“She told me that if I didn’t, she would drag us through court for custody of you. She said it wouldn’t be hard. We were just teenagers, broke andbroken, and she was wealthy. Had a stable environment. I was just a kid, Alexandra. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Allie,” I correct him. “I go by Allie.”
“Allie,” he repeats, the pain on his face subsiding a little. “I like that.”
“So you just up and left because Celeste Montgomery told you to?” I ask, ignoring his last comment.
He hangs his head, looking down at his boots. “Yeah.”
“That’s—” I’m not even sure how I feel. It means he didn’t want to leave us, but he did it anyway. He didn’t stay and fight.
“I know,” he says without me even having to say the words. “Believe me, there’s not a day that has passed that I haven’t thought about it.” He takes his glasses off to rub his eyes before replacing them—a familiar move.
“She wouldn’t even tell me why. I assume she didn’t want her daughter to end up married to the poor punk from across the tracks. Either way, she gave me twenty-four hours to leave and said if I told your mom, the deal would be off. I didn’t have much, but I left her whatever money I had saved up for you two.”
My mom never told me that. She probably didn’t want to give me hope that he was a good man, only to then realize he was still never coming back. I assume that’s also why she let me believe he didn’t care enough to show up to my dance. It makes sense, though. I’ve always wondered how we survived those first few weeks before she got a job cleaning houses.
And Celeste? She’s a hundred times more awful than I thought. She made him leave because she couldn’t fathom my mother marrying for love instead of money. She had already cut us off. She sent him away just to punish my mother for keeping me.
“Your mom—is she?”
My eyes flick up to meet my father’s stormy blue ones. “Recovering from her latest abusive relationship? Yes,” I snap.
He grits his teeth, realization and agony washing over his face. It was a fucked-up thing to say, but I don’t regret it. It’s the truth.
“Shit, Allie?—”
“That wasn’t the only thing you left, was it?”
Hopeful eyes flick up to mine. “You found it?”
Wordlessly, I stand and leave the room. When I return holding my father’s guitar in my hands, he rises, hesitantly reaching out to rub his hand over the faded stickers. “Where did you think I got my taste in music from?”
Something like pride shines in his glassy eyes, and I should be pissed again. He doesn’t deserve to feel pride knowing he shared something with me. Then again, maybe he was a victim, too. Maybe we all were.
“Allie, I?—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before my front door swings open and Ashton storms through my living room.
“Ash? What are you doing here?”
“You fucking asshole,” he roars as he rears back and goes to punch my father in the face. My dad ducks and swings out his fist, which instantly connects with Ashton’s face, causing him to stumble back. Blood pours from his nose, dripping down his chin and staining his crisp white button-up. Ashton looks down, and I think for a second he’s going to pass out, but instead, he rushes back toward my dad before I can stop him.
“You son of a bitch,” he yells, crashing into my dad, who uses his strength to push Ashton off him.
“Stop!” I scream, the guitar falling to the ground just as Declan runs out and wraps his arms around Ashton from behind. Ashton fights him, twisting his body and kicking his legs out to try to get free.
“You piece of shit,” Ashton spits out. “You left her. You broke her fucking heart.”
Declan starts dragging him out of the front door when I see Nate walk in out of the corner of my eye. What the hell is happening right now?
“Jesus, Ash, what the fuck?” I hear him yell.
Nate looks at the blood on his face and then at my dad, who is rubbing his bruised knuckles. He shakes his head, goes to the kitchen, and calmly walks out, holding a bag of frozen peas and muttering something about someone beating him to it.
“You good?” he asks me on his way out, and I nod my head, still unable to form words. He bends down, picks the fallen guitar up from the floor, and places it on the coffee table. Peas in hand, he casually strides out of the room and shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone with my estranged father. The man who just punched my ex-lover in the face.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he rasps. “It’s an old habit. I see a threat, I act. It’s a military thing.”
