Page 154 of The Girlfriend Zone

Perhaps intrigued by my scoff, she arches a brow. “What have you got?”

In the past, I might have held back. She’s sixteen, after all. But she’s the only other person in the world who knows exactly what makes our dad tick. Besides, I’ve never treated her with kid gloves, and I don’t want her totreat me that way either. I tell her everything because I don’t have a clue how to fix this mess but I know I need to start with my father.

Riley’s eyes widen until she stops mid-sip, dropping her metal straw in the cup. “Wow. You’re kind of the bad child now.”

“As if you were ever in consideration. You’ve always been good.”

She flicks her hair but then turns serious. “This is actually a big deal,” she says, heavily.

I sigh and take a sip. “Yeah, I know. What do I do, Riley?” I ask, hoping. Imploring.

She hums then stops outside a sticker store and says, “Look, I’m not always the good child. Dad and I have fought plenty. But when I’ve really screwed up, I always write him a letter. It’s just easier to say everything on paper—and he listens better that way too.”

Riley’s words sink in. I’ve let this guilt fester. I’ve fed it, watered it, grown it. It’s time to let it go.

With the truth.

I have a free hour before my meeting with Melissa, and I feel the pull of High Kick. It’s our place—Miles’s and mine. And right now, I don’t feel at home anywhere else. Not with Indigo and Ezra, and not at Miles’s place. Birdie’s café has always been where I figure myself out, and maybe it’s where I’ll start fixing things with Dad too.

While I’m there, I finish a photo collage on my iPad. There are pictures of all the things my father has taught me over the years.

How to ride a bike.

How to read.

How to cook.

How to balance a budget. How to save money. And how to apologize from the heart.

He took pictures of me doing all of those things over the years, and the story they tell—it’s the story of a girl who learned how to be a strong woman from her dad. He’s not the only one who keeps photos of special moments and memories. I guess that’s something else I learned from him.

In the middle of all those moments is a letter.

Dear Dad,

I can’t say I’m sorry enough. Truly, I can’t. I am very sorry that I hurt you. You taught me better. You’ve always listened to me.

But you also taught me to be independent. To handle the world. To make it on my own. And to trust myself. Part of trusting myself is choosing who I want to love. Part of choosing that also means knowing when it’s time to share that love with others. I wasn’t honest with you. For that I am sorry. But I am not sorry I fell in love with Miles Falcon. I’m not sorry that I’m going to pursue this relationship with him. I’m not sorry I want to be with him at all. He’s kind, caring, and strong. He makes artichoke pasta, orders the tea I love, brings me wildflowers in a mason jar, and makes sure I have everything I need.

Best of all? He listens to me.

That means everything. As you know.

I also know you think no one is worthy of yourdaughters, but I’m here to tell you—he is worthy. Believe me. Trust me. I chose well, Dad. And I chose well in part because you taught me what I’m worth—the world. And he gives me that.

I hope you’ll forgive me for lying, and I also hope you’ll have dinner with my boyfriend and me sometime soon. Because I love you, and I love him.

Love,

Leighton

I email it to him and let out a sigh that’s full of hope and wistfulness. Hope for the future. Wistfulness for the past. And a new faith in the present. When I’m done, I take a photo of the locket around my neck and I send it to Miles.

It’s the story of us—our beginning and the rest of our story, waiting to be told in photos, in words, and in days and nights together.

After my meeting with Melissa and the bridal web site, I tug my hair into a ponytail and go to pole class early, repeatingyou can do itin my head as I ask Jewel to lower the volume of the music. “I can hear you better if you do that,” I add, and I don’t feel like I’m drawing attention to myself. I’m asking for what I need.

She doesn’t bat an eye. “Of course. Thanks for letting me know,” she says.

---