Page 47 of All Along The Watchtower

She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself like she was trying to hold everything in. “And I feel guilty because I can see it upsets him that he didn’t know about me. That Mom never told him. Sometimes he gets this look on his face, like he’s trying to do math in his head, probably figuring out where he was when different things happened.”

“That’s not on you, kiddo. None of it is.”

“I know. He says that, too.” She bent to pick up another shell, turning it over in her hands and running her fingers along its ridged surface. “He’s different than I expected. Better, maybe. I thought he’d be… I don’t know. More of a jerk about the whole thing.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. From Mom’s letters, I thought he’d be… I don’t know. More like a kid? But he’s soresponsible. Always checking if I’ve done my homework, making sure I eat breakfast.” Her nose wrinkled. “He tried to give me a curfew. And he’s always asking where I’m going and who I’ll be with, like some kind of helicopter parent.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Welcome to having a parent who gives a damn. Trust me, it’s better than the alternative.”

“Yeah.” She tossed the shell into the waves, watching it disappear beneath the foam. “That’s new. Like, really new.”

The raw honesty in her voice made my heart ache for this kid who’d clearly been taking care of herself for way too long. “Your mom didn’t?”

“She did her best. But she worked a lot. When she was there, she was really present, you know? But I was on my own a lot of the time.” Peyton shrugged, her shoulders hunching slightly, as if trying to make herself smaller. “It’s just different with Ford. He’s always there. Wanting to know things. Trying to figure out what I like to eat and what shows I watch and stuff. Yesterday he actually sat through three episodes of this stupid reality show I like, just because I was watching it.”

“That bothers you?”

“No. Maybe? I don’t know.” She kicked at the sand again, sending a spray of it toward the water. “It’s just a lot sometimes. But I… kind of like it too? Like, sometimes I want to tell him to back off, but then when he’s not around, I sort of miss it. Miss him. Is that weird?”

“Not even a little bit.”

We lapsed into silence for a bit. I scooped up a piece of driftwood and hurled it for Keeley. As she streaked off after it, Peyton asked, “Did you and my dad ever date?”

The question shouldn’t have surprised me, but it still made my stomach twist into a knot. “No. We were only ever friends.” Except for one night when I’d believed we’d become more. But I was definitely not thinking about that. I’d spent ten years not thinking about that.

“Sarah said you hated him.”

I stopped at that, my hand freezing mid-throw with another piece of driftwood. “What?”

“It was something else I heard at school. That you hadn’t talked to him in like a decade.” She scuffed her toe in the sand, not quite meeting my eyes. “People talk a lot about everybody around here.”

Why the hell wasthatgetting talked about by middle schoolers? Small town gossip was one thing, but this felt way too personal to be making the rounds at the local junior high.

I didn’t want to lie to this kid. My conscience wouldn’t allow it, even if it might’ve been easier. “I don’t hate your dad.” That had always been true, even during the darkest moments when I’d wanted to.

“Then why the not talking to him?”

Keeley returned with the stick, dropping it at my feet and looking between us with those soulful eyes.

I had to consider how to answer the question in a way that wasn’t going to damage the relationship Peyton was building with her father. The last thing she needed was more reasons to doubt him. “He did something that hurt me deeply.”

She frowned, her brows drawing together in that way that made her look so much like Ford it made my chest ache. “On purpose?”

Oh, I wanted to believe it had been, in those dark nights when anger and hurt had been my only companions. But I knew better, had always known better, deep down. “No, not on purpose. But it hurt me all the same.”

“Did he apologize?”

Such a simple and obvious question from such a young soul. I’d lost count of the number of times Ford had tried over the years—in person, in texts, in emails that I’d never opened. I could have thrown him under the bus, listed every perceived slight and mistake, but that didn’t seem fair. Not now, not to his daughter. “I’ve never really let him.”

Peyton absorbed that, her eyes taking on that analytical gleam I was starting to recognize. “I mean, it sucks that he hurt you. But he was, what, like twenty? Boys are dumb for along time. Testosterone poisoning.”

I couldn’t stop the snort laugh that burst out of me at her matter-of-fact assessment. “You’re not wrong.”

“I’m just saying, maybe he regrets being dumb. It doesn’t change that he hurt you, but it seems like that would matter. To me it would, anyway. Like, if someone I cared about was really sorry and kept trying to make it right.”

Her simple interpretation left me speechless. I’d just been schooled by a thirteen-year-old, who somehow managed to cut straight through all my carefully constructed defenses with the ruthless logic of youth.

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