Page 99 of Masks and Mishaps

Dad smiles back, looking satisfied with himself. “And I figured I’d throw it out there: You don’t always have to work so hard. You have your hands full, but our family is growing. Alyssa sees you as a daughter now. Obviously, she’s going to look out for you—”

I’m confused at first. “Look out for me…” But when clarity strikes, it’s a bitch slap. “Are you saying I don’t have to work because you’re marrying into money?”

“I know how much you like—”

“I like making money,” I interject before he can say something to make me hate him irreparably.

His eyebrows rise. “I thought a break could be helpful for a couple years. You could be traveling, or—”

“Like you did?” I question, aware my voice is rising. I step closer. “You think it’s weird I’m a workhorse and want to be paid for it? Get it in your head, Dad:You made me like this. Do you think normal little girls dream about being investment bankers? No. I had to learn to take care of myself and everyone around me, and surprise—I’m good at it. I live for it. For you to tell me to let someone else pay my way through life is insulting.”

Dad’s confusion pisses me off. “I was trying to be helpful,” he insists, taking a step back—and he has the audacity to scoff. “I was trying to give you a break.”

“A break?” I demand, advancing toward him and letting the simmering frustration from the last year finally boil over. “A break? All I’ve ever wanted is someone to take care ofme.”

“I called—”

“Where were you when Meg Connors bullied me? Where were you when everyone’s Christmas stockings were full except for mine? Being a father is about actually taking care of people.”

He frowns, and I hate how much he looks like my brothers when he frowns—how much he looks likeme. “What has gotten into you?”

“I’ve always been this way,” I reply, feeling my voice break. “And if you didn’t know, it’s because you’re not a real father.”

Without waiting for a response, I charge upstairs, heart pounding and tears threatening to spill. I’m heading to my room when Dalton’s door flings open. He scoops me up at the same time I launch myself into his arms, and with my face against his chest, I begin crying—really crying. My chest heaves with labored sobs, and I can’t stop.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he’s murmuring, layering kisses on my hair. “You did amazing. You said everything you needed to.”

“He’s so—”

“I know,” Dalton whispers, using the cuff of his sweatshirt to wipe away a tear. “Trust me, I know. I can’t tell you how many times I sat on this bed and cried about my own shitbag father.”

I pull back, sniffling and trying to find evenness in my lungs. It’s difficult for me to imagine a father ever thinking Dalton wasn’t good enough.

“Growing up, I had my mom,” Dalton goes on, pushing another tear from my cheek with his thumb. “Lander and Everett too. But it kills me that you didn’t have anyone to look out for you.”

“I have you and our friends, and…oh no—your mom—”

“Mom isn’t mad, and nobody else is going to find out,” he promises. “But…”

My hands are starting to tremble, and I ask, “We’re done, aren’t we?” And when Dalton doesn’t answer, another tear slips down my cheek.

We’re quiet for a few minutes, and eventually the tears stop. But I’m trying to swallow past the lump in my throat, and it feels like trying to swallow a heart.

“What can I do?” Dalton asks, running his hands over my sides.

“I don’t know. I can’t tell you how sick it makes me to know I’ll see you married to another woman one day. I’ll have to meet the kids she gave you, and—”

“Essie,” he interjects. And when I look away, he touches my chin and turns my face toward his. “Look at me. You may not be mine yet, but I’m yours. I would give youanything.”

His stare is unwavering. The thing is, I know he would.

Dalton shifts his hand, and his hold on my jaw is firm and possessive and so enamored. “There’s nothing anyone could do to make me less than yours and yours alone. I’ve wanted you for two years, and if I have to wait decades, I will. You’ll never see me with a wife or my own kids unless their yours too.I’m yours, Essie.I’m going to be yours forever.”

“Forever is—”

“Forever,” he reiterates, never breaking eye contact. “I vow it. I’m never going to get over you.”

I breathe out slowly, agonizingly slowly, wishing I could prolong this moment. “I feel the same way,” I reply, threading my hands through his hair.

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