Page 75 of Fall Wherever They May

Using my feet, I scoot the chair forward until I’m in front of the desk, then go through the journal. Fumbling through, I flip page after page after page. This makes absolutely no sense to me. I slam the leather journal closed, hop out of the chair, and stalk back over to the rest of the books that look like this one. I grab all the remaining bound leather books from the shelf and stack them, one on top of the other, on the desk.

My heart beats in rapid succession as I open the cover of the leather-bound journal to the page that is dated on the date of my birth. “Bingo,” I whisper.

Cal stands behind me, peering over my shoulder as I read. Anxiety and curiosity course through me. I don’t know what I was expecting to find here, but it wasn’t this. Now, I sit in his black leather chair with his journals in my possession, or rather letters to me—and all appear to be dated throughout my life. I’m scared to read them. I consider packing them all up and taking them with me, but curiosity eats at me. I find words on the pages to be smudged—as if something was spilled. I flip through the next few pages to find the same but in different areas. After reading the first few lines of the first letter, I realize that they were written in despair and agony. The only thing spilled onto these pages were tears.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Aspen

July 24, 1997

My Dearest Aspen,

My heart is so incredibly full, but at the same time it’s severely broken. Today your mother gave birth to my sweet little girl. Though I was not there to witness your birth, nor to hold you as I so desperately desired, I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty there is no greater love than what I feel for you, my darling. I’ll never understand how I can love so deeply someone I’ve never met nor laid eyes on. When your mother phoned to tell me about you . . . the blush on your cheeks and your head full of thick, black hair . . . I could not help but envision a smaller version of her, though your mother thinks you look like me. She said it’s still too soon to tell what color your eyes are, but I wonder if you will have her brown or my green? One thing you should never doubt, my darling, is that you will always have my heart. I truly wish we didn’t have to protect you this way and that I could be present, but this life will leave you to be scrutinized, and sometimes it can be dangerous. I do not want you in the public eye. One dayyou will understand. The pain I feel from being apart from you and your mother is crippling, but it’s a decision she and I made together. I dream of a day we can meet in person, and I can only hope you will forgive me. I pray you will give me a chance to explain everything to you, maybe when you’re old enough to bear the weight of what this kind of life entails . . .

Slamming the journal shut, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Deep guttural sobs wrack from the depth of my soul. This is too much; I can’t read the rest of this here. Cal’s strong arms come around me, and I tilt my chin up to look at him. I’m unable to mask the pain. My mother was robbed of the love of her life, and I was robbed of a father. The unfairness of the situation unsettles me. One thing is for certain from the contents of all of these journal entries: even though my father was absent, he loved me.

I sift through the journals and pick a random one in the pile. I flip the pages to the middle of the worn book. As I read, my lips tremble, and my heart begins to ache. Tears pour down my cheeks. Reading about the heartache my father has endured has given me a different perspective. Suddenly, I’m lifted out of the chair bridal style as Cal takes my place and situates me over his lap. He holds me until my sobs taper off and I’ve collected myself.

I reach over and close the journal. “I think the answers to all my questions are in these journals. We need to get out of here before the storm hits. Can you help me carry these to the truck?” My voice is hoarse and broken. I extract myself from his lap, deciding to come back another day to tackle everything else.

“Sure.” He places a kiss on my temple, then I hand him the stack of journals.

Even though I’m heartbroken, a sense of peace settles over me as I lock up the house and make my way to the truck. I plaster on a smile of gratitude as Cal opens my door, even though I don’t feel like smiling at all. Once we’re both in the truck, he takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.

“What do you need from me? What can I do?” His eyes trace my face as he holds my hand with both of his to his lips.

I exhale a long breath. “Will you stay with me?”

“I was planning on it.”

Cal coasts down the drive to begin our journey back home as I reflect on my dad’s words. I think back to the paparazzi surrounding us. That situation must have been so scary for Tucker. Hell, it scared the hell out of me. They still follow me around, but they don’t get close anymore. I exhale a resigned sigh as understanding washes over me. Seeing my son on the ground like that was . . . terrifying. I don’t know why I’ve never thought to hire private security for Tucker.

I’m lost deep in thought when the tail end of Cal’s truck fishtails. Grabbing ahold of the door, my heart leaps into my throat, “Oh my god!” I let out a gasp.

“You alright, Angel?”

“Yep. Just wondering who it is that can’t drive for shit.” I chuckle, trying to ease the tension.

Freezing rain is drizzling down on the roads, and they’re becoming slick. I know it’s not Cal’s fault the truck skidded off to the side like that, but damn, I almost had a heart attack. He jumped off the interstate once we got closer to home. I argued with him because, duh, the state is more likely to salt the interstates than the side streets, but what do I know? I’m just a country bumpkin with little experience with how the state of New York handles the roads. I understand where he’s coming from, though. He said he witnessed a terrible pileup on the highway a couple of years back and would rather us slide offthe road than be smashed by several vehicles. I’m surprised he didn’t just take us to a hotel for the night.

“Thirty more minutes until we’re home.” He grips the steering wheel tight, his knuckles turning white. We’re about fifteen miles from my house, but he’s driving about twenty to thirty miles an hour.

I blow out a puff of air and try to take my racing mind off of the hazardous road conditions. A lot can happen in fifteen miles with how this rain is freezing so fast. Even though he’s driving like a grandpa, I’m genuinely scared.

We have snow and ice storms in Oklahoma, but they’re usually mild. I can count on one hand how many times we’ve had a major ice storm in my twenty-seven years, and that’s maybe twice. I remember a particularly bad one when trees and power lines were snapping left and right. Now, at the news of winter weather, people run to the grocery store to buy out bread and milk, leaving the shelves barren, as if the icepocalypse is bearing down on us.

I think that stems from the one and only ice storm that had us out of power for an entire week. I can’t really remember how old I was; I might have been ten at the time. I woke up one morning to pouring down rain and no power. River and Marcy drove their side-by-side to our house, and we all had a weeklong slumber party. We huddled up in front of the fireplace, keeping warm, playing games, and roasting marshmallows. Mom and Marcy cooked our meals over the fire and found interesting ways to keep us entertained. It’s one of my favorite memories.

“I have a question.”

“Hit me with it.”

“You don’t have to answer this one if it’s too hard.”

He side-eyes me. “I’ll try.”

I worry my bottom lip and fiddle with the air vents to give myself something to do. “What’s the one memory you don’t ever want to let go of?”

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