Dylan glanced at my sleeping father. “You’re right, Princess. I have no excuse.”
“Stop calling me that. I’m not your princess. I never was, and I never will be.”
“Calm down.” He sighed, exasperated. “It’s just a nickname. You might not like it, but you’re still a princess in my mind. You can’t force me to think differently.”
If only it were that easy.
“But I’ll try to respect your feelings about it. It’s just another reminder that you’re too good for me.”
“God, Dylan, give it a rest. I’m not the bad guy because I refuse to accept the way you treat me.”
“No. I’m the bad guy. That’s what I’m saying. I don’t deserve someone like you. I’ve been an asshole, I know it. I’m worried I’m not good enough for our son either. But I want to move forward. Do the right thing. Earn the right to have him call me Dad.”
“Well, it’s about goddamn time,” my father drawled sleepily.
“Dad… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. We’ll take this conversation out to the hall.”
“No, you will not.” Although weak, he still had a way of asserting his authority. “You think I don’t have a right to know what’s going on? This is my grandson you’re talking about. You’re my daughter—like it or not.”
The possessiveness in his voice caught me off guard. After years of silence, he was suddenly claiming ownership of my life, my decisions, my child.
“Mr. Hartley, I guess I owe you an apology too.” Dylan had the sense to look contrite. “I realize I need to step up. I’ve been disrespectful to you and to your daughter. I plan to make up for that.”
“You gonna start helping her out more?”
“Yes, sir, if she’ll let me.”
“You gonna do more than visit a few times a year and send a cheque once a month? Actually get involved with your son?”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I want.”
They were discussing me, my life, like I wasn’t even in the room. Like I was some incapable heroine in need of rescue. As if either of them had any business trying to make decisions on my behalf.
I’d raised Hunter alone for ten years. I’d built a career, maintained a home, made every major decision without input from either of these men. What the hell gave them the right to start caring now? And how the hell did my father know so much about me and Dylan?
The irony wasn’t lost on me—I’d spent years wanting both of them to step up, and now that they were trying, all I felt was bitter.
“What do you say, Jamie?” Dad asked quietly. “You gonna give him a chance to make things right?”
“With Hunter, yes.” I turned to Dylan. “I’d never hold you back from your son. But Hunter needs to be the priority, not your feelings. He barely knows you. It’ll take time.”
“What about with you, James? You gonna let him make things right with you?”
I wasn’t sure how my father had become the facilitator, but I didn’t like it. I never wanted to disappoint him, even now. Still, this felt like a setup.
Instead of answering his invasive question, I fired back my own. “How did you know Dylan sends me a check every month? How do you know how often he visits? And who gave you those pictures of Hunter in your living room?”
“Jesus Christ, child.” His attempt to yell dissolved into coughing.
Dylan answered instead. “He knows because I tell him.”
“So you’ve been conspiring behind my back? You thought you’d cozy up to Dad so he could convince me to go back to you?”
“You really are paranoid and defensive.” Dylan’s accusation stung. “I kept in touch because he’s your father. Since you weren’t talking to him, someone should. He deserves to know about you and his grandkid. I thought he should have pictures and stories about your life.”
Stories about my life from a man who only showed up when it suited him. I was aghast at the lengths Dylan had gone to behind my back.
Dad stopped coughing. “You still didn’t answer my question. You gonna let Dylan make things right with you?”
