Page 5 of His Surrender

The first two happened exactly as planned, but the third feels like some cruel joke.

My eyes drift around the room, landing on the framed degree hanging above my dresser. Four years of late-night study sessions, group projects, internships, finals, and more caffeine than any human should consume, all leading to a piece of paper that currently serves as expensive wall decor.

For the first time, I wonder if graphic design was a smart major.

Another knock echoes at my door before it opens again.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” Mom says with a smile.

“I’ll be right there.”

She hesitates for a moment. “Everything okay?”

I force a smile that’s convincing enough to ease the worry from her face. “Just one of those days.”

“I know it’s frustrating, sweetheart, but don’t let yourself believe this is forever.”

“I won’t.” The lie comes easier than I’d like.

Once she’s gone, I grab the edge of my comforter and pull myself off the bed. Sulking hasn’t landed me a job yet, and skipping dinner isn’t going to help either.

As I make my way downstairs, the familiar smell of my dad’s grilled chicken fills the house. The television hums quietly from the family room, dishes clink together in the kitchen, and for just a second, I’m reminded of how lucky I am to have parents who opened their home without making me feel like I’d failed.

But I can’t shake the feeling that everyone else is moving forward while I’m standing perfectly still, watching life happen without me.

CHAPTER THREE

DEAN

Three hours.

That’s how long Liana has been crying.

Three hours of pacing, bouncing, shushing, pleading, and second-guessing every decision I’ve made since Frieda left.

I’ve changed her diaper twice, fed her, burped her, rocked her until my arms burned. Nothing works.

I pace the length of my penthouse again, her tiny body tucked against my chest as I quietly talk to her, hoping the sound of my voice might calm whatever storm is raging inside that little body.

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”

The words feel hollow, considering I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

Her cries only grow louder.

“Okay … okay.”

Maybe she’s still hungry.

Balancing her against my shoulder with one arm, I fumble through making another bottle, nearly dropping the scoop into the formula container before finally managing to measure it correctly. By the time it’s warmed, I’m questioning whether I’ve made it too hot, too cold, or somehow both.

I sit down on the couch and cradle her in the crook of my arm before gently pressing the bottle to her lips.

She turns her head to the left, then right. Her tiny face scrunches in protest, and she lets out a scream loud enough to make me wonder if the neighbors are about to call security.

“Not hungry,” I mutter.

I pull the bottle away before either of us ends up wearing it and set it on the couch cushion beside me.