Page 72 of Daddy's Lesson

I would keep the things he’d taught me, the self-care, the work-life balance… I’d continue to create, and eventually, I might even start dating. I would, I vowed. I had to. But not today. Today I wasn’t getting out of bed.

So I didn’t. I closed my eyes and cried myself back into a fitful sleep, because being awake meant feeling the pain, and sleep was my only escape, if and when I found it.

I didn’t know how long I slept, or even if I did. The scene from last night was still playing in my head on repeat, and every time I started to doze off my own cries woke me. I eventually came to the conclusion that sleep wasn’t going to happen. Rolling onto my back, I stared at the ceiling. My stomach grumbled. I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. My bladder ached, demanding I get up, and I stumbled out of bed to the bathroom, where I quickly relieved myself, then padded to the mirror.

My curls were matted. Dry and sticking up at all angles in some places, and wet, sweaty, and tear-soaked in others. My skin was sallow, streaked with tears, and I had dark circles under my eyes. I looked every one of my fifty-one years.

I felt them, too, and that was just depressing. With Lennon, I hadn’t. After getting over the initial shock of being with an ex-student, I’d allowed his youthfulness to rub off on me. I’d let myself remember what it was like to feel young, no matter what my birth certificate said.

And just look at you now.

Heaving a sigh, I flung the bathroom door open and shuffled out, pausing to look at my bed, wanting nothing more than to just fling myself on top of it and spend the day wallowing. But I needed to put something in my stomach, and I figured I should at least grab a bottle of water to have by the bed. Maybe some ibuprofen, too, I thought as my head started to pound behind my eyes.

Forcing myself to bypass the bed, I managed to cross my room, open the door, enter the hallway, walk down it, and turn into the living room—just in time to see the object of my misery step through the front door holding a bouquet of lilies and wheeling that damn blackboard he liked so much.

My stomach dropped. I’m sure I let out a strangled gasp as a myriad of emotions whirled through me. Relax, I told myself. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s probably just here to pick up his stuff. I’d forgotten to put it on the steps like I said I would.

But… flowers. My brain latched onto that minute detail and wouldn’t let it go. Did a man bring flowers to pick up his shit and tell you he never wanted to see you again?

“Lennon!” I finally managed. “I…”

He stopped me short, putting a hand up in front of him. “That’s Daddy to you.”

The universe tipped on its axis. My knees threatened to give out from under me. Was I hallucinating? Was I in worse shape than I thought?

I took a step closer. He looked real. The waves in his hair, the dimples in his cheeks, his uniquely expensive cologne. I could actually smell the lilies. “Daddy…” The word passed between my lips before I could stop it.

“Zoe, babygirl.” He closed the door behind him and handed me the flowers. “We need to talk.”

This was it. The part where he told me how awful I was. How stupid we’d both been to think we could be anything real or lasting. How he’d been wasting his time trying to fix me when he could have gone for a younger model, one not so set in her stupid ways or damaged by the mistakes she’d made in life. I opened my mouth to speak, to beg him to give me a chance, to tell him how much he meant to me, but nothing came out.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Nothing could have shocked me more.

Finally, I found my words. “Sorry?” I croaked. “What… on earth… do you have to be sorry for? I’m the one who acted like an ass, who made a scene… Lennon… I slapped you, for god’s sake, in front of like a billion people!”

“Pretty sure it was only like a hundred,” he quipped.

Under any other circumstances I’d have rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t be coy or flippant. This was my chance, the one I thought I’d never get. “Lennon, I…”

“Shhh.” He quieted me with a finger over my lips. “You haven’t thrown anything, hit me again, or demanded I leave, so maybe… maybe we could talk? Could we just talk?”

Stunned, I managed to nod, allowing him to take my hand and guide me to the couch, where he sat and pulled me onto his lap. I sat there stiffly, but not because I wanted to. What I wanted to do was wrap my arms around his neck, bury my face in his chest, sniff his delicious scent, tell him the million things racing through my mind.

“Last night…” he started.

My stomach clenched and roiled. I felt like I might be sick, and swallowed to keep myself from losing whatever was left of last night's dinner all over his linen shirt.

“Last night was intense. And I’m pretty sure it was mostly a giant misunderstanding.”

Breathlessly, I nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“It killed me to let you walk out of the club and not go after you.”

“You had to,” I whispered, thickly. I didn’t even recognize my own voice. It came out dry, raspy, broken.

“I had to,” Lennon agreed. “Even though it killed me. I hated thinking about you going home upset and alone, with no one to talk to.”

I offered a weak smile. “I’m not like you. I don’t have a close group of friends nearby. It’s not your problem. I’m glad you had them last night, and I… I was thankful for Archer.”

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