Page 49 of Hard to Love

“Finn? Are you there?” she asks again.

“Yes . . .” I hesitate between stepping out of line and hanging up the phone because, these feelings are so fucking foreign and I honestly don’t know how to handle them.

“I need you.”

STEVIE

THE DESERT PASSES LIKE A blur outside of the window of Finn’s rental car. Endless dirt and trees interspersed with small towns where I could never imagine living.

But I don’t really see them. All I see is the woman’s face who claims to be my mother. All I hear are her words saying my father might not be my father. All I feel is hollow and confused and simply put, devastated.

“Stevester? Where are you?” my daddy shouts down the hall as I bury my face in my pillow to hide my sobs. “Stevie?”

My door opens and his sigh fills my room moments before the bed dips beside me and his massive hand spreads over the whole of my back in comfort.

“Do you want to tell me why you’re upset?”

“I’m not.” My breath hitches, but I think he’ll believe me.

“Mrs. Martin called and said something happened at school today.”

“I don’t like school.” I bite my bottom lip to fight back the tears that threaten to fall again.

“Yes, you do.” He presses a kiss to the back of my head and that only makes me want to cry harder.

“No, I don’t. Everyone is mean.”

“What happened?” he asks again.

“Jill told me that I couldn’t go to the Mother’s Day Tea tomorrow because I didn’t have a mom. That my mom hated me so much she ran away from me.” I promised myself I wasn’t going to tell him. That I was going to keep this a secret so he wouldn’t be sad, but it burned a hole right through my chest.

His hand stills on my back and I know I’ve hurt his feelings, but I don’t know how to make it better.

“Stevester. Look at me.” Those giant hands of his pick me up and set me in his lap so that his arms are wrapped around me squeezing me tight, letting me know whatever it is that it’ll be okay. He puts his finger under my chin to guide my head up so I’m forced to look in eyes the same color as mine. “Your mom leaving had nothing to do with you. Do you hear me? Mary Johnson’s missing out on knowing her incredibly special daughter, Stevie. She doesn’t know just how special you are, and that is her fault. But it’s not because she didn’t want you. I know you want a mommy and it hurts that you don’t have one, but I promise to do everything I can so you don’t feel left out.”

I nod but the hurt doesn’t go away.

I nodded and then laughed till my tummy hurt when he walked into my class for the Mother’s Day Tea the next morning with a pink, sparkly wig on, a muumuu over his usual tennis shorts and polo shirt, a wand that he used to sprinkle fairy dust (aka glitter) with, and a platter of the most atrocious-looking homemade cookies I’ve ever seen. But he sat on the floor crisscross applesauce with us kids showing us how to drink with our pinkies out while the other moms were too stuffy to be like him.

And he might have made sure to sprinkle Jill with fairy dust a few times for good measure.

The car stops. Finn asks me if I need anything. I respond in silence, his sigh heavy as I assume he stares at me before getting out to pump gas without me ever responding. People walk to and from the McDonalds across the street. A tumbleweed is stuck between a telephone pole and transformer box. A semi pulls its Jake Brake somewhere on the highway next to us.

Is it true?

Has my mother been trying to be a part of my life and my dad paid her off to keep her away? Why? Why would he do that to a little girl who was starving for a mother and the affection only a mother can give?

“Dammit, Stevie. You can do better than that!” My dad paces from one side of the court to the next. His racket is in one hand while he adjusts his ball cap with his other, frustration evident in his posture and the way he swings his racket as if he’s talking to me and not on the other side of the net.

I sigh and roll my head back, the hangover pounding like a drumbeat in my head. I thought I was hiding it better than I obviously am.

“You want to tell me what the hell has gotten into you this morning? Why you’re late to the ball? Why your backhand is weak? Why you’re huffing and puffing like a chain-smoker?”

“I didn’t sleep well,” I lie, hands on my hips, temper firing.

“Didn’t sleep well?” He serves the ball hard and fast at me. I’m unprepared and give a half-assed attempt to reach it. “Or snuck out and got drunk with Jordan and Vivi even though you’re only sixteen years old?”

He rockets another serve at me before I can even recover from the shock that he knows about last night. The ball hits my leg and I grunt in response, refusing to show any sign of weakness, because isn’t that what he’s getting at?