CHAPTER 51

This morning, there’s no alarm to wake me to start working. There’s no screaming from downstairs, no sound of Sophie shrieking, no daycare. But I’m awake and warm and itchy. I’ve been at Dad and Haley’s for four days. The first couple of nights, I slept through without waking. Since Timothy left for LA, though, I’ve been restless and turned on. I still haven’t found the breakthrough I need with my final song, and I know Ian’s breathing down my neck. Soon Miranda will be, too. So, this morning, I give myself this one thing. I slide a hand down the front of my pajamas, where I’m already wet. It’s a bad idea to fantasize about a man you can’t have. I didn’t let myself do it when we were apart, save for a couple of times when I gave myself a pass on account of being too tipsy to regulate my fantasizing or having a really brutal day of rehearsing or, once, when he did a spread for this magazine where I swear he was looking right at me and seeing every dirty thought I’ve ever had about him—when we were together and since. A few sweaty minutes in the studio—no matter how earth-shattering—doesn’t change anything. What about you calling him before his show? I did it to prove that all the months he was on the road, I hadn’t held him at a distance because I wanted him out of my life. But it didn’t play out the way I expected. It was better with you. It sounded as if he didn’t only mean the show. I wanted him to mean that. But I can’t fall for Timothy Adams again. My heart wouldn’t survive it. When he comes back later today, there’ll be no more longing looks, no more flirty winks, and definitely no more thinking about how the only thing terrible about having his tongue in me was that it wasn’t his cock. As a consolation prize, I give myself the best solo orgasm I’ve had in years. The release seems to shake loose a few ideas, and when I get out of the shower, I jot down half a page of notes in the notebook on my desk. Then I dress and go downstairs to grab coffee with Haley, who’s sitting on a chair with her feet on another. “You okay?” I ask. “Fine. Your dad was hoping to talk to you. He’s staining the gazebo. I swear he went out and made millions of dollars so he could live like he had his own home reno show.” “You love it.” She grins. “Yeah, I do.” I turn that over as I go to find him. I weave through the manicured lawns on the other side of the house, around a grove of trees. Sophia’s playing with her trucks in the grass a dozen feet away from the gazebo my dad built for Haley with his band’s help. “Emily! Play trucks with me. This one’s Boom. And that’s Mice.” “Mouse?” I ask. “Mice.” “She named it after Mace,” Dad weighs in from where he’s painting one of the beams, sweat dripping down his face. “Emily, you’d be a red truck.” “Perfect.” My gaze drifts back to my dad. “Haley could use some love.” My dad cocks a brow, and I shudder. “Not like that. Just… whatever, you do you.” I take in the gazebo, its graceful beams and arches. “Didn’t you just build that five years ago?” “People think building things takes effort. But maintaining them is harder.” He takes a seat on the top step, balancing the brush on the edge. “When something’s in my care, I keep it a certain way. Maybe it’s the right way, and maybe it’s not. But I can’t apologize for doing things the best I know how.” “Can you apologize for hurting the people you love?” He doesn’t answer, but I see the strain in the tight lines of his face. “There’s something I need to say to you,” he goes on at last, and I hold my breath. This is it. An apology. “The scholarship you got at Vanier that covered the rest of your tuition and living expenses through graduation. That was me.” I stiffen. “What are you talking about? I told you I didn’t need your help.” “And I didn’t accept that.” My mouth works. “All you had to do was say you were wrong. Instead you had to control the situation again and manipulate me into taking your money.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “That’s not what it was.” “No?” His groan has Sophie looking up over her trucks, her curious gaze cutting between us. “I don’t want your money. I mean, it helped,” I concede, shoving a hand through my hair. “I can’t pretend it didn’t. But all I ever wanted was for you to respect me. To see me as an equal.” “You’re not equal to anything. You’re my child. You will always mean more to me than anything in this world has a right to mean.” My throat swells at the emotion in his words. “I just want you to know that I can handle myself. That you’d bet on me if I wasn’t your child. I want you to think I’ve grown into the kind of person you’d believe in.” I hold out a hand for the paint brush. “Go hang with Haley. I’ll finish it.” His gaze finds mine, surprised. “And watch your sister?” I lower my voice. “I’ve pulled together changes from a whole host of writers. I can handle a four-year-old and a paint brush.” My dad looks as if he’s about to say something, but in the end, he hands me the brush. After finishing up at the gazebo, I scrounge some lunch for me and Sophie before taking a call with Miranda while my sister plays. We talk about the work, catch up on Ian. I let her know he’s pushing me. “I emailed and told him I’d send him what we have next week.” “What did he say?” I huff out a breath. “Nothing, yet. But I have to go,” I say to my writing partner as I look up to see Sophia climbing on the windowsill and jumping on the seat. “I know you’re dealing with family issues, but we need to finish that song.” “I will.” If my voice has an edge, it’s in response to the urgency in hers. “I have a version, Miranda. And it’s good. But it’s not right.” “You have good instincts. If there’s something more you can get from it, I trust you to try.” “Thank you. I know it’s your dream to co-write a show from the beginning. We’ll make it work.” What happened with Ian was my mistake, not hers, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt us. After hanging up, I get Sophia off the windowsill. “I want to swim,” she decides, peering up at me. “Okay. But after, we need some quiet play time so I can work.” I get her changed, and she insists on bringing the trucks with her. My gaze cuts toward the hedges and the parking lot beyond. “That’s Timothy’s car,” Sophia informs me. “Yes, it is.” His flight was supposed to get back from LA around noon, and I chastise myself for being so obvious a toddler could figure it out as I usher her toward the pool. “Why’re you so into trucks?” I ask as she’s clinging to the ladder, her water wings keeping her afloat. “They get things done. Like Mommy.” I laugh. “Not Daddy?” She wrinkles her nose. “No. Daddy makes messes. Mommy cleans them up.” “That’s true.” I coax her off the ladder, stabilizing her with my hands as she kicks wildly. “Where’s your Mommy?” she pants. Her question catches me off-guard, and I stare at her freckled little face. Apparently Dad and Haley have had this conversation with her—or at least part of it. “Um. I’m not sure.” “Why not?” “Because she lives somewhere else. I haven’t really talked to her.” Not since the letter she sent me. “Why not?” I lift my feet from the shallow bottom, sculling with my hands. “Because she’s not really part of my life right now.” “Do you think she gets things done or makes messes?” “I don’t know, Soph. I guess I always picture her getting things done. Like your Mommy.” I shake my head. “Come on. We should get out, or we’ll turn into prunes.” We get out, and I help her get the water wings off. She tosses them on the patio with a scrunched-up face. “I hate those.” “Then why’d you want to swim?” Sophia peers up at me, squinting against the sun as she grins. “Because you like it.” She says it like it’s obvious, and my heart melts. “You will always mean more to me than anything in this world has a right to mean.” I swallow as I think of my dad’s words. I can’t pretend I know how hard it would be to have kids, how they test your patience. But the way she’s looking at me, I know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. “Stay put,” I tell Sophia, “I need to get towels.” She heads for her trucks under one of the patio chairs while I go to the cabana on the other side of the patio. The top shelf is empty, but there should be extras below. I’m rummaging around inside and finally spot a stash tucked behind some other supplies when I hear a splash behind me. “Sophia?” I call over my shoulder, grabbing two towels. No answer. My veins turn to ice. I whirl and bolt from the cabana, my gaze scanning the patio where she was a moment ago. No sign of her. Until I spot her form beneath the surface of the pool. “Sophia!” I scream. I need to get to her. I know it in my mind, but my legs won’t cooperate. My throat tightens, every part of me numb. Go. Go. Fucking go. Suddenly I do, springing toward the pool. But in the same moment, a form leaps over the fence from the direction of the studio and dives into the pool headfirst. My head thuds dully and my nails dig into my palms as Timothy cuts through the water. It feels like a lifetime before he emerges with Sophia, who’s coughing. He lifts her out and sets her on the side of the pool before hefting himself out, his jeans, T-shirt, and jacket soaked and his hair black and dripping. I race toward them, my arms wrapping around her wet form. “Oh my God. Are you okay?” I pull back to look in her pale face. She’s breathing, though blinking and disoriented. When her coughing relents, she mumbles. “My red sister truck was in the pool.” I look over the edge to see the red truck on the bottom. My stomach plummets as I wrap one of the towels still clutched in my hands around her. Timothy’s voice is low, shaken. “I’ll get her toy.” He wrenches off his drenched jacket, but before he can shift away, I clamp a hand around his wrist. I can’t stand the thought of him going anywhere right now. “No.” “Emily, I’m soaked,” he protests. After a moment, his arms go around both of us. I don’t give a shit about his wet clothes. I need him here. “Are you okay?” Tyler murmurs. I shake my head. “I couldn’t move,” I whisper. “I panicked, and I couldn’t do anything and…” The backs of my eyes burn as my gaze drops to his hand, scarred and tattooed. His face fills with understanding and an emotion I can’t name. “It’s okay, Six. It wasn’t your fault.” Sophia squirms, and I shudder out a breath. “Let’s go inside and make a snack. How do Rice Krispies squares sound?” “I don’t like squares. Can we make them circles?” Timothy’s face is pale, but his lips curve up in a ghost of a smile. “Yeah, we can make them circles,” I hear myself say before dropping Timothy’s hand and rising. “You come inside too,” I tell him. “It’s so sticky.” Sophia’s digging into her first circle with fascination—I used a cookie cutter to make them—when Timothy comes in, his hair damp from the shower in the guest bathroom. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt of my dad’s and jeans an inch too short, but he still looks handsome as ever. “I bet this is what you came back from LA for,” I tease, trying to keep it light. “Lifeguard duty.” He steps closer, scanning my form. I’m still in my bathing suit, a towel wrapped over it. “You must be cold. I can watch Sophia if you want to shower.” “Thanks. But I don’t want to let her out of my sight.” I wrap my arms around myself and cut a look towards my sister. She’s turning the pages of a picture book, happily dressed in pajamas in the middle of the day. A week ago, I was barely part of this family. Now, it’s all I can think about. This family and him. The boy who’s always been in me, with me. Suddenly, I can’t hold the feelings in anymore. “Timothy.” The moment I look back toward him, those dark eyes are on me. “How do you know when something’s over? Is it when the world tells you it is? When you decide it?” He’s silent, but I can see the wheels turn behind his eyes. “I know when you went on tour,” I go on, “things were messed up. But there was never a time I didn’t want you,” I tell him. “You didn’t seem to think you were whole anymore, and I hated that I had contributed to that.” His expression fills with anguish as he steps closer, his body a breath away. “Emily, none of it was your fault. You have to know that.” Despite my vows to keep my distance, I can’t keep from reaching my arms around his neck to play with the damp hair that curls at his collar. My gaze runs over his chest, the hard lines under his shirt—not because I’m checking him out, though his closeness is making me ache for his touch, but because I can’t meet his gaze. “In acting class my final term at Vanier, we had to prep monologues about our heroes. Andie talked about her mom. Some people chose public figures. I chose you.” He stiffens under me, and I force my eyes up to his because I need to see his face. His expression is filled with longing and something I’m afraid to name. I’m trapped in his stare, the tension twisting me, wringing me out like one of the wet towels by the pool. “You will always be my hero, Timothy Adams. The way you try, the way you fight no matter what life sends your way… you are everything I want to be, and it has nothing to do with your music and everything to do with who you are in here.” My hand covers his heart, his chest warm through the borrowed T-shirt. “Everyone okay?” Haley asks as she and my dad enter the room. We step apart, but not before Haley’s gaze turns knowing and my dad eyes us suspiciously. “Yeah. Everyone’s good.” A distinctive ringtone from my phone on the coffee table has me stiffening in his arms. “What is it?” Timothy asks. I know before I answer. “Real life.”