But Clara was healthy. Not completely, though, leaving me taut with fear that the party, despite all the precautions, would cause her to catch a cold. Her doctor had assured me that if it stayed outside and she stayed masked, she’d be fine. Yet I stillcouldn’t quite believe that she’d be fine. Couldn’t stop tensing, waiting for the next shoe to fall.
Clara was five years old. And she’d had the “best day” of her life—which she told me as I put her to bed, still wearing her flower crown.
Largely, that day being what it was, was thanks to Hannah. Who had tirelessly given my daughter the day of her dreams. I’d thought a store-bought cake and a bouncy house would do the trick. I hadn’t wanted to commit to too much, didn’t want to go overboard in celebrating her birthday because I was fucking terrified that if I celebrated too much, then life would take her from me.
Selfish. Fucked-up. Unforgivable that I’d let that shit get in the way of giving my girl the birthday she deserved.
But she got the birthday she deserved anyway. Just not from me.
“What are you talking about?” I asked my father, wrenching myself from my thoughts, blinking the backyard back into existence. Fairy lights had been strung up by Clara and Hannah at some point, along with solar-powered lanterns, dotting around the “fairy garden.” Our trash can was bursting with remnants of the party after everyone had helped tidy up. I took in the flowers—again, planted by Hannah and Clara—which they watered every morning. And her “mud kitchen” where she made “potions.”
The backyard that had been a slab of half-dying grass that I forgot to mow, water, or fertilize had become full of life and light. Now, it looked like a little girl lived here. Clara had made her mark somewhere other than in my soul. And Hannah did that. In a couple of short months, with winter approaching, Hannah had made our life bloom, even while everything in nature should’ve been dying off.
“Hannah.” My father plucked the name right out of my thoughts, turning to regard me. “She came out from inside before you brought out the cake, looking like someone killed her puppy. And I’m guessing that someone was you since you seem to think it’s a sport to be as rude as you can to her.”
He took in a long inhale. “I know I didn’t raise you to treat women that way. Especially not a woman who your daughter adores and just happens to be one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.” He paused, letting the words hang, letting them pummel my already battered conscience over my treatment of Hannah. “And let me tell you, Beau, finding a woman who loves your daughter enough to give her this...” He motioned to the yard. He’d been there plenty, he knew what it looked like before, and he knew the changes were because of Hannah, not me.
“That’s something special,” he finished.
“I haven’t ‘found a woman,’” I told my father through gritted teeth. “She’s Clara’s nanny. She’s my employee.” I was saying this out loud to remind both my father and myself.
“Is she?” my father replied. “Because I’ve seen you interact with your employees. The ones at the restaurant. You’re a heck of a lot more pleasant to them. And I know you’re not a mean-natured man. So all I can deduce is that you are being mean to her because you like her too much. Which is an outdated stereotype even old men like me know is moot. Not to mention, you’re a grown man. Grown men are supposed to beniceto the woman they want.”
“I don’t want her,” I snapped, much harsher than my father deserved.
My father—used to my short temper since he’d been on the receiving end of it for most of my life, more so since Clara was diagnosed—didn’t flinch.
He just smiled sadly. “Keep telling yourself that, kid. Though you’re smart enough not to believe your own lies. It’s okay, youknow. To be happy now. Look for a bit of it yourself. A life without a woman to share it with is a lonely one.”
My father’s voice was full of pain that didn’t seem to dull despite the decades that had passed since my mother died. He’d never remarried, never found someone else. There had been women, I knew that. My father was not a monk. Nor was he able to replace my mother in any real way. The way he loved her endured through the years, even as I forgot what she used to look like, sound like, smell like. He kept my mother alive through his love.
I wanted that for him, a new chapter, someone to spend the remainder of his life with.
Me, on the other hand? No fucking way.
“I’m not lonely.” It wasn’t a complete lie. With Clara in my life, I’d never be truly lonely.
But I thought of Hannah last night. Her unsteady movements, her small arms circling me. The scent of her petite body. How it fit perfectly in my arms, like it was made for me. Likeshewas made for me.
Her lips had been so full, quivering, fucking aching for my kiss. I’d been hard as a rock, desperate for her warmth. To own every part of her. Make her mine.
Then I’d found sense.
Hannah was not mine. She was a young woman with her whole fucking life ahead of her. Too young for me. Too innocent. Too good. Too everything.
“You’re allowed to be happy, Beau,” my father whispered. “Your daughter is healthy. You can go back to normal. You can find another woman.”
I snorted. “You think I’m any good at finding women? Do you remember my ex-wife?”
The memory of Naomi made my stomach cramp, hot shame creeping up my neck. I didn’t open myself up easily, consideredmyself a good judge of character. Everyone else had seen it, her true nature, but I’d somehow found myself under her spell. In love with her. Or the version of her she’d projected over her true persona.
A woman who didn’t care about the child she’d grown and brought into the world. That was a special kind of evil.
It broke me. Realizing what kind of woman she was. What I’d tethered myself to. Yet I’d clung to the shame rather than acknowledge how loving a woman who only cared about herself had ruined a core part of me.
Elliot had recently said something to me about unconscious attachment theory, but I’d blocked him out. I didn’t need my head shrunk. I needed to never care about a woman again. They’d die, like my mother had. Or morph into something I couldn’t recognize, like Naomi.
I needed to focus on my daughter. The one reason I had for living. And I’d go through a shit-show with Naomi a thousand times over to get my girl. And I had her. Healthy. I’d focus on that.
