be sorry.

He’d shifted in discomfort and tried to hide the wounded look on his face, as the idea of us became a firm disenchantment in his mind.

He’d shrugged in indifference and said, “It’s okay.” We both knew it wasn’t. We both knew what I’d done.

He’d left with embarrassment on his face and a halfhearted see you on Monday.

In my bathroom, I scrubbed the makeup from my face, blotting out the last bit of physical evidence of this self-inflicted fiasco.

Five seconds later, the doorbel rang, and it almost sent me spiraling to the floor in confusion. I no longer knew up from down, what I wanted and what I should run from, what to fear and what to embrace. When it rang the second time, I realized Christian probably thought I hadn’t yet made it home.

I rushed downstairs, my bare feet landing with a heavy thud with each step I took. I fumbled as I raced through the locks to open the door.

Christian seemed surprised by the sudden movement, even more so when he took in my disheveled appearance, my pajamas and frazzled hair, I could only guess the expression on my face to match.

Lizzie danced in, her voice a sweet melody, singing praises for her and her father’s night. She crooned about how they’d made dinner together at his apartment, shared it while they counted the lights of the boats floating out upon the water, how she wished I could have been there to see it.

The entire time Christian stood in my doorway, his face flat, mouth slack in surrender.

I leaned against the edge of the door, gripping it for support as I prepared to cross another line. “Wil you stay?” His eyes flitted over my face, searching, seeking answers that neither of us had. The only thing I did know was I wanted him here with Lizzie, with me—that I couldn’t bear to watch him walk away, that I needed him to stay—

that I wished I didn’t fear that need so much.

“Please,” I said, al but begging.

His brow furrowed when my plea seemed to break through his numb defeat. His hands pressed into fists at his thighs, his mouth trembling as he looked over my shoulder, probed my family room to find it empty. His eyes bore into mine, molten anguish. “I hate this, Elizabeth,” his words abraded, his breathing labored. “It shouldn’t have been like this.”

I had no words in response to that truth. I only widened the door and stepped back in inferred summons.

Please.

Even if it were only for tonight, I wanted to pretend that it wasn’t like this, that he hadn’t hurt me and in turn, I didn’t have to hurt him—that I hadn’t hurt Scott in the process.

I wanted to pretend as Christian relented and stepped through the door that he wasn’t unsure of his welcome; pretend as we dimmed the lights and the animated fairy tale sprang to life across the screen that we didn’t look at each other with uncertainty, rattled nerves, and pounding chests; pretend as the three of us gathered on the couch that we did it every day and that it was normal for Lizzie to sit between us snuggled into her daddy’s side to share a bowl of popcorn and a blanket spread over our laps; pretend that together we’d seen this movie a hundred times just as Lizzie and I had, and that he’d been there when we’d seen it the first time more than two years before; pretend that later this thirst would be slaked, that Christian would lay me down, and that I would be his and he would be mine.

The way it should have been.

But make-believe could only get me so far, and I knew it was time I measured my strength and resolved how far I’d al ow my heart to go.

I glanced across at him. His arm was draped over Lizzie’s shoulder and he played with strands of her hair. His attention was not on the television but on her, attentive to the way her face lit up in laughter, the way she sang along, the way she hid her eyes when the film turned dark even though she already knew the result and her hero would live.

He leaned down, nuzzled his mouth against her hair, and looked up at me through thick, black lashes as he held her close.

And I knew I wanted him a permanent a part of my life, not as lovers, but in a partnership for our daughter, for him to take a place as a part of this family.

Switching lanes, I accelerated through traffic, thankful the I-5

flowed free; the Saturday mid-morning traffic was light as I traveled north. Wind pounded my hair, windows and sunroof wide open.

The trip flew by, and faster than I could have imagined the GPS instructed me to exit, and I was hunting for an open parking spot. I slipped into the first one I could find, cut the engine, and jumped from my car. Black flip-flops that just months ago I’d sworn to never wear crunched against the loose pavement under my feet, flinging sand as I fol owed the walkway up and over the embankment.

I shielded my eyes, scanning the beachgoers dotting the shore below.

They weren’t hard to spot.

Elizabeth sat on a blanket in beige shorts and a red tank top, long legs stretched out in front of her as she reclined against her elbows, hair whipping around as she watched our child playing in the sand. She attempted to tuck a thick tress behind her ear before it was thrashed with another gust of wind.

Hurrying, I wound down the path and hit the heavy sand, sinking with each step I took.

Lizzie noticed me first.

“Daddy!” she cried out, dropping a plastic bucket and waving wildly. Elizabeth sat up and turned toward me, her lips stretching into a smile I was certain could bring any man to his knees.

I waved as I increased my speed, meeting Lizzie halfway when she ran to me. “Lizzie,” I sang as I lifted her, swung her around, and brought her to my chest in a playful squeeze. “How’s my baby girl today?”

She wrapped herself around my neck, kissed me there. “I missed you, Daddy,” she said against my ear.

I’d seen her only last night, yet I’d missed her too. So much.

I set her down and took her hand. She skipped beside me as we made our way to her mother, Elizabeth’s face aglow and peaceful as she watched the two of us approach.

“Good morning, Elizabeth.”

She pushed the hair from her face and squinted against the sun as she looked up at me. “Hey, Christian.

Did you find it okay?”

“Yep.” I contemplated for only a second before I plopped down on the blanket beside Elizabeth and pul ed Lizzie down with me. I nestled her between my legs and held her around her smal shoulders.

I shook off my shoes, buried my toes in the cool, damp sand, and took in the beach that both Elizabeth and Lizzie had so many fond memories of. This place was something sacred shared between the two of them, and I felt honored to be included. I knew it was rare for even Matthew and Natalie to be a part of it.

And to think only last night I’d felt the bottom dropping out of my world.

Something had touched us in the parking lot of Elizabeth’s work Tuesday afternoon, a new connection after I’d walked headlong from my father’s firm. I’d been so sure of it that on the drive over to pick Lizzie up, I’d planned to ask Elizabeth to join us, daydreamed of her in my kitchen preparing dinner with Lizzie and me, saw her sitting next to me at my kitchen table.

I’d gone weak when I’d caught sight of her on her staircase, the reaction she invoked from my body, the things I envisioned doing to hers.

It had taken a few seconds for my mind to catch up with my flesh, and I’d realized she wasn’t dressed for an evening spent on the couch alone. She was going out.

Then that touchy bastard from Lizzie’s birthday party had shown up.

It’d felt like she’d run me over, the sharp sting of Elizabeth’s hand as it struck me across the cheek, spat in my face. I couldn’t help but turn to her, desperate to ask her why. Al I found there were the results of my spoil, as if she’d received the same blow, one I’d inflicted, a reminder that I had done this.

Dinner with Lizzie had been difficult, but I’d forged through it, loved her, and made her smile, unwil ing to al ow my mistakes to steal any more of the precious little time I had with my daughter.

Then Elizabeth had asked me to stay.

“Are you hungry?” Elizabeth shifted to her knees and began unpacking the picnic basket, sandwiches wrapped in plastic, whole pieces of fruit, bottles of soda and water.

She glanced at me with a timid smile as she set them between us.

“Yeah,” I answered, helping Lizzie with the wrapper of a sandwich. I twisted the cap from a bottle of water for her and did the same for myself, and then I shared lunch with the two girls who owned me heart and soul. Lizzie rested against my chest between my bent knees, peeking up at me as I gazed down at her, grinning as she chewed her ham and cheese sandwich. Her hair flew around us, licking my arms, kissing my chin—it scared me that I might love her too much.

Sated and relaxed, Elizabeth and I sat in silence as Lizzie jogged back to her playthings, far enough away that she submerged herself in her own imaginary world of castles and dragons and princesses but not close enough to the water to cause us alarm. The sun washed over us, its heat the perfect contradiction to the coolness of the ocean breeze.

Elizabeth stared ahead, but I could almost hear the click, the quickening of her pulse, triggering the same reaction in my own, the rush of nerves as she hugged her knees to her chest.

“Did you think of us?” Her voice was pained, and her question hung in the air as a doorway to our past, one she final y asked me to step through. Up until now, every time I’d tried to talk to her, she’d shut me down; but now it came without provocation, her own instigation. As much relief as it brought me, I knew there was no way this conversation would be easy.

“Every day.” I looked over at her and watched the pain gather in the creases at the corner of her eyes.

She turned and rested the side of her face against her knees as tears pooled in the honeyed amber. “Why didn’t you come for us?” It was a solicitation for me to final y account for what I’d done.

No. There would be nothing easy about this.

I squirmed while I debated how to explain myself, knowing there would never be any justification. My conscience assaulted me, and I looked to my daughter for strength. I brought a knee to my chest and anchored myself to it as I dug my other hand in the sand, pul ing out a handful and watching it fal through my fist as an hourglass.

Exposed in al my shame, I turned back to Elizabeth in confession. “I did.”

I watched her as my words sank in. Her irises widened and a tremor shook her body. “What?” The word fel as a smal cry from her lips.

Exhaling some of the pressure in my chest, I focused on Lizzie, knowing I wouldn’t be strong enough to handle the disappointment on Elizabeth’s face while I described to her how I’d not only walked out on her once, but twice. “The night after Lizzie was born. I came to the hospital. I planned on apologizing to you, asking you to take me back.” I swal owed the lump in my throat and pressed on. “But Matthew was there . . . and I . . . left.” I mustered enough courage to look at her, to watch her have her heart broken al over again. She turned from me and buried her face in her knees, her body convulsing as she tried to stil her racking sobs. She jerked up, burning with anger, unable to speak, and then closed her eyes, tripped back into sadness.

“That’s how you knew about Matthew,” she said under her breath. She seemed disoriented as she tried to acclimate herself to this most dishonorable revelation.

I couldn’t stop now, even when I was certain my words would do more damage than good; but when I came back into this, I’d promised myself I would always be truthful with her. “That night I convinced myself I was doing the right thing . . . sacrificing for you so you could have a normal life with Matthew. I realize now it was just an excuse, Elizabeth.

I walked away from my child because I thought I couldn’t have you. I never even knew if she was a boy or a girl.” This admission flowed like poison from my mouth, vile in its offense.

“I regretted it every day. I’d always expected to hear from you with a request for child support or . . . something. I waited, but none ever came.” No apology could ever rectify this wrong, but stil I needed her to understand.

Elizabeth’s bottom lip quivered, and she shook her head, a clear dismissal of my reasoning. “That doesn’t make it any better, Christian.” She looked out upon Lizzie, and then leveled her eyes back on me. “Maybe it makes it worse. For so long I believed we never even crossed your mind, that the moment I’d walked out of your apartment we’d been forgotten, and to find out you . . . you waited for me to come to you”—she stressed the words—“. . . it’s just

. . . ,” she said at a loss for what to say as her voice trailed off.

“I thought you were happy.”

She sniffled and rocked herself. “How could you think that? Did you not believe that I loved you? That I wanted to spend my life with you?”

“Of course I knew you loved me.” My voice rose in frustration. “There’s nothing I can say that can make any sense of the decisions I made. Bottom line, I was a selfish asshole.” I splayed my hand through my hair, helpless, losing the grip I’d had on my control. I angled toward her, capturing her face with my eyes as I pled with her. “It doesn’t change anything, Elizabeth, but I truly am sorry. If I could, I’d take it back, right back to the moment I made you choose between me and our child. That was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

She turned away and sat silent while she listened to my explanation, watching the waves race in against the sand, their constant ebb and flow but stil steady progress as they claimed a stake farther up the bank, just like us, the low necessary to reach the high.

I looked out at the horizon, unable to discern where the ocean met the sky, and settled into her quiet as I continued to speak. “My mother . . .”—I felt her eyes fal on me—“. . .

she always pushed me to find you, told me I was wrong in staying away. I never believed her until I saw Lizzie in that store.” I looked at Elizabeth who was staring at me as my words turned to desperation. “She means everything to me, Elizabeth.”

You mean everything to me. I didn’t say it aloud. She wasn’t ready to hear it yet.

Even under the weight of the conversation, I saw in her expression that she at least understood this, accepted that I adored Lizzie. That expression shifted as if something had just occurred to her, her words flowing with the quiet shock of her realization. “You left your father’s firm because of her.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t have to. I’d give up anything for my child.

Elizabeth glanced at Lizzie and then back at me. “I’m so sorry, Christian.”

“I’m not,” I said with complete conviction, because it was true. I couldn’t go on working for a man who would say such unfounded, disgusting words about Elizabeth and my child. I should have walked away six years ago.

She chuckled quietly, and I could tel by the softness that settled on her face that it was not at my expense, but in her own surprise with my actions. “You are a mystery, Christian Davison.”

I shook my head at her notion. “No, Elizabeth. I’ve just changed.”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, her lips parting as the idea seemed to penetrate her, her eyes setting in agreement. I hoped she believed that change was for the better.

Taking a col ective breath, we turned our attention back to Lizzie and watched while she fil ed bucketfuls of sand with a smal plastic shovel, tipped them over into towers that housed the captive of her fairytales, her mouth moving without voice as she played out the scene unfolding in her head. It was as if we had cal ed a time-out, a reprieve from the past, needing a moment to regain a measure of equilibrium before pressing forward.

Final y, I broached the topic I was sure neither of wanted to discuss. “Wil you tel me about Matthew?” She released a heavy breath, though didn’t seem surprised by my line of questioning. “Matthew.” She released an affectionate huff. “We tried so hard to fal in love. The first time I slept with him, I was four months pregnant with Lizzie.”

I flinched at her brutal honesty, but that’s exactly what the last six years had been—brutal.

Swal owing, she seemed to get lost in the memory. “I cried the whole time.” Her voice dropped in slow ruefulness. “Matthew was so good to me. He kissed away my tears and promised that it would be okay, that somehow we would make it work.”

She glanced at me askance, not meeting my face. I realized I was holding my breath. “But it was always forced.

We loved each other, but not like that. The day after we got to San Diego, Natalie showed up at our doorstep to meet my new daughter and boyfriend, and it was like . . . like . . .” She looked up at me as if she were wondering if I could understand. “Like they could touch each other from across the room.”

“I let him go that night.” She laughed without humor and shook her head. “Of course he tried to refuse, adamant that Lizzie and I were his family, and he’d never leave us like that.” We cringed at the same time, cutting words that hadn’t been her intention. Her eyes flashed to mine. “I’m sorry, Christian, I didn’t mean—”

I shook my head, stopping her. “It’s okay, Elizabeth.” She shouldn’t apologize for my deficiencies. The truth was that I’d left her.

“Anyway,” she went on, “We talked the entire night, and we both decided if he stayed, we were only prolonging the inevitable. He packed a smal bag and checked into a hotel down the street from my apartment. Within two weeks he had moved in with Natalie.” She sighed with a shrug. “When it didn’t hurt, I knew we’d made the right decision.” She looked at me with a grimace etched into her beautiful face.

“Al I felt was relief.”

I had no clue what to say—if I should say anything at al .

Al I knew was that I owed more gratitude to Matthew than I had ever imagined.

“But he continued to take care of you?” I inclined my head toward Lizzie while stil holding her gaze, unwil ing to break this free flow of trust.

She smiled, the warmth of her face the same as if it were directly focused on Matthew. “Yeah, he did everything he could for us. That first year after he and Natalie got together, I hated being a constant burden on him, so I tried to hide things from him.” From this came the first amount of regret I’d seen from Elizabeth when she talked of Matthew, and she shifted in discomfort. “Al it did was cause him more worry, so we ended up becoming this strange little family that we are.”

Running a hand through my windblown hair, I deliberated for a second before I decided that since we’d final y found ourselves being so candid, I should take it as far as it would go.

“Was there ever anyone else?” I asked, worried I might not be able to stomach her answer.

She bit her bottom lip, shaking off what must have been an involuntary shudder. “There was this guy . . .

Shawn”—she gulped for air—“he was an asshole.” She shook her head again and looked at me, almost pleading. “I real y don’t want to talk about him.”

Now I felt like the asshole, but stil I pushed. “Did you love him?”

“No,” she said, the word flying from her mouth before I could finish the sentence. From the look of disgust set deep at the core of her eyes, I knew she was speaking the truth.

While I wanted to ask more about him, I could see that it was a shut door, one that needn’t be pried open by my jealousy.

“And Scott?” I asked, again feeling guilty for digging so deep, but unable to stop myself when I found myself so close to Elizabeth’s heart, to her soul that been laid bare, taking just a little more.

She appeared to be amused by my prodding, embracing me in the warmth of her smal , knowing smile.

“No, Christian. Last night was”—the levity from seconds before was replaced with total resolution and a tinge of remorse—“a mistake.”

The relief that escaped me was audible, and I ducked my head, chuckling at just how obvious I was.

She nudged me with her elbow, the heat of her arm spurring a reaction in me that was becoming harder and harder to suppress. I hadn’t realized we’d gravitated to each other, our bodies now just inches apart. “So what about you?” It came out as almost a tease, though I could feel the pain simmering just below the surface.

I brought my face up to meet hers and saw the fear in the way her eyes, never at ease, skittered across my face, her sun-kissed skin blanching where she dug her nails into her legs.

“God, Elizabeth, do you real y want to know?” She averted her eyes, contemplative, before raising them back to mine and nodding.

“I think I do.” She seemed to resolve, her gaze becoming firm as she stared at me across the smal space.

There was a moment that I considered lying to her, sparing her the obscene, especial y in light of the divulgence of her not-so-scandalous past, but I just couldn’t bring myself to that type of dishonesty.

I searched for air and my voice. Final y, I just forced myself to speak. “That first year”— when you were pregnant and sick and needed me—“I tried to forget you.” I snorted in revulsion at the memory. “I slept with any girl who’d let me.”

Elizabeth whimpered, and her eyes glistened, but she lifted her chin and waited for me to continue.

“Then after seeing you at the hospital . . . I just . . . I realized that who I’d become made me sick, and I couldn’t continue on that way.”

That brave chin quivered, but I didn’t stop. I just looked away and let the words bleed from my mouth, low and monotone. “I dated a little bit but pretty much fil ed my time with school. Then I met Brittany.” I felt Elizabeth tense at my side, heard the sharp intake of air. “We lived together for almost two years.”

I could sense that Elizabeth had begun to cry again, but I continued with my attention trained on the ground, wishing I could somehow find a way to bury my shame there. “She wanted to get married, and when I couldn’t make that commitment, she left me.”

While it had been sad to see my friend go, watching Brittany pack her things and leave had been so much like Elizabeth’s depiction of when Matthew had gone. The winning emotion had been one of intense relief.

winning emotion had been one of intense relief.

“You didn’t love her?” Elizabeth choked as she squeezed the words out one by one.

“Yes . . . in a way. I mean, I cared for her. She was kind and sweet but . . .”

But just like she and Matthew, I never loved Brittany that way.

“But what?”

Without hesitation, I looked up to meet Elizabeth’s face, her cheeks wet and blotchy, and answered, “She wasn’t you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, sending more tears racing down her beautiful face.

The hurt she wore broke me, and I couldn’t stand the distance any longer. “Elizabeth . . . ,” I said so slowly, so softly as I reached out to cup her face to give her comfort for al the pain I had caused her, to show her how much I stil loved her.

She winced with the contact and pul ed away as her eyes fluttered open, leaving my hand suspended midair.

“Don’t.” She shook her head and swal owed. “It’s too late for us, Christian.”

I didn’t miss the doubt that washed over her when she spoke those words, though she continued in delusive determination. “I can’t do this,” she said as she gestured rapidly between the two of us, squeezing her eyes shut again as if she didn’t believe it herself. When she opened her eyes again, she amended the motion to include Lizzie and an expectant smile displaced the despondent

resignation of seconds before. “But I can do this . . . I want to do this.” She nodded vigorously, and her soggy smile spread, hopeful of my response.

I smiled slow, al owing it to smolder and then light with the joy that surged through my veins with her request, wishing nothing more than the freedom to kiss the sweetness of her wet mouth as it grew with reception.

Instead, I captured the last tear that slid down her face and then wound my finger in the lock of hair matted on her cheek, giving it a slight tug of affection in anticipation of what I knew was to come.

Because while she spoke of forever, what I heard her say was she wasn’t ready yet.

I stood, dusted off the sand clinging to my shorts, and extended my hand out to her. “Come on, let’s go play and with our daughter.” She laughed and wiped her face with the back of her hand before reaching up to take it.

I had spent nearly the entire weekend with Lizzie and Elizabeth. The three of us had played on the beach until the sun final y dipped into the horizon and brought a chil to the air, and we’d ended the almost perfect day with dinner and ice cream cones. With Sunday morning had come a text inviting me to breakfast, a meal shared over a table of laughter and ease, one that seemed to shape a sort of truce between Matthew and me. While a vestige of his distrust stil lingered, he seemed to slowly be warming to the idea of me being a part of Elizabeth and Lizzie’s lives.

I’d wished the weekend would never end, but unfortunately, Monday had come, and with it, the bal of nerves I currently found myself in. I straightened my tie, grabbed my briefcase, and took one last glance at myself in the mirror before walking out my front door and to the elevator. Looking for a position at another law firm had been the last thing I’d ever thought I’d have to do. I’d always believed that one day I’d be my father’s successor. Funny how things changed in the blink of an eye.

The elevator opened to the parking garage below, and I rushed toward my car. Just as I opened the door, someone cal ed out my name, “Christian Davison?” It was posed as a question.

I paused to look over my shoulder at the man in a basebal cap and jacket approaching from across the garage.

“Yes?”

With my confirmation, he pul ed a thick envelope from his jacket. I closed my eyes in fruitless defense as his intent became clear.

I supposed this was inevitable, but I’d hoped that once, just once, family would come first.

I took the package without dispute and sank into my car, wondering how he could do this to me.

With a heavy heart, I ran my finger under the flap and freed its bond.

It was exactly as I’d expected.

My father was suing me.

I drove aimlessly around the city, passing time, trying not to focus on the envelope sitting on my passenger seat.

I couldn’t believe the man could be so cold. He was suing me for essential y everything, as if he’d tracked my every asset and every deficit—every venture and every loss. The only thing he hadn’t accounted for was the money I’d socked away for Lizzie before I’d even known her name.

At least that was hidden, protected from his greed.

Beyond that, my father hoped to wipe me out.

At five thirty, I pul ed up to Elizabeth and Lizzie’s house

unannounced and agitated, desperate for the solace that could only be found in them. I was hit by a staggering wave of relief when Elizabeth opened the door and, with an understanding smile, welcomed me inside.

As long as I had these two, I could take whatever else was thrown my way.

I pul ed Lizzie’s blanket up tighter over her body, nuzzling my nose in her hair as I wished her a good night.

Elizabeth had already gone downstairs to give me a few minutes alone with our child.

Lizzie snuggled deeper into her pil ow and murmured a tired, “Night, Daddy.” With a slow grin, she added, “Love you.”

Every time she said it, I felt like my heart would burst through my chest.

I pressed my lips to her forehead and whispered, “I love you, princess.” I stood and crossed the room, pausing at the doorway to take in a few more seconds of my precious daughter. Then I switched off the light and left the door cracked open the same way Elizabeth did.

As I crept downstairs, my heart picked up a notch the way it always did when I knew I was going to be alone with Elizabeth.

Since our talk on the beach two months ago, I’d spent nearly every day with them. Each one had brought me closer to Lizzie, closer to Elizabeth, as our lives merged and slowly became one.

Being with them this way as a family brought me more joy than I’d ever believed possible. Not even the lawsuit looming in the distance could do anything to dampen my spirits.

But even with as close as we had grown, there was a part of herself that Elizabeth kept closed off. It was the part that was found in the tension that fil ed the room, the part that fought for release, each and every time we were alone.

She wanted me, I knew, but she wasn’t ready. I hadn’t pushed, though that was becoming harder and harder to do. I ached for her, a physical need that kept me awake through the long hours of the night and often woke me just as soon as I’d final y drift to sleep. My body craved attention, something it had gone so long without. The need she created in me had not gone unnoticed but remained unheeded, just as she continued to ignore her own desire.

I knew it was just a matter of time before one of us cracked.

I took a steeling breath in preparation of Elizabeth’s presence before I made my way across her living room and toward the kitchen.

At the archway, I peeked in and was going to say something to make myself known but stopped short when she came into view. Elizabeth sat at the table surrounded by a stack of mail. Her face was wet with tears as she read what she held in her hand.

I didn’t have to ask her what it was.

I stepped forward, tentative, praying this wouldn’t cause us another setback. I wasn’t sure I could handle her running away from me again.

She looked up when she heard me, her brown eyes watery, confused—maybe even hurt.

“What is this?” she asked, searching my face.

I closed my eyes and ran my hands through my hair, struggling to find a way to explain. So many times I’d wanted to tel her, to warn her of what I was about to do, but it had never seemed to be the right time to broach the subject.

At least that’s what I’d been tel ing myself. In reality, it had only been left unsaid because I was afraid of Elizabeth’s reaction—the reaction I now saw on her face.

Gathering my courage, I took the few steps needed to bring me to Elizabeth’s side, knelt beside her, and whispered her name. It sounded like an apology.

“Why?” She shook her head as she sat back, refusing to look at me and staring at the papers in front of her.

With a shaky hand, I took them from her and set them aside. Elizabeth only watched the movement, stil not meeting my eyes. I looked up at her and tried to get her to see me, to understand. “It was always hers, Elizabeth.” I touched the edge of the document that authorized the transfer of funds from my name to Elizabeth’s. The money was to be used for the care of Lizzie, and only Elizabeth’s signature was required to finalize it. The sum was significant, but as far as I was concerned, not nearly enough. Even though I couldn’t see it, I knew the sheet below described the payments that would come out of my checks and be deposited into Elizabeth’s bank account now that I had started with the new firm.

Even if my father took everything else, Lizzie would have what was rightful y hers.

I knew wel enough that the lawsuit would never yield what it asked, that the huge number was there as a threat, a way for my father to hold his hand over me just for a little while longer.

Even so, both my attorney and I thought it safest if it official y rested in Elizabeth’s hands, in the hands that now shook as she fisted them and pressed them into her thighs.

“You can’t buy us, Christian,” she final y said as she pushed the papers away.

I rubbed a hand over my face, frustrated with the situation but not surprised by the backlash. This was exactly why I had said nothing, why I would have kept the money in my name had I been given any other choice.

Leaning in closer on my knee, I turned to face her while she tried to hide her sadness behind the wal of blond waves that concealed her face. With an unsteady hand, I reached out and brushed them back, hoping to coax her from her anger. “Elizabeth, baby, look at me.” She flinched at the affection, at the touch of my hand, at the endearment that fel from my lips so easily. It was one that had been uttered so many times before but never since she’d walked from my door years ago.

I withdrew my hand, cursing myself for the act that had felt so natural—comforting Elizabeth, loving her.

I shrank away from the rejection and looked to the floor as I choked through the words, offered more of my regret. “I just want to take care of my daughter.”

To take care of you.

She chewed on her bottom lip, fighting another round of tears, her jaw quivering. She looked at the papers on the table and then final y back at me when she asked, “How long?” It was an accusation.

“I don’t know”—I shrugged with vagueness—“A while now.”

She shook her head in clear irritation. “I asked how long, Christian.”

Sighing, I looked away and answered quietly, almost wishing she wouldn’t hear. “Five years.” Her expression raged from confused to hurt to bitter to broken. Like an idiot, I reached for her again. This time she jerked away and put a hand out to stop me. She closed her eyes, guarded herself, put the wal back in place. “I need you to leave.”

I opened my mouth desperate to reason with her, to make her understand what my intentions had been, but nothing would come.

Swal owing, I nodded and stood as it hit me just how badly her refusal had stung.

While there were so many things I had to apologize for, providing for my daughter wasn’t one of them.

I paused in the archway to look back at her, my voice sounding just as despondent as I felt. “If you don’t want the money, Elizabeth, then fine, don’t touch it. Save it until Lizzie turns eighteen; but one way or the other, it belongs to her.”

I knew she’d be upset, that every time money was mentioned, Elizabeth would tense, that she fought ferociously to be independent because she’d had to do it for so long. Even so, I’d believed we’d talk through it and together we’d make a plan for Lizzie’s future, for our future.

I guess I’d been a fool to think we’d come so far.

With my hopes crushed, I started my car and backed out of Elizabeth’s driveway.

I was halfway home when my phone rang. Elizabeth was on the other end sobbing. The only thing I understood her say was please come back.

As I weaved my smal car through the traffic heading downtown, I felt a bit nervous, though I wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t spent almost every day with Christian for the past two months or more.

I’d just never been to his place before. Lizzie, on the other hand, could hardly contain herself.

“Mommy, look!” Lizzie squealed from the backseat. I glanced in the rearview mirror to see her pointing at one of the towering buildings ahead. “There’s Daddy’s house.” Her eyes were wide in anticipation, her body humming in excitement as she squirmed in her booster seat.

Tonight would be the first night she’d ever slept over at her father’s house.

Switching lanes, I pul ed into the underground parking lot and entered the code Christian had given me.

Chuckling, I rushed to keep up with Lizzie as she unbuckled her seat belt and grabbed her things. She swung her door open wide and stood impatiently at mine.

“Come on, Mommy!” She ran ahead, her backpack bouncing with each step, her dol tucked under her arm.

Adorable.

She pressed the button to the side of the elevator; it was obvious she was familiar with the routine. She was grinning as she yel ed, “Hurry up, Mommy!” She was forever excited to be with her father.

I wondered when that had stopped hurting.

I caught up to her and entered the elevator. We rode it the ten floors to Christian’s condo, and I fol owed her down the hal way to his door.

I went to knock, but Lizzie turned the knob before I could. She ran in unannounced, squealing her delight as she cal ed out for her father. Christian didn’t seem surprised by her entrance but turned from where he sat on the couch, a computer resting on his lap, black-framed glasses on his eyes, and a welcome on his face.

Breathtaking.

I shook away the thought and instead, focused on my daughter’s joy.

Christian set his computer aside just in time for her to jump on his lap. “Hi, Daddy!”

“Hi, princess.” He nuzzled his nose in her hair, held her.

My chest swel ed as I watched them and internal y celebrated their reunion, thankful my daughter had this.

Christian looked over his shoulder and smiled at me from where I stil stood in his doorway. “Hey, Elizabeth.”

“Hey.” I offered a smal smile and stepped forward. For the first time I took in my surroundings. It was the typical loft, one large room that served as living space and kitchen.

There was a hal off to the right that I assumed led to the bedrooms. The view of the ocean was beautiful, but the home on scale was much smal er than I’d expected, less assuming, warmer.

It surprised me, much as everything seemed to where Christian was concerned.

As I crossed the room, Christian watched me as if he relished each step that brought me closer to him.

I stil hadn’t come to terms with the revelation of last weekend—a savings account in my name that held more money than I’d make in five years at the bank. The amount of anger I’d felt when I’d opened the fattened envelope had been blinding enough to make my head spin and my blood boil.

Of course, I understood what Christian was trying to do, that he desired to provide for his daughter and, though he never said it, provide for me as wel .

What he couldn’t understand was how in the process he had trivialized the trials I had overcome, the difficulties I’d faced, and the hardships I’d endured. It made light of the nights I’d spent awake while I’d worried for my daughter’s future and wondered how we would survive.

Part of me had argued that I couldn’t blame him, that he didn’t know what I’d been through.

But, real y, that was the issue; he didn’t know because he had never been man enough to check.

I stil didn’t know if I could ever forgive him for that.

As deep as my resentment went, that anger paled in comparison to the void his absence had left, and I was on the phone begging him back before I’d even realized what I was doing, before I could comprehend the hold he had on me.

It scared me to feel my resolve slip as Christian chipped away at my heart, a little here and a little there, slowly rendering me weak just as he had done so many years before. Sometimes I wondered why I fought it, fought him, that no matter how hard I tried, we’d end up in the same place—the place where he had control of my heart, the place where he could shatter it just as easily as he could make it whole.

That pain was fresh enough to know it was not a place I wanted to be.

I remembered it as I sank down beside the two of them on his couch, conscious to leave a smal amount of space between us—distance.

It didn’t stop his eyes from their touch, from the embrace of his gaze as it washed over me, lingering on my mouth.

I closed my eyes to shield myself from it, my only defense. Even then, I felt him.

I opened them when I felt his attention shift and the weight of his gaze subside, his voice only for our child. “So, what do you want to do tonight, sweetheart?” It was easy to regret that I wouldn’t be spending the evening with them as I listened to them make their plans, an evening of games, stories, a quiet night in. Having watched them play enough, I was sure there would be lots laughter, plenty of hugs, tender embraces.

The clock against the wal indicated it was getting late, so with reluctance, I declared that I needed to go.

At the door, I knelt to hug my daughter to my chest and whispered for her to have a great time with her dad.

She nodded and squeezed me tighter. “I’l miss you, Mommy.”

I released a heavy breath against the side of her head.

“I’l miss you, too, sweetheart.” Even if I was looking forward to the evening, there was a part of me that hated any time spent away from her, the part that would always rather stay.

Christian stood to the side of us, his hands burrowed deep in the pockets of his jeans, his eyes soft as he watched us say our goodbyes. I wondered if he felt anything like I did when I watched them say goodbye.

When I rose I brushed his arm, and I hoped it wasn’t too obvious when I pul ed away. Other than by chance, I’d only reached for him once, the day at the beach when he’d extended his hand. It was a connection that had proven to be too much, and I’d released his hold just as quickly as I had taken it.

If he noticed it now, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead he smiled. “Thanks, Elizabeth.”

I shook my head and released a smal laugh at his needless thanks. “I asked you to keep her tonight, remember?”

“I know.” He inclined his head toward Lizzie. “This just means a lot.”

I nodded. I had long since accepted his devotion to our daughter, though I stil couldn’t keep myself from praying that trust wasn’t a mistake. But even if it were, I wouldn’t steal this time from Lizzie. It was hers, and for now, she was adored. And as long as she was, I wouldn’t let my fears get in the way. I smiled down at my wide-eyed daughter and then directed it at Christian. “You two have a great time tonight.”

Christian looked at his feet and then back at me. “Wish you were staying with us.”

Me too.

Instead of saying it, I nodded and started out the door, waving over my shoulder with a laugh as Christian’s tone turned teasing, and he cal ed out, “You girls don’t get into too much trouble tonight.”

There wasn’t much risk of that.

I drove across town and pul ed up to Mom’s house a couple of minutes after six. The street was already lined with the cars of those I loved.

Mom had cal ed a girls’ night as these nights were so aptly referred to, a night of reprieve from the everyday stressors of life. This was a night to laugh and unwind, to joke, to uplift, to renew the everlasting bonds of the women of this family. It served to remind us of why we’d flocked back to this city. I always appreciated the time set aside to back to this city. I always appreciated the time set aside to remember just how much we needed each other.

I walked up the narrow sidewalk to the smal house I’d grown up in. The neighborhood was old but valued by its residents, wel -kept and wel -maintained. The dark green shutters showed evidence of a fresh coat of paint, and the planters under the windows were bursting with fal color.

Lush trees grew along the house, tal and proud.

With my overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I walked through my mother’s front door without a knock. I was hit with the sound of high-pitched laughter coming from the kitchen. It was apparent girls’ night was already in ful swing. Grinning, I set my bag aside, made my way across the family room, and swung the door open to the kitchen.

Immediately everyone welcomed me, a resounding Elizabeth engulfing me as I entered the room.

Mom and Aunt Donna, the family matriarchs, our cornerstones, sat at the smal kitchen table. They were laughing as they drank beer from cans and ate potato chips. Both of their voices were a deep alto, a rich vibration that spoke of security and stability. I went straight to Mom, kissed her cheek, and told her how happy I was to see her.

Next I hugged Aunt Donna and then her daughter, Kel y, Natalie’s older sister. Kel y was two years my junior, sweet and shy. She always seemed to linger on the outskirts of conversation with not much to say but always had a permanent smile on her face.

Their sister-in-law, Samantha, stood at the end of the bar that separated the kitchen and breakfast nook, her bel y round with her first child. She sipped from a glass of lemon-mint water I was sure my sister Sarah had been thoughtful enough to prepare for her. I went to her, pressed my hands to her stomach, and told her how I excited I was to meet her baby boy. She held her hands over mine, her smile endless, exuding joy.

On the other side of the bar at the kitchen counter, Sarah was arranging cheese and crackers on a tray, mixing dips, and slicing vegetables. True to form, her hands were never idle. She only paused long enough to offer me a tight hug and tel me she was glad I was here before she was hard at work again.

We’d long since given up trying to get her to relax.

Natalie and Carrie sat on barstools and swiveled around to face the table. I leaned in to place a kiss on their cheeks, raising my eyebrows and shaking my head in mock disapproval as it became quite clear the two of them had been sucking down cocktails faster than Sarah could make them.

There were only eight of us, but within the confines of my mother’s smal kitchen, it felt as if it were crawling with people, overflowing as we moved around the space but comfortable at the same time.

Now that I was here, I no longer regretted that I wasn’t spending the evening with Lizzie and Christian. They needed their own time together, and I certainly needed this

—a night to loosen the binds of my wound up heart, to leave it unguarded, and for once not to feel the need to hold myself in restraint.

With that thought, I graciously accepted the glass of white wine that Sarah offered and pul ed a chair from the table. I curled my legs up under me and al owed myself to relax. I grinned at the conversations happening around me.

It was no surprise that Natalie and Carrie were the most vocal, forever entertaining. They’d always been close from the time they were smal children, and their bond had only grown over the years. While Natalie and I were like sisters relying upon each other in day-to-day life, Natalie and Carrie were best of friends. They’d spent years talking about boys, first kisses, first loves, details, and every secret.

Sometimes I was surprised it caused me no jealousy.

When Matthew had come along, Natalie had needed Carrie and had relied on her as someone she could count on who wouldn’t judge, who’d only listen. Just because I had given Matthew and Natalie my blessing didn’t mean that it hadn’t caused them a great amount of guilt, that there wasn’t talk, that everyone in the family had viewed their newfound relationship with approval.

I’d seen the shame Natalie bore, and I was the last person she could talk to during that time. I’d just been thankful Carrie had been there to keep her together while I’d helplessly watched her fal ing apart.

Mom and Donna dove into their favorite topic—greatly exaggerated stories of our youth. Each of us added our own memories to them. Laughter rang out, our smiles wide, the volume of our voices increasing with each story told, every glass emptied.

I found I was real y enjoying myself, unable to remember feeling so relaxed in a very long time. It wasn’t as if I didn’t treasure every second with Lizzie. But Mom was right. I needed a break, a night without responsibility.

Natalie and Carrie grew louder, giggling and chatting amongst themselves but not so wrapped up in each other that they weren’t a part of the rest of us.

Sarah final y moved from her post in the kitchen and took a seat beside me at the table. She groaned in pleasure when she propped her feet up at the edge of my chair and sipped one of the drinks she’d been feeding Natalie and Carrie al night. I flashed a meaningful smile in her direction, one that told her she deserved a break too.

As the night progressed, we went around in a circle, each one fil ing in the rest of us on her life, what had happened since the last time we’d al met. Some stories were of little significance, others of great importance, our joys and struggles, the everyday, the life changing.

“So, how’s my sweet little Lizzie?” Mom asked, turning the attention to me.

Apparently, it was my turn.

“She’s doing great,” I answered without hesitation. I’m sure the smile on my face was a mile wide as I gushed with mother’s pride. It was so strange that my baby girl was now already in kindergarten, and I told them of how wel she’d adjusted from preschool to “big girl” school as Lizzie liked to cal it, how she blossomed every day, and how I worried if I closed my eyes for too long, when I opened them, she’d be a woman.

I opened and closed my mouth, unsure how to phrase it.

“Christian’s around . . . a lot,” I said careful y, hopeful not to upset Mom. Every time she’d asked, I’d skirted around the subject and never answered her directly. It wasn’t that I was trying to be dishonest or hide it from her. I just knew I wouldn’t know how to answer the questions she would have.

Just like now.

She frowned, the natural creases that lined her face deepening. “What does that mean?”

I tried to sound casual. “He just . . . tries to spend a lot of time with Lizzie.”

“Pssh . . . spend a lot of time with Lizzie?” Natalie cut in as she waved her hand in a gesture that said my statement was ridiculous. Shaking her head, she leaned forward as if she had the juiciest bit of gossip to share. She should have known better, because to the occupants of this house, it was. “That man is at her house every day, and it’s not just to see Lizzie.”

I shot her a look that told her to shut the hel up.

“What?” Natalie asked in defense as if I should have no problem with her sharing something so private. “It’s not a big deal, Liz. I think it’s great . . . so does Matthew,” she added with a shrug.

A col ective gasp went around the room, and that shock shifted to unease.

A mixture of embarrassment and anger flared on my face and heated my cheeks. This wasn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. I’d wanted to ease the rest of my family into the idea of Christian being a part of our lives, not have Nat giving them fuel for the assumptions I was sure they were already going to make. She knew my mother didn’t know Christian had become something so significant.

To the rest of these women, he was stil the “infamous Christian Davison.”

“Are you back together with him?” Mom demanded with her brow knitted in what I could only assume was disgust. I couldn’t tel if that disgust was due to the idea of that being a reality or if she was hurt because she thought she’d been kept in the dark about something so important in my life.

“No . . . no . . . of course not . . . he’s just . . . ,” I rambled, shaking my head, unsure of what to say because I had no explanation for what he was. I didn’t know myself.

“Wel if you don’t want him, I’l take him,” Carrie piped up, laughing through slurred words as if it were the funniest thing she’d ever said. “That is one gorgeous man.”

“Shut up, Carrie,” I spat in her direction. She had no right to say something like that, drunk or not.

She laughed, not even fazed that she’d upset me.

She’d probably not even noticed.

“I mean, come on, Liz. Have you seen the man? You think he’s going stick around? Wait for you forever?

Somebody’s gonna catch him.” She shrugged and smirked. “Might as wel be me.”

My hands shook and tears pricked at my eyes. Right then, I hated my little sister.

“Shut up,” I said through gritted teeth, seething before I stood and slammed my wine glass down on the kitchen table. “Just shut the hel up!”

She sat back, shocked by my reaction before a horrified expression crossed her face when she realized she’d real y hurt me. “Oh, my—my God, Liz, I . . . I’m . . . ,” she stuttered, reaching for me.

I held up my hand and shook my head. I couldn’t listen to her right now.

I stormed from the room to the sound of Sarah’s mock applause. “That’s real y great, Carrie. Real cute.”

“I didn’t mean . . . ,” Carrie said, trying to defend herself but stopping short when Sarah’s voice rose above hers.

“Just shut up, Carrie. You’ve said enough tonight.” The door closed behind me, leaving me with trembling hands and the sound of muddled, heated words coming from the other room. I rushed to get my jacket on, shaking as I fumbled with the zipper on my bag and then flung it over my shoulder and onto my back.

The door swung open, and for a moment Aunt Donna’s words became clear as she scolded Natalie and Carrie as if they were schoolgirls who’d been caught smoking in the bathroom,

rebuking

their

banter,

criticizing

for

inconsiderate words. Mom stood in the doorway, her eyes sympathetic and worried. As soon as they landed on my face, I broke. Tears rol ed down my cheeks, hot and angry and hurt. She crossed the room and took me in her arms.

She wiped my tears and whispered that Carrie didn’t mean what she’d said.

I shook my head against her shoulder, al owed myself to fal apart in her comfort. “I don’t know what to do,” I cried again and again, desperate for Mom to understand, to have an answer.

I don’t know what to do.

She shushed me, pushed the matted hair from my face, and shook her head in empathy.

“Oh, Elizabeth, honey.” She tightened her hold and ran her hand through my hair. “I can’t tel you what to do, sweetheart. That’s something you’re going to have to decide for yourself,” she murmured against my head, a hopeless consolation.

I cried harder, clung to her, wished for the day when just her touch had eased my every fear, her advice an answer for my every question.

How could I ever decide if I could never know for sure that he wouldn’t hurt me or wouldn’t leave me once again?

She stepped back and lifted my chin, searching my face. “You stil love him?”

I was sure she knew I did, had probably always known although every word I’d ever spoken of Christian to her had been riddled with scorn.

Closing my eyes, I nodded once against her hand.

She released a heavy breath, and I opened my eyes to her slowly shaking her head. Her eyes were sad, and she seemed to struggle with what to say.

After what he’d done, I knew it would take a very long time for her to forgive Christian for hurting her child so time for her to forgive Christian for hurting her child so deeply, and I could see in her face that she was scared for me, scared for Lizzie. But I also knew she’d never ridicule me if I chose to be with him.

She turned up a smal , understanding smile and reached out to squeeze my hands, a reiteration. You have to decide for yourself.

I squeezed back. “I love you, Mom.”

Her smile grew just a fraction. “I love you so much, Liz.” She looked over her shoulder, back to me, and tugged on my hands. “Come on. Let’s not let this ruin our night.” Grimacing, I stepped back and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I think I’m going to go home.” There were too many thoughts racing through my head, too much confusion, too many suppressed emotions vying for release.

Mom’s face fel . “Liz, honey . . . it’s late, and you’ve been drinking.”

“I’l cal a cab. I just want to be alone.” It wasn’t real y the truth. I just didn’t want to be here.

She sighed but offered no further argument and instead, stepped forward to take me in her arms again.

She made no false promises, didn’t tel me that it would be okay, and didn’t tel me that it’d al work out. She simply smothered me in her warmth, showered me in love and unending support.

Final y, she dropped her arms and told me to cal her if I wanted to talk.

“Night, Mom.”

“Goodnight.”

I stepped out, the cool night biting my flaming cheeks. I tugged my jacket tighter and hugged myself. I was feeling embarrassed, foolish about my overreaction, vulnerable in my thoughts.

Sniffling away the evidence of my tears, I dug in my purse to find my phone and dialed the number I’d seen plastered on the side of taxicabs so many times before.

The night was quiet, the city covered in a heavy sheet of dark grey sky. I breathed in the damp air, lifted my face to it, never felt more alone.

It took only a few minutes before headlights cut through the night and lit the street, and a taxicab came to a stop in front of my mother’s house. I stole one last glance behind me before I climbed into the backseat and gave the driver directions to my home.

Blowing the air from my lungs, I tried to clear my mind.

My head lol ed against the dingy vinyl seat, and I was unsure if the sick feeling in my stomach stemmed from the excess alcohol in my system or from the confrontation I’d just had with my sister.

My phone buzzed in my lap with a text message, then buzzed again and again with a progressive string of apologies from my little sister begging for forgiveness, promising she was just kidding, that she didn’t real y mean it, that she loved me.

I knew I real y wasn’t upset with my sister, but with the truth of what she’d said. Christian wouldn’t wait around forever.

Could I handle it when one day he came to me, his blue eyes dancing as he told me that he’d met someone, as he confided in his friend that he had fal en in love?

Would I be able to smile and tel him how happy I was for him? Could I give him encouragement? Offer advice?

I rol ed my eyes at myself.

I couldn’t even handle my little sister joking about it.

I typed back a quick response, one that would ease her and let her know it was okay, that she was forgiven—a simple I love you too.

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi pul ed up to the curb in front of my house. The windows were dark and the faint yel ow glow of the porch lamp offered the only light.

Alone.

The driver looked over his shoulder, frowning.

Shaking myself out of my daze, I pul ed my wal et from my purse and handed him a twenty, mumbling a quiet thank-you, as I floundered my way from the backseat of the car. He waited until I opened the door to the emptiness of my house before he drove away.

I locked the door behind me and dragged myself upstairs. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, couldn’t keep the thoughts at bay.

Brittany.

That name had eaten at me over the last couple of months. Unknown pictures of her had swam through my head as I imagined what she had been like and what had drawn him to her, and I’d often fal en asleep thinking of him fal ing asleep with her.

The shame had been clear, as he’d admitted his past to me, the many faceless women he’d been with, those whose names he’d probably not even known. It wasn’t those that had bothered me, though, those that haunted me in the night, those that evoked an ache in my chest and made it hard to breathe.

What bothered me was that he’d found someone he’d cared enough about to lie beside night after night, someone he cared enough to hold and to share the day-today.

How long before he found someone like her again?

It was with those thoughts that I found myself sitting up in bed in the darkness of my room, clutching my phone with my eyes closed, wil ing myself to stay strong—to ignore the need to hear his voice. It was only after midnight, not so late that he would think it strange that I was cal ing, asking about Lizzie an easy excuse. Would he know that it wasn’t the true reason I cal ed? Would he know I was already certain that my daughter was fine, safe and happy and resting easily in the smal bedroom that her father had set up just for her?

Would he know that I longed for his warmth, the way his voice would wrap around me just as if it were his arms?

Would he know that I needed him?

Once again, I found myself on the edge looking down, wondering when I’d get so close that I’d fal . Or maybe I’d just jump.

I shook my head.

No.

No.

I talked myself back from the ledge, forced myself to place the phone down on my nightstand, and cried myself to sleep.

“Hey, Liz,” the deep voice cal ed from behind.

I stood at my kitchen counter, my fingers wet from slicing tomatoes in preparation for our barbecue, and glanced over my shoulder at Matthew standing in the archway. In my humiliation, I turned away and focused on the task in front of me.

“Hey,” I mumbled toward the counter.

Matthew approached, stood next to me, and wrapped an arm around my back with a gentle squeeze. “You okay?” Nodding, I leaned into him a bit and felt myself relax against my friend. While I was embarrassed, I knew I real y had no reason to be. Matthew only cared, and I knew he wouldn’t judge or tease, would offer no ridicule for my actions of the evening before.

“Nat and I brought your car back.” He smiled as if nothing had happened, case closed, and went to the fridge to grab a bottle of beer and walked out the back door.

I could sense Natalie hovering in the same spot where Matthew had been. She was fidgeting and feeling as unsure with me as I felt with her. I wasn’t exactly mad at her, but I wasn’t thril ed with how she’d acted last night either.

She released a soft but audible sigh as if she needed to make herself known, to warn me of her presence, or maybe even needed reassurance of her welcome.

“Hey, Natalie.” It came out low with a hint of disappointment, but it was mostly fil ed with my need to make things right between us.

It was enough to bring her across the room, her feet light. She rose up on her tiptoes behind me, rested her chin on my shoulder, and wrapped her arms around my middle to hug me to her chest. “I’m so sorry, Liz.” Far from flippant, her apology was solemn and sincere. “We were just messing around. I shouldn’t have . . . I know how . . .” She swal owed heavy with remorse and shook her head. “It was rude, Liz. We made light of something that causes you pain, and for that I’m so sorry.”

I tilted my head to hers in a smal embrace, and I set the knife I was holding on the cutting board so I could reach down to cover her hands with mine. “It’s okay.” I rubbed my thumbs over the back of her hands.

We stood like that for a few moments, looking out the window into the backyard. Matthew and Christian sat at the smal patio table, chatting as they sipped their beers, laughing as if they were old friends. Lizzie was perched on Christian’s knee, grinning while she played with the smal dol s in front of her. It seemed that without thought Christian would run his fingers through Lizzie’s long hair flowing down her back and play with the ends.

“Sweet, isn’t it?” Nat murmured, her attention focused on Lizzie and Christian.

“Mmm hmm,” I said from somewhere in the back of my throat, unable to voice how it real y made me feel; how it made my heart soar and made me question everything I’d held onto for so long. How it made me want to believe he would treat me the same way.

“You don’t have to be miserable anymore, Elizabeth,” Natalie whispered as she pressed her cheek into mine, a gentle encouragement.

I closed my eyes to block my mind from what I so desperately wanted, shook my head ever so slightly, and disagreed. “I’m not miserable.”

She snorted although it sounded like sympathy and hugged me closer before she walked to the back door, only to pause just before she stepped out. “That’s not what it looked like last night.”

She slid the door closed behind her, pul ed a chair out from the patio table, and sat down with her back to me.

I gazed out at my family, the family that had grown by one, and couldn’t imagine it any other way. Christian caught me staring and looked up at me with eyes fil ed with adoration, need, want, tender affection, and overt desire.

For once, I didn’t look away, and I hoped he’d see in my expression that I felt the same, that he’d know that I loved

him even though I’d never al ow myself to say the words.

The afternoon stretched on, peaceful and without strain. For once, my nerves were quiet as I rested at the table with those closest to me. We’d eaten, joked, and shared the trivial events of our week. Matthew and Natalie never mentioned the night before, the incident forgotten. Lizzie played on the grass, soaking in the last few rays of light as the sun hung low in the horizon, each day shorter than the last as October threatened to give way to November.

It was odd to witness the trust that had emerged between Christian and Matthew, their conversation casual and unlabored, genuine. Years before, when Christian and I had been together, the disdain Matthew had held for Christian had been clear. It had been as if he could foretel the future and he’d known of Christian’s betrayal before it had ever been committed.

I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw now, what had changed as the two men talked as friends that I now believed they considered themselves to be. Our conversation continued on, uncomfortable silences unheard of on this perfect Sunday afternoon.

Christian was laughing loud and unhindered when his phone rang out from within the confines of his jacket pocket. Stil chuckling, he patted his coat, feeling for the phone, pul ed it out and said, “Excuse me a second.” We al quieted, lowering our voices so he could take his cal .

I tried to focus on what Natalie was saying but couldn’t ignore the way Christian stiffened and his tone hardened when he answered, “Yes, this is Christian Davison.” Natalie stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes darted between Christian and me, her brow creasing with worry as the silence on Christian’s end wore on. I watched as Christian slumped forward and dug his elbows into his thighs. His knuckles were white from the force with which he held his phone, and his other hand jerked incessantly through his hair.

“What?” he final y choked out in anguish. There was another long break, this time his hand fisting in his hair.

When he spoke again, he sounded detached, stunned, his voice so quiet I was sure whoever was on the other line didn’t hear him. “Okay, thank-you.”

I wanted to drop to my knees to draw his face to mine, to comfort him for whatever was causing him this reaction.

But I was frozen, the blood sloshing in my ears, making me sick with unease as I waited.

Christian sat up, his face portraying nothing, void of emotion, pale and unfeeling. Shocked.

“Christian?” I began but stopped when he glanced in the direction of my voice and then back ahead, unseeing, muttering in disbelief.

“My father is dead.” He squeezed his eyes shut, blinked them open, and said again, “My father is dead.” Oh no.

My hand covered my mouth as I tried to suppress the cry that bubbled up, a seemingly inappropriate sound for a man I had only despised but couldn’t help but mourn if solely for the fact that he had fathered Christian.

“I have to go,” Christian said in words that were barely audible, directed at no one at al . He stood and moved as if on instinct but without comprehension. The three of us watched in shock as he disappeared inside my house before my senses final y caught up and I shook off my stupor.

Christian needed me.

I jumped up, knocking my chair over in the process, and raced inside to catch him only to trip over my feet when I got to the living room. Christian was on the couch hunched over, his hands clutching his head, bal ed up in a position so similar to the one he had been in just seconds before.

Faster than I could give myself time to think, I was on my knees in front of him and whispering soothing words. I pried his hands from his hair, held his beautiful face, and ran my thumbs under his eyes.

It was as if he didn’t even know I was there.

I’d never seen him act this way, and I heard myself pleading. “Christian, please say something.” He shook his head and stood as he once again said, “I have to go.”

Natalie and Matthew stood in the archway, watching with horrified expressions. I looked helplessly to them and mouthed, “What should I do?”

Christian was halfway out the front door when the soft sound of Lizzie’s voice hit our ears, scared and shaking.

“Daddy?”

With it Christian halted mid-stride, her voice enough to break through whatever barrier had his heart and mind trapped.

The release of tension was visible as his rigid shoulders went lax, his eyes clear as he turned and drew Lizzie into his arms when she ran across the room to him.

I turned the key in the lock, wary, my mind stil muddied, trying to make sense of the news I’d received.

Gone.

Just like that, without warning. I guess I’d always viewed my father as unshakable, an indestructible force—

immortal until the day he was not.

The door swung closed behind me, and I stood in the dimness of my condo, lost, the sun burning a thin line as it sank and disappeared at the edge of the ocean, the end of my perception. I stood in the same spot, watching it fal until it faded, and darkness swal owed the room.

It scared me that I didn’t feel anything. At the same time, I felt weak as if I might col apse and not know why.

Excruciating numbness.

With arduous steps, I walked to the end of the hal and into my bedroom. I flipped on the light in my closest, hesitating at the door before I built up enough courage to tug at the smal brown chest shoved in the back corner of the top shelf. It was light, its weight the box itself. The contents shifted as I crossed the room and set it beside me on the bed. The metal latch rattled as I unclasped it and opened the lid to the photos I kept inside.

For a moment, I sat motionless, wondering why I was doing this and what I hoped to find, before I reached in and pul ed them out.

The stack was smal and contained the few printed memories of my childhood—each formal and posed. It was probably senseless to look for something other than pride from my father, but I felt compel ed to search for a glimmer of something more—a sign of warmth, a glimpse of a love he’d never proclaimed. But in each one, he was there only because I’d done something notable, something that he’d deemed worth his time.

I shook my head with a harsh snort.

He’d lived in arrogance, had died in arrogance.

A stroke had taken him, something that would have been treatable had he not ignored the symptoms, but he’d been too prideful to believe anything could ever take him down. I’d learned through my father’s attorney that he’d started slurring his words at the office during the day, but he’d disregarded everyone’s concerns, told them he just had a headache, and had his driver take him home. Even my father’s wife, Kendra, as self-absorbed as I believed her to be, had urged him to seek care. Instead, he’d said he had work to do and had locked himself in his office upstairs. She’d awoken the next morning to an empty bed.

When they found him, he was in a coma, and too much damage had already been done. He was lost apart from the machine that kept him alive.

They’d left him on it for three days, and no one had even bothered to tel me until they had removed him from life support and announced his death.

Sitting on my bed, I stared down at the pictures in my hand, my jaw clenched as the first real wave of emotion hit me.

Anger.

Had he thought so little of me, his own son, that no one around him had thought it important enough to cal me and let me know what was happening with my father? That I might have liked to have known that he was dying?

Had he ever cared at al ?

And why did I care?

Why on the fringes of the numbness I felt was there pain? Why had the emptiness in my chest begun to ache?

I dropped the photos back into the chest and pushed away the reminders of how little I’d meant to my father. I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling, hating that this was al we’d ever been, al we’d ever be. That to him, I’d been nothing more than a disappointment; and to me, he’d forever be the asshole who didn’t care.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I glanced at the nightstand.

nightstand.

Seven fifteen.

The ache in my chest expanded but in an entirely different way. Our seven-fifteen cal s had become rare, only because I was usual y with Lizzie during that time, but I stil always cal ed if it happened I wasn’t spending the evening with her. Tonight, she had beaten me to punch. I wondered if it was Lizzie or Elizabeth who had known how badly I’d need to hear their voices tonight.

I pul ed the phone from my pocket, rol ed to my side as I tucked my pil ow under my head and lifted the phone to my ear.

“Hi, Daddy.” Her sweet voice assuaged the weight on my chest and chased the fog from my brain.

She’d been so scared this afternoon, fearing I was leaving her, not understanding what was happening or why I’d reacted in such a way. It was that voice that had touched me, had shaken me—one that I could never ignore.

“Hi, sweetheart. How’s my girl?”

She sighed, the sound wrapping me up in her tiny arms. “Just thinking about you, Daddy.”

And for the first time tonight, I smiled.

My mother sat in front of me while I stood with my hands resting on her shoulders. Tremors rol ed through her body as she tried in vain to hide the tears she shed for a man she had never stopped loving.

I squeezed her and hoped it gave her comfort, a quiet reassurance that I was here.

Though we felt as if we didn’t belong, my mother and I blended in with the sea of black—black suits, black dresses, and black umbrel as that protected from the ceaseless drizzle of rain, the air heavy and damp. A black casket gleamed bright and ominous in the middle of it al . It was covered in what seemed to be thousands of white and yel ow flowers and a mil ion raindrops. My father’s last spectacle, his final farewel .

Samuel Clymer, my father’s business partner and probably his only true friend, rose to give the eulogy. He moved heavily to the podium, cleared his throat as his eyes flitted over those in attendance, and looked upon my mother and me for a moment longer. He was a man I’d known al of my life, tal and stocky, his cheeks round and red. From my childhood, I remembered him with a ful head of brown, curly hair; he now was balding and wore wire-rimmed glasses that he continual y pushed up his nose.

His voice cracked as he spoke kind words of my father and told of a man different from the one that I’d known.

When Samuel finished, he moved aside and lifted his glasses to wipe his eyes with a white handkerchief.

The minister began the last prayer, and my father’s casket was lowered into the ground.

With the prayer, I bowed my head and wil ed tears that never came.

Instead, I watched with a hol ow ache as my father’s widow stood to throw the first handful of dirt into his grave.

She was young, younger than I was, her black-skirted suit perfectly tailored to fit her perfect body—another prize my father had won.

As she threw the dirt, Mom reached up and clutched my hand. She held her breath in grief as the soil scattered and showered through the flowers. She failed to stifle a cry with a tissue against her mouth. I kneaded her hand in mine as everyone who had gathered to grieve my father went forward to pay their last respects; some faces familiar, distant relatives and old friends, as wel as many strangers.

Voices were hushed and respectful as they passed by.

We waited until the crowd cleared before Mom stood, and together we went forward. Mom whispered at the edge of his grave, indecipherable words that bled together, maybe a prayer, maybe a goodbye. Then she reached down and tossed a handful of dirt onto the black casket below.

I knelt and dug my hand into the mound of soft dirt, cold and foreign. I fisted it and wished we had ended things differently, that I could mourn my father as a real son should.

I felt sick as I dumped the handful of dirt over his casket and murmured an unheard goodbye.

The limo turned onto the private drive lined with wiry elms and lush oaks. The sun had broken through the clouds, and rays of light glinted down through the branches as we passed by.

Mom and I sat in apprehensive silence as the driver fol owed the path that curved around the sweeping grounds and came to a stop in the circular driveway in front of the enormous house we had once cal ed home. It was an imposing three-story colonial, its roof pitched as it stretched for the sky. Evergreens towered over its height, impressive and strong, so much in the way my father had viewed himself to be.

From the backseat of the car, Mom gazed out at the house I had grown up in. Her grief was suffocating, and I found it hard to breathe in the confined area. She looked at me, her face wet and splotchy as she shook her head as her lips trembled.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.”

I had no words to comfort my mother, so I reached out and drew her to me, hugged her while she sobbed against my chest. She’d told me once that she’d never stopped loving him, but I’d never understood the depths of that love until I’d first seen her in the hotel lobby when I’d arrived, her face ashen—devastated.

“We don’t have to stay.” I rocked her as I spoke, unsure if my offer was more for her benefit or mine.

She sniffed, pul ed away to wipe her eyes and nose with a tissue, and looked back at the house. “No.” She slid her watery eyes to me, swal owing back the emotion. “We should stay.”

Even though I didn’t want to be here, I knew she was right. In the very least, I owed my father this, a measure of respect in his passing and my presence as his family and friends gathered to say goodbye. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted me here, but in the end, I was what I was—his son.

With a tight smile, I extended my hand to Mom. “Come on.”

She clenched my hand, breathing through her nose in calculated breaths, unsure of her welcome or where she stood.

This wasn’t going to be easy for either of us.

The house was almost exactly as I remembered. The furniture in the formal living room off the foyer remained the same—ornate upholstered pieces widely unused, polished antiques. A staircase wound to the floors above, and artwork hung from the wal s, planned and cold.

How I longed for the warmth of Elizabeth’s little house, for the clutter and the mess, for the comfort of stepping over toys abandoned on the floor, and for the ability to rest my bare feet on the edge of her worn coffee table.

I took a deep breath and told myself, “You can do this.”

Muted voices echoed over the dark hardwood floors.

The first level overflowed with people, family and acquaintances, friends and clients. They converged in smal groups, some chatting quietly and others hugging each other and wiping away lingering tears.

Mom’s gaze caressed the living room, embracing fond memories before final y resting on the piano at the far end of the living room.

My father had played al his life, his mother dedicating him to lessons from the time he was a young boy. I realized suddenly that the only time I’d ever seen him let his guard down was when he’d play. I’d forgotten how Mom would sit on the chaise lounge by the window and stare outside, engrossed in the strains of his melody, her body swaying to my father’s tempo, at one with him.

Or perhaps I hadn’t forgotten. Maybe I hadn’t been old enough to see it for what it was.

Mom crossed the room to it as if it were a magnet, and I fol owed a bit behind to give her time. She ran her fingertips along the glossy black wood and sat down at the bench. She reached out her finger and played a solitary key. Her eyes were closed, lost in the past.

I turned away to give her privacy and parted the sheer curtain covering the huge windows that faced out the back of the house and over the pool; the view extended out to the salt-water marshes of Lynnhaven River. I could picture myself as a boy running through the high grass, climbing the trees, tossing rocks in the water. Mom had lol ed by the pool, and I’d thought she’d paid me no attention at al , yet she stil had an uncanny way of knowing when I’d been up to something I shouldn’t be, of cal ing out to be careful just before I did something that was sure to cause me harm.

“You used to play out there for hours.” I was startled from the wanderings of my mind by Mom’s soft words and tender touch on my arm. She smiled up at me, her expression wistful as if she were picturing the exact same thing I had been.

A gentle huff came through my nose, an appreciation of those memories that had been buried beneath the pressure that had come from this place. “I loved it out there,” I admitted, taking her hand. “I’d forgotten how much.”

“Claire?” We both turned. Aunt Mary, my father’s older sister, stood behind us, wringing her hands in a white handkerchief. She was stil tal and slender, her long black hair pul ed back in a coif at the base of her neck, her eyes sad.

Mom tensed. Her biggest fear of coming here had been the reaction of her ex-husband’s family, not knowing whether they would condemn her presence or if it would somehow bring them more pain.

Aunt Mary pul ed Mom into a hug, cried into her shoulder, and told her how much it meant that she’d come before she turned to me and did the same. I hugged her close, told her how sorry I was, before I excused myself to al ow them the space to reconnect as they made apologies that were not owed, their estrangement a consequence of circumstance.

Standing at the edge of the room, I shifted my feet and dug my hands deeper and deeper into my pants pockets as I accepted the condolences of those who stopped as they passed by. I chatted with distant cousins who I’d not seen in years, murmured thanks for the apologies of strangers. It was hard pretending that the strained relationship my father and I had shared hadn’t crumbled in the end, that he hadn’t disowned me, and that I hadn’t walked out of his life. I wondered how many knew, that as they shook my hand and forced a smile that they weren’t questioning what I was doing here, why I had come.

My father’s wife wouldn’t even look at me, not that I wanted her recognition. My father wasn’t just a bastard, but a hypocrite. I couldn’t understand his unfounded ridicule of Elizabeth, and then for him to turn around and marry a woman like Kendra.

I tensed when Samuel Clymer caught my eye from across the room and approached with his hand extended.

“Christian.”

In my discomfort, I averted my gaze wishing I didn’t have to face my father’s partner. It had been easy walking from that office in reaction to my father accusations, but in doing so, I’d also walked out on Samuel. He’d always been kind to me, a mentor who had helped in every aspect when I’d made the transfer to San Diego. Out of respect, I accepted his hand. “Samuel.”

“Can I talk to you a minute?” he asked as he gestured with his head in the direction of the terrace.

For a moment, I hesitated. I real y didn’t want to have this conversation here at my father’s funeral. But I relented and fol owed him out back through the french doors and to the patio.

He was silent as he looked out over the river. I waited behind him, nervous to discover his intentions.

He rubbed the palm of his hand over the top of his balding head, sighing when he turned back to me. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, appearing flustered.

“Listen”—he paused and released a heavy breath, seeming to need to find his words as he took one step forward—“I just wanted to tel you how sorry I am about your father.”

Sighing, I roughed a hand through my hair as I nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.” I didn’t know how to respond.

Samuel’s name was listed right beside my father’s on the lawsuit, and as much as I didn’t regret making a stand for what was important in my life, I regretted that in the process I’d let Samuel down.

His voice lowered, tight in emphasis. “I mean for everything, Christian.” His head dropped into his hand, shaking it against his palm. “Your father was my closest friend.” His words were rough, choppy with emotion. He looked to the sky, struggling. “But what he did to you . . . I never agreed with it . . . and . . . and I won’t stand by and al ow it to happen now.” He lowered his gaze back to me.

al ow it to happen now.” He lowered his gaze back to me.

“The firm is dropping the lawsuit.”

I shut my eyes, knowing I should feel relief. Instead, I found myself fighting to control my surging anger.

It was all my father—not the firm, not a decision left up to the board. It had been something my father had led, had spurred. I backed away, knocking into the wal . While deep down I’d known, I couldn’t help but hope that the lawsuit had been pursued because of my breach of contract or company protocol and not an act of vengeance.

Samuel moved to stand in front of me and exhaled as he placed a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking, Christian. Your father was a complicated man, but he did care about you . . . loved you.” I scoffed, the sound a scornful wound in the back of my throat. “How can you say that?” I looked up to meet Samuel’s eyes. “You know as wel as I do that my father hated me.” I clenched my fists, and a wave of grief passed through my body when the words passed through my mouth, grief for a relationship that had died long before my father had, maybe had never even existed at al .

Through al the pressures and demands, the obligation and coercion, somewhere inside me I’d always wanted to believe that my father must have loved me in his own way.

But it was clear he had never loved me at al .

The farther I wandered away from the house, the more distant the voices inside became. I plodded down the graveled path and wended through the opening in the trees.

My steps echoed over the wooden planks once I hit the dock walkway and trod above the murky, green waters of Lynnhaven River.

Tossing my jacket aside, I sat down on the edge of the dock, swung my legs, and watched as gul s skimmed inches from the water. I listened to their cal and relaxed in the peace.

This had always been my place of escape, and I’d never needed the solitude more than now.

“Hey.” The subdued voice came from behind, her footsteps quiet as if she were unsure if she should disturb me.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, and I turned to look at her over my shoulder. Though I was hiding, I didn’t mind her company.

The timid expression she wore spread into a smal smile, tender and kind. Always kind.

“Hey.” I inclined my head to the side, inviting her to take a seat.

She came forward, careful as she took the wooden walkway in heels. She tucked her skirt behind her and climbed down beside me, her apprehension clear. The last time I’d seen her she’d been in tears, heartbroken, begging me to love her but strong enough to know she wouldn’t stay for anything less.

I’d tried so hard. I had real y wanted to love her the way she did me, but in the two years we’d lived together, the fondness I felt for her had never blossomed.

“How are you holding up?” she asked as she nudged her shoulder into mine and peered up at me with warm chocolate eyes. Her dark brown hair was pul ed back at her neck, wisps fal ing out and around her face. Though she wasn’t tal , she was al leg, a combination of sweet and sexy.

It had been an immediate physical attraction, the first time I’d seen her here in this very spot.

It had been at one of my father’s garish New Year’s Eve parties, my presence deemed a responsibility, and just as I’d done so many times as a teenager, I had snuck out back and hidden here by the water when the air became too thick. Brittany had come with her parents, and she confessed later that she’d fol owed me out.

We’d kissed at midnight, and in that moment, it had felt so right.

I shrugged, glancing at her. “Not wel , I guess.” She stared out over the water, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt that was bunched up over her knees. “I’m real y sorry, Christian.” She turned her attention to me, her mouth twisting in a grimace. “I know you two had issues, but I know it must be hard losing him.”

Releasing a slow breath, I rested my elbows against my knees, shaking my head. I stil didn’t know what I felt.

“It’s just hard to believe he’s . . . gone.” Brittany leaned in, caressed my back.

I closed my eyes against the sensation, soothing and so wrong, rebuking myself for again al owing myself comfort at her hand, but I couldn’t find it in myself to pul away.

“I heard you reunited with your daughter.” She rested her cheek on my shoulder and gazed up at me, her expression fil ed with joy. She’d known how it had haunted me, had witnessed the sleepless nights, the guilt.

“She looks like me.” I leaned my head against the side of Brittany’s, grinning at the thought, Lizzie’s face never far from my thoughts. I wished she were here to experience the place where I’d grown up. I knew I’d never be back.

Brittany laughed, a smal , wistful sound. “Mmm . . .

beautiful.” In sync, our legs swung and our hands touched.

“Funny . . . I always pictured a little boy,” she said softly, her words laced with a hint of sadness as her gaze traveled out over the water

I tilted my head to look down at her. “She’s amazing, Britt. I wish you could meet her. She’s the sweetest little girl.”

“I’m so happy for you, Christian.” She looked back up at me, her brown eyes sincere. She bit her lip, snuggled closer, and clung to my arm. “And her mother?” As much as I wanted to say yes, I knew what she was asking. I swal owed, the movement jerky, and shook my head. Suddenly I felt uneasy, our faces too close, her touch too intimate.

“I miss you, Christian.” With her whispered words, she moved closer, brought her hand to my neck, and pressed her lips to the corner of my mouth. Her kiss was soft, wet, fil ed with need, lingered as she waited for a response.

On instinct, I turned to her, brought my hands to her cheeks, and held her face, restraining her. “I can’t,” I said, my tone strained.

“Please.” Her breath spread out over my face as she clung to my arms and pled, “Just tonight.” My body reacted, hungry for release, deprived of it for so long, knowing how good it would feel to lose myself in the familiarity of her touch. But to me, even considering what Brittany suggested was the most debase form of infidelity.

Even if Elizabeth never again belonged to me, I would forever belong to her.

I edged away just a fraction, but enough to make it clear that I was pul ing away, that I was saying no.

“You love her?”

I nodded and held my friend’s face while tears gathered in her eyes. The decision I’d made more than six years ago was still hurting the people I cared about. “I’m so sorry, Britt. I hate that I hurt you.” I held my hands firm against the wetness of her cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

She removed herself from my hold and looked away embarrassed, then back at me. “I guess I always knew.”

embarrassed, then back at me. “I guess I always knew.” She sniffled, her mouth twisting in a self-conscious sort of smile and her expression sad. “I’d always hoped that it was al about the child, that you punished yourself because of it, and wouldn’t al ow yourself to move on and love me.” More tears fel down her face, and she looked down in a shame that was real y my own. “But when you’d make love to me . . . wel . . . I knew you weren’t. You were always a mil ion miles away. I just didn’t want to believe you were with her.”

More regret.

I couldn’t even bring myself to apologize again, knowing words would never make up for what I’d done.

Instead, I held my palm to her face and wiped away another tear that fel down her cheek. “You deserve so much more than one night, Britt.” She deserved so much more than the two years I had stolen from her, so much more than I had ever given her, so much more than I could ever give her.

Al I had was for Elizabeth.

Brittany closed her eyes, leaned into my hand, and for a moment, seemed to indulge in my touch, before she stood and without looking back walked away.

Never had I wanted Elizabeth more.

The need was suffocating as I rode the hotel elevator to the eleventh floor and opened the door to my suite. Not bothering to switch on the light, I stood in the dark, empty room, the only il umination coming from the glow of the street lamps below.

The aching numbness I had wandered through since Sunday had become a constant throb, pressing, pulsing, and forcing its way out.

Today had been torture, burying my father, facing the pain I’d caused my friend, sitting through the reading of my father’s wil .

Confusion clouded my heart and mind with uncertainty, too many questions, and too many whys.

I’d wanted nothing that was his, and I stil hadn’t come to terms with what he’d wanted me to have.

I was sure he’d have erased me from his wil and, in essence, from his life, removing me from what I knew in his mind would be his most valued gift.

To his widow he’d left the house, his cars, and enough money to maintain it al , to afford her to live out the rest of her days comfortably. But he hadn’t left her his vast fortune, the inheritance he’d received from his parents. A quarter of it had been left to me, and the rest he’d given to my mother.

With this announcement had come the first real emotion I’d seen from Kendra, first her look of confusion and then the offense with being denied something she believed she deserved.

Mom had broken down and cried out that she didn’t understand. She’d begged for answers to questions that no one knew, why Richard would choose this life over her and then turn around and try to give it to her. For both of us it was an exacerbation to our confusion.

When we’d stood to leave my father’s study, his attorney had taken me aside and given me a key to the bottom drawer of my father’s desk. The key had been left in a safety deposit box in an envelope with my name on it.

Inside the drawer, there were pictures, al of them of me.

Some I could remember, others I could not. But it was what I had found at the bottom of the drawer that had real y shaken me. It was an envelope, and inside was the picture of Lizzie I’d left him the last time I’d seen him and a crinkled, folded up sheet of paper, the edges frayed and torn as if it had been folded and unfolded a thousand times.

It was a picture that I had no recol ection of, but one that had obviously been drawn by my hand, the crude child’s work depicting a man and young boy, the worn caption Dady Lovs Crisitian written at the top.

I’d understood immediately what he was trying to say.

It had hit me ful force, and for the first time it real y hurt that I’d lost my father.

He’d loved me, and he’d never once told me.

I looked around my empty hotel room and tried to hold onto the anger, but it was gone. In its place was only pity.

The clock beside the bed read just after midnight.

For the first time since I’d reunited with my daughter, I had missed our seven-fifteen cal .

I kicked off my dress shoes and peeled the jacket from my body. As I unbuttoned the first couple of buttons of my shirt, I felt despair setting in.

My head spun, and my stomach twisted in knots.

My father was dead, and I’d never see him again.

Gone.

I wanted Elizabeth. I needed Elizabeth.

Grabbing my jacket from the chair where I’d tossed it, I fumbled through the pockets, produced my cel phone, and sat down on the side of the bed. I was desperate to hear her voice.

She answered on the first ring as if she’d been expecting me, waiting for me; the dulcet sound of her voice my consolation, my breaking point.

“Elizabeth.” The tears I’d prayed would come final y broke free, and I was at last able to mourn for my father.

“Oh, Christian.” Elizabeth’s tone was soft and understanding and held me the same as if I were in her arms—the only place I wanted to be.

“Elizabeth,” I cried again. She was my only solace, my first reminder to never become like my father. I’d come so close—had nearly given it al away.

Had he ever felt the regret that I felt? Had there ever been a day when he’d realized he was living the wrong life; that he never should have let my mother walk away? When he knew he was dying, did he wish he could have been he knew he was dying, did he wish he could have been given one last chance to tel us how he felt about us instead of waiting until he was gone and tel ing us the only way he knew how—with what he’d left behind?

I choked over the emotion, sobbed against the phone, pleaded with her again. “Elizabeth.”

I felt as if I were drowning in my father’s mistakes—

mistakes that I’d made my own.

I was through wasting my chances. If I died tonight, I’d leave Elizabeth with no questions, nothing to decipher, no reason to wonder.

“Christian?” Elizabeth’s worry traveled over the distance and touched my heart.

I cried harder, wept for my father who’d been too proud, and vowed to myself that I would never be too proud.

“I love you, Elizabeth,” I wheezed out the words, unashamed and laid bare. She had to know. “I love you so much.”

From the edge of the bed, I curled in on myself and pressed the phone to my ear, silently begging her to be brave enough to say it back.

Please, Elizabeth, say it back.

I needed to hear her say it back . . . I needed her to take me back.

Her phone rustled, and I heard her shift, felt her movements. I pictured her lying down on her bed, envisioned her long dark blonde locks splayed out over her pil ow, saw her in the black tank top and pajama pants she wore to bed—wished I were lying down beside her.

“Christian . . . ,” she whispered in what sounded adoration. If I could see her face right now, I knew what I’d find. I’d see what was in the expression she’d worn as she had gazed out at me from her kitchen window on Sunday afternoon, the same thing that I had felt in her touch when she’d knelt before me and begged me to look at her, one I’d recognized but had been unable to respond to.

She swal owed, and in her hesitation, I knew she wasn’t ready to say it.

Turning to lie on the cold sheets of my hotel bed, I faced the wal in a way that I was sure would mirror her position, pretended that she held me, felt her ghost her fingers along my jaw, and listened to her breathe. It calmed me, soothed the sting, caressed the pain. “Elizabeth,” I said again, this time softly, matching the calm her distant presence brought, her name a promise on my tongue

— soon.

“I miss you, Christian.” The words were muffled, slurred against what I could only imagine was her pil ow, but stil distinct, powerful.

Burying my face in the pil ow, I rejoiced and thanked God she was giving me this moment, as innocent as it was intimate. I gathered myself enough to whisper, “I miss you, too, Elizabeth. More than you know.”