BEAU
TWO WEEKS LATER
I had begunto look forward to coming home.
And dreaded it in equal doses.
Because Hannah was there. Waiting up for me. She tried to act like she wasn’t. Like I’d just caught her going to bed whenever I got home.
She wasn’t scared of me, exactly. But she was wary, tentative. I’d done that. I’d made her that way, using harsh words she didn’t deserve, reprimanding her for things that didn’t matter, treating her with coldness that felt like I'd committed a sin.
But that was my only option. Either I was cold and cruel or… or I claimed her. Made her mine. Because there was no way I could be friendly with Hannah Morgan, feign some platonic relationship. If I stopped being cruel to her, it meant I’d broken all the promises I made to myself, and she was naked underneath me.
Obviously, that was a terrible fucking idea for a multitude of reasons, top of the list being that Hannah deserved someone a fuck of a lot better than me. And closer to her own age. Tied with that was Clara.
If I fucked it up with Hannah—which I most certainly would—then I’d run the risk of taking her away from my daughter.
No.
That wouldn’t do.
Even though it physically pained me to do it, I’d continued to be an asshole to Hannah. It was better that way, was what everyone expected of me.
Though after her accident, after feeling the bone-crunching fear that came with something happening to her, I’d been unable to stay too far away from her. Then seeing her on Halloween. In that dress. In that fucking dress.
I dreamed about it every fucking night. It haunted me. Her perfect body, her full lips painted red.
And not just that, I dreamed of the three of us walking into Nora and Rowan’s house in matching fucking costumes and how it felt…right.
Then there was the night of Calliope’s attack. I’d barely remembered driving home. Or opening the door. All I could see was Calliope’s lifeless body, the crack of her bones as I gave her CPR. I’d felt death clouding me, suffocating me, and that time, it wasn’t my daughter’s.
All my thoughts were dark, oily.
But then there was Hannah. A bright fucking light. Her small hands cupping my jaw, running through my hair. My head in her lap.
She gave me comfort without a second thought. Something I’d never sought from anyone. Never. Not even Naomi when I was married to her. She hadn’t liked seeing “weakness” in me. When I shed a single tear over my dead mother, she recoiled from me and became closed off.
Even my family didn’t know how to handle me during Clara’s diagnosis and treatment. Granted, I barked at them like a fucking bear if they tried to offer me any kind of comfort.
It wasn’t safe. Letting go, being upset. Drowning in my fucking sorrow. Not when I was a father.
But with Hannah, it hadn’t even been a choice. Melting into her lap to try to chase away the cold, the fucking darkness, had been my only option.
My first reaction to seeing her the morning after had been relief. Had been utter fucking joy. Then I’d glimpsed the mottling of purple on her creamy skin. I’d marked her. Because I’d held her so tight.
It couldn’t have been clearer. I’d hurt her, damaged her with my want. With my inability to handle my own emotions. So I’d done my very fucking best to push that night from my mind. Not just because it was the night Calliope almost died, but because it was the night my body truly came alive for Hannah.
I’d done my best to distance myself, to not look at her too often. I’d been polite. Much more polite than I’d been in the past, but I didn’t let myself be alone with her if I could help it.
Except in the evenings. That I gave myself.
Her waiting in the living room, clutching whatever book she was reading at the time, staring at me from beneath her lashes, was one of the best parts of my evening. Topped only with going to Clara’s room to kiss her head, smelling her hair and feeling her chest rising and falling.
But it wasn’t Hannah waiting in my dimly lit living room tonight.
It was Calliope.
She was drinking a glass of what I assumed was whisky, tapping at her phone, dressed in ridiculous shoes.
