Hannah Morgan factored nowhere into that.
To the contrary, Hannah Morgan was a direct threat to that.
“Please, Daddy?” Clara asked quietly. “I know you have to go and work, and I’ll miss you lots, but I won’t complain. I just want to hang out with someone I like. And I like Hannah.”
Fuck.
“Okay.” I instantly conceded. I couldn’t say no to my daughter. Couldn’t contribute to the unhappiness I knew would follow if I picked the wrong woman. They would be living in this house. Spending all their time with Clara. I needed someone who would light up my daughter’s life. Even if they drove me crazy with temptation. I’d have to get a hold of myself. “We’ll go with Hannah.”
And that was the beginning of the end.
two
HANNAH
PRESENT DAY
I stood in the kitchen,looking at Beau’s back.
It was an impressive back. Broad. Muscular, strong. I’d marveled at it many times because Beau gave me a view of his back more than his front. Because he didn’t like facing me, looking at me, or talking to me.
Our interactions were about Clara, her schedule, and his schedule. And whatever I’d done wrong that day. Which could be anything from keeping the screen door unlocked while we were inside playing to jumping on the trampoline. Or if I hadn’t given her her cold-pressed juice—which happenedonce—or if I’d let her bike for too long in the sun.
Most of the things I did “wrong” didn’t make sense in my mind. Kids thrived in the sun—wearing the proper protection—an unlocked screen door didn’t seem like an issue, and missing a single green juice didn’t signal catastrophe.
But I forced myself to accept his reprimands, silently listening and apologizing. Because I was used to someone, especially men, listing my faults, telling me I was inadequate.Beau was walking well-worn asshole pathways that had already formed deep grooves in my psyche.
It tested me—my healing.
I’d done a heck of a lot of work, telling myself all the things Waylon said to me were wrong. That all the things my mother said were incorrect. About me being stupid, lazy, unworthy, flaky, and ditzy. About melacking.
I’d told myself that they were unhappy, toxic people who wanted to bring me down to their level.
I’d done kind of well at rebuilding my self-worth. Or at least I’d thought I had. Beau Shaw was really putting that house of cards to the test. Every day, one fluttered down, and I wondered if my mother and Waylon were right.
Beau was objectively an asshole. To me.
But he was a great dad.
He had a brother and a father who seemed to respect him too, both warm, good people.
He had a successful business. He had a steadiness to him that made me think of a lighthouse in a storm. Or an old British castle, still whole after regimes collapsing and empires falling. That was Beau. He’d remain standing. He’d endure.
I told myself I hated him, but the information I had gathered about his life demonstrated that he might be a halfway decent person—even if he was an asshole to me for reasons unknown.
So maybe his opinion of me was well-founded. Maybe Iwasuseless.
I rubbed my bare arms, even though the temperature in the kitchen stayed toasty as the mornings grew colder. I appreciated that. Not having to wear a coat inside in the winter because our heat had been shut off again. I appreciated the coffee machine and the bathroom—which I had all to myself with good water pressure and no black mold on the ceiling. I enjoyed the comfortable mattress, expensive sheets. The sleepy street Claraand I could ride bikes down and the bakery with amazing croissants that was just five minutes away. The sprawling backyard we had just finished planting bulbs in. The flowers we’d planted in the early days of her isolation still vibrant, the ocean a short drive away.
It was a home.
Not mine.
But I would enjoy the creature comforts as long as I could.
Even though I had to tiptoe around Beau. That was mostly bearable when Clara was around as a buffer. But times like this, quiet mornings when she was still sleeping and my body demanded coffee?
Torture.
