“Loving someone and seeing the best in them is not a character flaw, Beau,” my father countered. “Someone’s gonna have to do that foryou. See past all the bullshit you hide behind, find the good man underneath.” He put his cigar out, standing, stretching his back. I often forgot his age because he didn’t look or act it. But my father was getting old, and a lifetime of being out on the water, hauling lobster, was showing in his stiff muscles, slower movements, and in the aches and pains he tried to hide.
“I have a feeling that the woman you need is already sleeping under your roof,” he mumbled. “You’ve just got to get past all your own bullshit. I can’t do that for you. It’s the pain of being a father—watching your children hurt, wanting to help, knowing there’s not a damn thing you can do but hope for the best.”
My father was bringing out all the big guns tonight. And they hit. In all the right places.
“Love you, kid.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “You’ve done a great job, wading through things no father should have to. It has been the worst pain of my life, not being able to take that burden from you.” His voice was thick with tears, my own eyes prickling at the weight of the agony in his words. I often forgot how much my family carried throughout Clara’s illness because I was so focused on her, so focused on not feeling my own pain.
“You’ve raised a wonderful little girl. I’m so proud of you.” He leaned down to kiss my head, and then he left.
I continued smoking my cigar, staring at the stars as I tried to tell myself that I didn’t care about Hannah. But all I saw was the light and life she created in my life, that look of pure pain she wore in the kitchen today.
I held on to that pain, feeling the disappointment I’d seen marring her striking features. That was all I had to offer her. No part of me could give her what she needed, what she deserved. If I acted on any of my feelings toward her, it would be out of my own selfish needs. And no way in fuck would I do that.
Hannah Morgan didn’t need me in her life.
Ten months. I’d have to endure for ten months. Then she’d be gone.
Why in the fuck did that thought sear me somewhere deep in my chest?
HANNAH
Because the universe had a sick sense of humor, I got the letter the next day. It felt weird, getting mail at Beau’s place, but Ihadn’t wanted to pay for a PO Box, and he’d begrudgingly said it was okay if I used his address “temporarily.”
Not that I got much mail, mostly just junk and student loan reminders.
This piece of mail was a past-due notice for a credit card bill in my name. With a balance of over $20,000.
I did not own a credit card. I had watched my mother collect them, rack up debt, declare bankruptcy, rinse, repeat. Same with Waylon, but he’d gone a little further, getting credit cards in the names of dead people, his infant nephew, grandfather with dementia—anyone, really.
I knew right away this was him.
He’d done it when we were married, opened joint accounts, lines of credit. When I’d realized what he’d done, we’d have a rip-roaring fight, he’d either scream at me, threaten me, or apologize with sincerity that should’ve earned him an Oscar. Finally, I’d gotten a backbone, saw through him, and got the courage to leave. It took blood, broken glass, and many tears.
But I did it. I left.
With nothing but a shitty credit score and a laughable bank balance. I’d had to work myself to the bone to get my credit to an adequate level, to rebuild it along with my life.
I thought I’d done all the things I could to guard myself against this, setting up alerts and monitoring my credit score. Waylon had stopped calling, stopped harassing me. I thought that meant he was going to leave me alone. Even if he wasn’t going to sign the papers, he’d get bored, meet another woman who might be stupid or blind enough to want to marry him, and I’d eventually get my divorce. Wait him out. That had been the plan.
Oh, how naïve I’d been. He wasn’t quiet because he’d gotten bored with me; he’d been busy doing this. I looked at thecharges, wanting to vomit. Guns, strip clubs, a four-wheeler. All of it in my name.
I could barely breathe. There was a thrashing in my ears, my vision tunneling. I was never going to be free of this. Never going to be free of him. I would never be able to wrench myself out of the gutter to a better life. One where I could pay my bills, live somewhere safe, pretty, and have things that didn’t come from Walmart or the sale rack.
Logically, I knew what I needed to do. I needed to call the credit card company, close the account, and put a fraud alert on my credit report. Try to gain the sympathy from whomever I got on the phone, then convince them to erase this or somehow transfer the charges to Waylon.
Since none of that was realistic, what I really needed was a lawyer. It’s what I needed from the start. But I couldn’t afford one, and I’d deluded myself into thinking I didn’t need one.
Technically, I could afford one now. A cheap one. I’d saved almost every penny from this job, including what I’d spent on Clara’s birthday. I’d begrudgingly sent Beau the total which he’d already deposited into my account. There were the things I’d spent money on—the fairy garden, flowers, all the little things that brought joy into Clara’s life. I would never ask Beau to reimburse me for those things. I didn’t want to be repaid for that. Iwantedto give that to his little girl.
Yes, I could afford a lawyer, but that would mean kissing nursing school goodbye for another semester, at least. More than likely a year.
I thrummed my fingers on the table to keep my hands busy, to try to anchor myself in the moment so I could focus on making a plan. I had the offer to nanny from Nora, if it was real. I could tell her I’d changed my mind. Could work for them, even if it hurt my heart to be on the edge of such a lovely family, one I’d never get.
There it was. A plan. Sacrifice some hopes, dreams, endure a little more pain. I was used to all of that. I could do it. My breathing began to even out, I could see beyond pinpricks of darkness, and I was no longer about to faint.
“Hannah.”
A deep voice jerked me from my mental prison. I’d been sitting at the dining room table, staring at the letter, my head in my hands.
