Page 20 of Endless Southern Love

“And mine,” Ana says. “But I don’t like the idea of you wanting to cut your hair because of some boys. You have beautiful hair, Marigold, and changing your appearance to stop bullying could make things worse. Let Mommy and Daddy be your advocates. Okay?”

“What’s adbo . . . what did you say?”

“Advocate,” Ana says. “It’s a fancy word for support. In this case it means Daddy will make sure things are taken care of at school.”

Goldie nods. “Okay.”

They continue to talk while I finish combing through Goldie’s hair. When I’m done, she wraps her hair in a bonnet and crawls into bed, with her mom still on the phone. I snuggle in next to her and read, while Ana listens. By the time I’m at the end, Goldie’s fast asleep.

Ana waits for me to get downstairs before she speaks. “I really do want to come and visit.”

“The door’s open, Ana. You know you have a room here, anytime.”

“Right. I don’t want Goldie to think I’ve abandoned her or don’t want to spend time with her. I just need some time to heal.”

“She doesn’t think that and even if she did, I’d work to make sure she knows the truth.”

Ana nods. “Okay. So, I think in two weeks.”

“Perfect. Just let me know.”

“I will.” She sighs. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For just being this amazing guy and father. I hear these horror stories about baby daddies and each one makes me realize how lucky I am to have you in my life.”

I smile at the compliment. “Ana, from the day you told me you were pregnant, I promised you I’d be there for our child. What kind of man would I be if I’m not there for her mother?”

She shrugs. “I’m just really grateful.”

“So am I.”

eight

lemon

I jolt awake at the sound of screeching. My heart pounds as my eyes adjust to the darkness. It takes me a minute to realize my phone is ringing. I reach for the lamp on my bedside table and fumble with the switch to turn it on. Across my room, my phone rests on its charger. I don’t remember whose bright idea it was to put it over there, but once I do, I’m going to kick their ass.

“Fuck.” I hiss and groan after I stub my toe on the edge of my bed. “Son of a donkey shit.” Now I’m hopping toward my dresser, barely there when the ringing stops. I shake my fist, as if the person on the other end can see how angry I am. I turn and hobble toward my bed even though my toe throbs, only for the ringing to start again.

“What?” My tone is sharp, angry. I can’t help it.

“Lemon?”

Who else would answer my phone?

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Oh, dear. Did I wake you?” she asks.

I pull my phone away from my ear and look at the time, it’s barely after five in the morning. What does she think I’m doing at five in the morning?

“Yes. Who is this?” I ask again.

“It’s Ina. Ina Meyers.”

Why on earth is she calling? She’s about as bad as Linda Barlowe. Both like to gossip and are up in everyone’s business but their own.

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