God, why did this man have to be so fucking understanding? In some ways, it was easier back
when I thought he was an asshole and he assumed I was a slacker.
“No, it’s not that.” I stepped out of the car, my body instinctively relaxing when William placed
his hand at the small of my back. Even though I wasn’t that much smaller than him, I always felt like
he was a giant protecting me when he did things like that. “I’m just being stupid.”
“You’re not,” he scolded me. “This is all new for you, and I’m proud of you for working through
whatever it is you’re feeling. The only thing I ask is that you don’t shut me out.”
“You might have to help me work on that.” In the past, burying my head in the sand has been a
good way to avoid dealing with shit. Or maybe putting on blinders was a better way of describing my
approach to life. For the past four years, I’d excelled at doing everything possible to ignore anything
that wouldn’t directly improve my daughter’s life. I still needed to do that, but I was slowly learning
that I also needed to make sure I was happy, otherwise I’d wind up bitter and angry, and I’d never
forgive myself if I ever made her feel that directed at her.
William kissed the side of my head as I unlocked the door to my building. “That is one thing you
can count on.”
Neither of us spoke as I led him up the stairs to my floor because, yet again, the damn elevator
was busted. It was late and I wasn’t going to be the asshole whose conversation echoed through the
halls, waking people thanks to the paper-thin walls.
He followed me into the kitchen, where I started my nightly routine of making a sandwich.
Tonight, I made two, figuring both of us needed a little something after a busy night at the bar.
When he pulled out a chair, I offered up a silent prayer that my cheap bistro set wouldn’t collapse.
William was a solid guy and these chairs were anything but. I let out a breath when he scooted the
chair in and picked up his sandwich.
“You’re still tense,” William pointed out after he swallowed. He pushed his plate to the center of
the table, reaching out for my hand. “It might help you to talk it out.”
I shrugged. I knew what my problem was, but I didn’t want to say the words out loud. Even
thinking of him by his name felt wrong. When he was Daddy, life was simpler. But here, in the home
I’d created for my little family, it felt like a favorite pair of jeans that were just a little too tight. I still
loved him for being my Daddy, but it was uncomfortable, too.
Apparently, I fell too far into my own head because I didn’t even notice him stand. He tugged on
