Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
If I stay long enough.
The words hit me wrong. Phoebe glances at me from the driver's seat, sympathy written across her face. I turn away, focusing on the blur outside my window. Trees and guardrails and nothing that matters.
“And Jada makes the best hot chocolate. She puts marshmallows in it and sprinkles and sometimes whipped cream. And she lets me help her cook dinner. Last time I was there, we made spaghetti and meatballs and I rolled all the meatballs myself!”
“That's great, sweetheart.” My response is robotic, hollow.
“And Uncle Beast is getting married! To Yana! And they're gonna have a big party with dancing and cake and everything! Hella said I can stay up late because it's a special occasion.”
Hella said. Hella promised. Hella told me.
Every other sentence starts with his name. My jaw aches from how hard I'm grinding my teeth.
“Mama, do you think Hella missed me?”
The question hits me sideways. “Of course he did, baby.”
“He calls me every night.” She kicks her feet against the seat. “Even when he's busy with club stuff. He always makes time.”
Unlike with me. The thought burns through my head before I can stop it.
Tāwaha's exit is in twenty kilometers. My pulse jumps. Twenty kilometers until I see him again. Until I have to face whatever this has become.
“I really missed him,” Olive continues. “Like, a lot. More than I miss Mrs. Patterson when school's out. More than I miss Mania on the weekends. More than—” She pauses. “More than I missed my other parents when I was with… with him.”
Richard. Eddy. The monster who kept her in a bunker for a little over a week. Fed? Sure. Comforted? No. Bathed? No. Loved? No.
My throat closes up.
Phoebe tightens her grip on the steering wheel.
“That's because Hella's special,” I manage, the words scraping out.
“Yeah.” Olive's voice goes soft. “He is special.”
Silence settles over the car. For thirty seconds. Then — “Mama?”
“Yeah, baby?” My voice comes out tighter than I mean it to. My grip on the edge of the seat hardens, fingers digging into the worn fabric. Like that'll keep me from coming apart.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” I force the words out while my chest squeezes. What now? I catch Olive's wide, uncertain eyes in the rearview mirror, and it instantly diminishes my tension.
“Is it okay if I call Hella... Dad?”
The world tilts sideways. My breath catches, sharp and jagged, like I’ve swallowed glass. Every thought in my head scatters, leaving nothing but static and the pounding in my ears.
Phoebe’s foot slips off the gas pedal, causing the car to jerk forward, a harsh lurch that snaps me back to reality. She recovers quickly, her head zipping to me and back to the road.
“Jesus Christ,” Phoebe mutters, her voice low and rough, like she’s been punched. I can’t look at her. Can’t look at anything but the blur of the motorway ahead, my mind screaming one thing while my heart claws at another. What the fuck do I even say to that?
I twist in my seat to look at Olive, her hands folded in her lap. Nervous. Hopeful. Terrified I'll say no.
“Baby, that's—” My throat closes. “That's a big thing to call someone.”
“I know.” She picks at her thumbnail. “But he does dad things. He tucks me in at night when we FaceTime. He asks about my homework. He tells me stories. He says he's proud of me when I draw something good. And when I'm scared, he makes me feel safe.”
Fuck.
“And I know my blood dad was bad,” she continues. “But Hella's not bad. Hella's good. And I know he's not my real dad, but he feels like my dad. Does that make sense?”
My eyes burn. “Yeah, baby. That makes sense.”
“So can I?”
Every instinct screams at me to say no. To protect her from the inevitable heartbreak when Hella walks away. When whatever this is between us implodes and he decides he doesn't want the complications of a child who isn't his.
But then I remember the way he holds her. The way he listens when she talks. The way his entire face softens when she calls his name.
He already loves her, and maybe that's enough.
“You should ask him first,” I say carefully. “Make sure he's okay with it.”
Her face lights up. “Really?”
“Really.” The last thing I need is Hella thinking I'm doing this as some sort of way to trap him into parenthood with me.
“Thank you, Mama!” She bounces in her seat. “I'm gonna ask him as soon as we get there! Do you think he'll say yes? What if he says no? No, he won't say no. He loves me. I know he does. He told me so.”
Phoebe reaches over and squeezes my hand.
Three more kilometers.
The clubhouse gates appear first, before we roll down the familiar road.
My palms sweat, heart hammering against my ribs.