It’s okay.
It has to be okay. Because if I falter for even a moment and allow a flicker of howI am not okaywithout them both surface from my subconscious, then I might fall and never get up.
“You’ve got that look again,” Ashley pipes up, carrying a dress over to me on its hanger. “You need a good night out, drinking ridiculously overpriced champagne courtesy of The Songbird Hotel.”
I smile at her. “I’m sorry I’m that horribly dull friend who’s no fun anymore.”
“Girl, you don’t know dull until you listen to Huck talk about components of his machines. I love the giant bear, and I love his coffee, but honestly, sometimes I just jump his bones to get him to shut up. He can’t talk about shit like that when I sit on his face.”
I snort out a laugh as Ashley pulls me into a one-armed hug. She’s been the person who’s gotten me through the last month. As much as I love my father, I haven’t told him too much about what happened with Sullivan since we came back to New York. I thought maybe he’d think severing my contract with Liberty Records is what’s gotten me into a slump, even though it was my idea. But he’s not stupid, he knows I spent the night at Sullivan and Molly’splace, and that I haven’t been back, or laughed much, since.
Ashley knows as much as I felt able to share with her. She knows Molly’s mother died and that Sullivan needs some time to process it all.
She doesn’t know Molly isn’t Sullivan’s.
To me, Molly will always be his. There’s no more loved little girl than her. He’s a perfect father to her.
And I miss them both so much that if I let myself think about it too much I struggle to breathe.
My father appears in the doorway of my bedroom, knocking lightly on the door to get our attention.
“Tate?”
I swallow hard when I see what’s in his hand.
“Another one?” Ashley asks.
“Another one,” he confirms, holding the box out to me. The silk ribbon sits in a perfect bow on top of it; beauty papering over the heartache lying in wait inside.
They always arrive like this, by private courier without excessive packaging. It’s a small mercy at least. The process of opening them and seeing yet another apology note isn’t drawn out. Because no matter how many notes I get, reading those words still brings a lump to my throat every time.
I sigh and hold my hand out.
My father walks over and places the buttery velvet box into my hand. This one’s shallow and square. I lift the lid, bracing myself for another beautiful, expensive piece that I won’t be able to bring myself to look at much, let alone wear.
But this one is…different.
My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh my God,” I breathe.
“Why’d he send that?” Ashley asks, peering into the box.
I lift out the small square card from the center of the velvet cushion, careful not to damage any of the pressed daisies that run around it in a circle.
A daisy chain. So perfectly intact, like it’s been treasured and preserved. Treated like it’s more valuable than any of the precious jewels the boxes usually contain.
“Molly and I made it for him,” I say.
Any further explanation I have freezes on the tip of my tongue as I read the card. Then read it again. And again. It’s as though my brain is unable to register that this one doesn’t say:“I’m sorry. We miss you.”
It doesn’t say anything like that.
“Molly’s turning three?” Ashley comments, her eyes widening at the tiny invitation decorated in gold line-drawn bears carrying compasses.
Explorer bears.
“In three days,” I whisper. “And he wants me to be there.”
46
