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I shut his mouth the fuck up when my fist connects with his jaw. He jumps back in pain as his hand goes to the sight of the offense.
“What the fuck, Lincoln?” he screams at me, and I hope it hurts. I hope it fucking bruises. I hope he can’t sleep or eat or fucking drink because of the physical pain, and I hope my mother asks him why he has a bruise on his jaw and Jesus, I hope all the worst things for him.
How could my own father do this to me and disguise it as fucking protection? Is he really that delusional?
He did it once to me, though. I never should’ve put it past him to do it again. I should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. Instead, I was too wrapped up in everything else—the season kicking off, hiding what I’ve been developing with her. It’s been overwhelming, and now this.
And I don’t for a second believe there isn’t more coming from him. I don’t believe he’s done with us yet. He will rip and tear until we’re left in a pile of shards on the ground, and he won’t care who he hurts so long as he gets the resolution that he believes is right.
Even if it’s wrong to everyone else who doesn’t share the lack of conscience this man clearly has.
Because fuck it all, I belong with Jolene, and I will no longer allow my father to be the one to keep us apart.
“Get the fuck out of my house. Do not ever come back here again. Ever.” I push him toward the front door, and I open it, shove him through it, and slam it in his face.
And then I lean against the door and allow myself to break down.
CHAPTER 18: JOLENE
My phone starts to ring, and when I see who’s calling, I debate sending it to voicemail like he’s done to me so many times over the last few days, but I don’t. Instead, I pick up right away, if nothing else to silence it since I finally got Jonah to bed.
And the second I got him in bed, I broke down.
I lost my job today, and I haven’t had a chance to mourn it. Maybe the strangest part of it all is that even though I lost my job, I still have a job. It’s just not the one I want. It’s not the one I worked so goddamn hard for. It’s not the one I was meant for.
And I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know if I want to continue working for a station that simply reassigns people who have committed serious offenses.
“Hi,” I say quietly, and it’s followed by a soft sniffle that I can’t help.
“Shit,” he mutters. “I’m on my way over.”
He cuts the call before I get a chance to protest. I don’t want to face him—not like this. Not when I’ve been crying for the last hour, not when my eyes are puffy and red.
Sam took an evening shift tonight, so she’s not home. It’s just me, alone with my glass of wine and two sleeping boys in the room down the hall, so I took full advantage of my isolation by crying into my wine glass.
But now Lincoln is on his way over, and I need to pull myself together.
Except I realize the moment I think it…I don’t.
If there’s anyone whose arms I want to fall into right now, anyone who I want to catch me when it feels like I’m tumbling down toward the bottom…it’s him. The man on his way over right now.
And so when I hear a soft knock at the door and I open it to find him standing there, leaning on the doorframe looking as miserable as I feel…I pull him in and collapse against him.
Immediate warmth spreads through me. The relief I feel as his arms wrap around me is instantaneous. It’s real and it’s tangible. It’s everything I’ve wanted since I was a teenager and everything I’ve needed my entire life all wrapped up into one messy package as we cling to one another. My tears start fresh again, and I feel him tremble a little as he holds me.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Marcus reassigned me,” I sob. “He took me off the team.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice low and filled with emotion. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
I try to catch a deep breath to calm myself, but the sobs prevent it from happening. He picks me up into his arms and carries me over to the couch, and he sits with me on his lap. He holds me as I cling to him, and I feel an even more profound sense of loss.
I thought we had the whole season ahead of us to steal quiet moments together. Instead, I won’t be on the sidelines. I’ll be watching like everyone else instead of as the reporter who earned the position.
Eventually the sobs subside, and I draw in the breath I couldn’t before.
“Marcus said it’s a conflict of interest,” I finally manage to tell him.
