Page 26 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

“It must have been fairly new,” he said. “I’ll replace a couple of studs but it was more mildew than mold. It didn’t spread. You won’t need remediation.”

That was a relief. When I left the house, it looked like they were on their way to bringing in a wrecking ball. To hear it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought was a huge relief.

“Good,” I said. “Small things, right?”

“How are you holding up, Merritt? Really?”

The question hit harder than it should have. I laughed but it came out bitter, like the coffee that had long since gone cold in my cup. “Everyone keeps asking me that. What do they expect me to say? That I’m fine? That I’ll get through this? That I miss my dad but I can feel him close to me?”

His expression didn’t change. He just waited, patient and steady, the way he always had when we were younger. I would always word vomit and he would just sit and wait. “I don’t want you to say anything. I just want you to tell me the truth.”

The words stirred something in me I’d been trying to keep buried. I looked away, but it was too late. Vulnerability crept in, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. Kannon was the one person I used to share everything with. He always made space for my feelings, even the messy, inconvenient ones. He held me through the worst moments of my life, stroking my hair like my mom used to when I was a little girl.

That memory brought a sharp ache to my throat. My chest tightened and the tears I’d been holding back for days—maybe weeks—started to slip free. I was an orphan. I know I’m a grown woman, but I feel like a lost little girl. Adrift without a paddle.

“I’m not okay,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “I’ve never been worse. I miss my dad so much it hurts. I feel like I owe him a hundred apologies—for not being here sooner, for not doing more. I wish I could tell him I loved him one last time, hold his hand, watch his favorite Christmas movies, lie to him and say the dinner he made was actually good…”

My voice broke completely. I swiped at my cheeks angrily. “Damn it, Kannon. I’ve been holding it together since I got home. Why did you have to make me fall apart?”

He reached across the table, his rough hand covering mine. “Because you needed to,” he said simply.

I wanted to pull away but his warmth grounded me. My anger faltered, leaving only the raw, aching truth of how much I missed my dad and how lost I felt without him. Kannon didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

“Crying and being sad doesn’t solve anything,” I said. I was angry. Mad at the world. Mad at my own weakness.

But as those thoughts rolled through my mind, Kannon squeezed my hand again. I could feel his strength. “It doesn’t solve anything, but it does let some of the pain out. It’s okay to not be okay, Merritt.”

I looked up at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, and for a moment, I allowed myself to believe that it might be true. That I didn’t always need to be strong or hold it all together. Maybe I could just be sad and that would be enough for now.

Kannon let go of my hand and leaned back in his chair, giving me space yet staying close enough to remind me he was there. I took a few slow, deep breaths, trying to breathe through the wave of grief. It was the same thing I’d been doing for a week. I would be drinking coffee and minding my own business and a tidal wave of sadness would wash over me. It came out of nowhere. Sometimes it would be a smell that triggered a memory or I would see a young girl with her father. Good memories and not-so-good ones could make me cry.

I hated it, hated feeling out of control of my own emotions.

After a few seconds of silence, Kannon cracked a smile. “Come on. Play hooky for the rest of the day. You don’t need to sit around and think about this stuff.”

I blinked at him, caught off guard. “What?”

“Skip work,” he said, his lips curving into a small, almost boyish smile. “You’ve been doing too much, carrying too much. Let it go for a few hours. Let me take you somewhere. You need to blow off some steam.”

I hesitated, torn between the mountain of responsibilities waiting for me and the temptation to run away with him. “I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to know,” he said, standing and holding out a hand. “Just trust me.”

That did it. With a deep breath, I closed my laptop and packed up my things. He collected his order and together we walked out of the cafe. I followed behind him in the rental car. We dropped lunch off with his crew—who all gave me knowing looks that I pointedly ignored. I left my laptop bag at the house before I climbed onto the back of his motorcycle, quickly fastening the helmet strap.

The engine roared to life. I clung to him instinctively as we sped away from the house. He exuded confidence as he guided the motorcycle along the winding road. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a flicker of freedom.

Kannon didn’t say much as we rode, but his presence was steady, solid. I rested my cheek against his back, letting myself feel safe, just for a little while. The weight of everything—the house, my dad, the expectations—lifted, replaced by the thrill of the ride and the comfort of being with someone who understood me in ways no one else could.

The landscape blurred by. The rush of air felt like it was sweeping the cobwebs from my soul. Kannon took us further out of the city and into the open countryside. I stopped thinking. I just allowed myself to be in the moment.

13

KANNON

The ride was good. I felt her relaxing against me. She started out all stiff and angry, but no one could resist the pull of the open road. There was just something cathartic about the wind slapping you in the face. Even the most stalwart, uptight people caved to its relentless whisper eventually.

I knew Merritt needed this—more than she probably realized herself. She was always in control, always the strong one. But even the strongest needed to lean on someone else sometimes, to let go.