“I realize that. I’d just waited so long already. Then hearing what went down with Stew . . . I needed to find them, make sure they were okay.”
“Absolutely. Makes sense you’d do a little snooping, find Layla, and plead your case.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt them.” His voice is low and apologetic.
“I know that. I do.” My eyes focus on my Jack’s tiny face. “Just took holding my son for me to figure that out.”
“A boy, huh? Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Yeah, this shit’s getting a little too friendly. “I’ll make this short. Layla talked about you even before we’d gotten together. You two had a thing that wasn’t some little bullshit high school hook up; you made a baby that grew into a young woman whom I love just as much as I do my own blood.”
He clears his throat and I know he’s feeling this shit. I hate that I’m making him relive it, but he needs to know where we stand so he can respect the boundaries I set moving forward.
“So you fucked up. Now you’re straight, but a ton of time has passed, and you dropped a pretty significant bomb when you breezed into town. My girls need a little breathing room while they come to terms with all that.”
“Yeah . . .” He exhales sharply. “You’re right. I didn’t really think it through. I was too focused on getting to meet my daughter.” He seems genuinely apologetic, and, again, I feel as if we’re sharing some supersecret dad connection.
“Give them some time. Let them process this shit. When they do, I’ll see what I can do about getting Axelle to reach out, yeah?”
“Are you . . . wait, you’re fucking with me, right? I mean you jumped me, and now you’re saying you’re gonna help me?”
The corner of my mouth twitches at the mix of excitement and confusion in his voice. “If you don’t do something to piss me off, yeah, I’ll help you.”
“I, uh . . . I appreciate that.”
“Don’t go thanking me yet. I need you to back off completely for a while. Layla was spitting fire when she found out you approached Axelle without her there. From here on out, no contact: no more digging around, no phone calls, text messages, or emails. Deal?”
“For how long?”
“Until they come around. I’ll text you my cell number when we get off the phone. Then I’m going to erase all the history of your calls and texts from Layla’s. You have something that needs to be said; you do it through me.”
“I don’t know. I mean—”
“You want to know your daughter?”
“Of course.”
“Then you play by my rules. I won’t negotiate on this. You play. I’ll do what I can to get her to reach out.”
A few beats of silence tick by.
“This is as far as my kindness extends, Trip. We’re talking about my family here, my fuckin’ reason for breathing. You heard the offer. Take it or leave it.”
“Okay, okay. Deal.”
“Alright. Now I’m going to let you go, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be on the first flight tomorrow back to your hometown.”
“Yeah.” He sounds a little pissed, but I don’t blame him. He’s waited this long to know his daughter, and now he’s going to wait longer.
“And, Trip, one last thing.”
“What?”
My eyes focus on distant city lights, a world teeming with life. How many lives out there were ever fought for? How many sons and daughters were treated as if they were replaceable?
“I know you have regrets, wish you’d done things differently, but I’m grateful you didn’t. Thank you. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have my girls.”
“That’s a shitty thing to say, but”—he chuckles—“you’re welcome. And thank you for watching out for them.”
We hang up and I shoot him a quick text with my number before erasing all his history from the phone. I shove it into my pocket and cradle my son with both arms. “And that’s how it’s done, bud.”
On my way back to Layla’s room, it hits me. Trip, The General, and I have a lot more in common than I ever would’ve thought. We’ve all made mistakes, screwed up in varying degrees, but we can’t allow our mistakes to define our future. We have to look ahead, focus on that next step in the right direction, and fight hard to get what we want, even if that feels like throwing punches to the wind.
At least we fight, and if we go down, we go down swinging.
Epilogue
Six months later . . .
Layla
“For the love of God, Layla, can we please do this already?” Braeden groans and drops his head back. He’s standing with his thumbs hooked into his pockets, leaning against the wall, looking every bit the military hero in his dress blues.
“Okay, I’m ready.” I take a deep breath and check my reflection one last time.
“You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.” He pushes off the wall, glaring at me through the mirror. “Pretty sure a guy ain’t going to show up in your reflection to tell you you’re the fairest of them all anytime soon.”