Page 184

I turned to walk away.

“I was scared.”

I stopped in my tracks, unable to help myself—unable to break free from that tragic boy who still held out a sliver of hope that his father would come through.

“I was afraid of what she might’ve written.” He rubbed his face and continued. “I was afraid that she’d blame me for the things I put her through. I thought maybe she’d written something that would make you hate me even more.”

I couldn’t fucking believe what I was hearing.

“So, you kept it?”

He nodded.

“For all these years?”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could’ve given it to me,” I snapped, snatching the envelope from him.

“I know.”

“You could’ve mailed it or given it to the Youngs.”

“I know,” he repeated.

“But like the selfish bastard you are, you kept it.”

“That’s right.”

I stared at the envelope in my palm. It was practically weightless, but it was funny how something so small could make my entire body feel heavier than lead.

“I’m sorry, Hart.”

“I know you are,” I muttered, slipping the envelope into the inside of my jacket. “Take care of your daughter. Hopefully you’ll treat her better than you did the rest of us. Don’t come back here,” I said before leaving.

I kept walking that time when he called my name.

***

The dread I felt on the drive back to my condo intensified with every passing street signal. My dad rode over 2,000 miles on a bus just to ambush me and tell me that he loved his unborn daughter more than the rest of his children; he hand-delivered a letter to me from my deceased mother, and I yelled at my girlfriend in my condo’s lobby.

Fuck my life.

I’d texted Vera a few times since leaving the hotel, but she hadn’t responded, leaving me in a state of uncertainty. Vera was pissed, and at the very least, I’d have to pay a ridiculous Boyfriend Bullshit Fee to get back in her good graces.

I stood outside my own penthouse condo, practicing an apology like I had left for milk and came back three days later to find a hot but angry woman on the other side of the door, waiting for me with a cast-iron skillet.

“Just get it over with, Myers,” I whispered.

I unlocked the door and entered.

“Sugar,” I called out, taking off my jacket and kicking off my shoes.

“In here,” she responded from the living room, and if I weren’t in such a shitty mood, I’d laugh. She wore one of my shirts and a green face mask. She held a glass of wine in her left hand while scribbling in her notebook.

“You writing a diss track about me?”

She giggled into her wine glass. “Now why would I do something like that?”