Page 85 of Tangled Desires

I wait, holding still, until another jab makes itself known. Carefully, I grab his hand and place it over my belly, right over the thermal. We stand there, waiting. And then—bam. A solid kick, right under his palm. His whole face lights up.

“Well, would you look at that,” he whispers, almost to himself. His hand stays there, like he’s afraid moving will scare the baby off. “Did this a few times with your mum,” he adds, eyes distant, lost in some memory. “Best thing I ever felt. Every damn time.”

The lump in my throat grows heavier, but I push it down. “She walked out on a man who’s been nothing but solid his whole life—her loss, not ours.” I look at him, forcing the words out before they choke me. “You didn’t deserve that, Dad. You’re—you’re the best damn dad anyone could ask for. She didn’t even know what she was giving up.”

His eyes gloss over, he doesn’t say anything. Just leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead, like he’s done a million times. “I’ll always love you, pumpkin. You’ll never not be my little ribbon-loving, bullheaded girl.”

A laugh bubbles out as I blink back my own tears. “Bullheaded? Really?”

“You know it.”

30

This morning hit me like a bad hangover, even though I didn’t drink. Just me, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, thoughts tangled up and fraying at the edges. Imogen was up early, slipping out quietly. She’d left a text saying she was heading past Isla’s.

Restless. That’s the word for it. Dad’s in my head again, like he’s standing just outside, waiting to bulldoze back into our lives. The kind of waiting that knots your stomach. Last night, I caved. Called Dr. Lowes. Left a message that probably sounded more desperate than I’d like. She rang back at the crack of dawn, squeezed me in. Now I’m heading toward Clifftop Haven, hoping Dr Lowes has something to settle whatever the hell this is.

When I’d left, Michael’s Ducati wasn’t out front. He must’ve taken off somewhere. I sent them both a text—just grabbing afew things. Michael didn’t reply. Imogen did, though. Quick and sweet, like always.

Imogen:Can you stop by the shops and get some parsley? I’ll need more for the potato salad.

Home.That word sits a little differently these days.

Dr. Lowes’ office smells like peppermint, same as last time. She’s perched behind her desk, glasses low on her nose, watching me like she’s got all the time in the world.

I sit, hands gripping my knees. “Gary called.” The words land heavy. “Out of nowhere. Just when things were… okay.”

Her head tilts. “What did he say?”

“Small talk,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “Tried to act like everything’s fine. Said he missed us. Wants to catch up.” I laugh. “Like we’re some happy little family.”

She doesn’t flinch, just leans in a little. “How did that sit with you?”

A scoff breaks loose. “Angry. Sick. Take your pick.” My jaw tightens. “He gets to walk back in, like he didn’t burn everything to the ground. It’s bullshit.” There’s a long pause. She waits. “I snapped. At work. At Mum. It’s like… every time we talk, we’re at each other’s throats. She picks at things, you know? Like she knows better.” I grind my teeth. “But how could she? She doesn’t even know who I am.”

Her pen taps gently. “What do you think that’s about?”

“She let it happen,” I say, low and steady. “Left me to handle him. To raise Michael. Maybe she didn’t mean to, but she did. And knowing that? It doesn’t take the edge off.”

“Have you considered that maybe your mum was more influenced by your father than you realise? That she might have felt powerless, or that she was too hurt to act differently?”

The words settle heavy in the room. I keep my eyes on the floor, tracing a crack in the tile. “Yeah, I have. I know he probably messed her up more than I’ll ever understand, and maybe she didn’t mean it. But knowing that doesn’t change the fact that she let it happen. And it’s hard to feel anything but angry about that.”

Another pause. She waits again. “Why today, Harrison? Why reach out now?”

“It’s Michael’s birthday,” I admit, the knot in my gut twisting tighter. “And I’ve got this feeling…” Words fail. It’s like trying to describe something that sits just out of reach, gnawing at the edges. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease it away.

“I see. Well, you changed your number. That was the right thing to do. It gives you control over who gets access to you.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t stop… this.” I press a fist against my chest. “There’s this ache. Dull, but constant. Some days, it’s like I can’t even breathe right.”

“That sounds like anxiety, Harrison. The body’s way of holding tension and fear, even when the threat isn’t right in front of you.”

I sit back, trying to process that. “So, what’s the difference? Between this and a panic attack?”

“A panic attack hits fast, like a wave. Heart racing, dizziness, feeling like you’re losing control. Anxiety is more of a slow burn—a constant hum in the background. Both are tough, but they need different approaches.”

I rub my hands over my jeans, grounding myself. “What do I do? How do I stop it?”

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