Page 105 of Don't Take the Girl
Light filteringthrough my window has my eyes slowly fluttering open. I don't know what time I finally closed my eyes for the last time. My head was a mess, going over everything my mother told me about my father and then replaying the days I saw him walking the streets, watching me, until finally, I ended his life. The memories of that day and the day leading up to his death have haunted me for years. Now, they haunt me in different colors. He's still the same monster, but now he has a name: Dad.
I sit up in bed and shake off the eerie feeling threatening to settle. I thought sleep would evade me last night. I thought I'd be more upset with the news my mom gave me, but I find myself unable to mourn the death of a man who tried to kill my mother—tried to kill me. I'm sad that a chapter has come to a close. I'll never find the man I spent hours, months, and years dreaming to life in my head. A father who would love me never existed at all. But that pain is a dull ache compared to the soul-deep hurt I feel in my bones from not waking up next to London for the first time in months.
I look toward his house, toward his old room that faces mine, and there's a white paper bag on the windowsill. A flurry of excitement fills my chest. I might be mad at him, and forgiveness isn't something I have to give…yet, but that little bag feels like hope. I pad over toward the window and quickly pull it inside. My eyes flash up to his window to see if he's there. He's not. Relief and disappointment hit me with equal measure. I'm not ready to see him. I still need time to sit with everything, but at the same time, I don't want him to give up. It's selfish to not have forgiveness in my heart and want his attention anyway, to make him suffer when he's been hurting for so long. I don't like the way it makes me feel inside, but I'm trying to cope. My mother said if I can forgive her, that same understanding should extend to him. My mind is still wrapping itself around that. I do understand, and I'm hoping that's the first step toward forgiveness.
I open the bag, and on top is a note.
992 minutes.
That's how long it's been since my heart stopped beating. I hate the silence. I miss its drum, but I'd rather be hollow than listen to the beat of a heart without its purpose, without you.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry I caused you any pain, sorry I let you down, sorry I fell short of being the man you needed when you needed him most, but I'm not going anywhere. You deserve a better man, and I'm going to prove to you that I can be him. He's been here all along.
I want to take care of my girls… Eat! I got your favorite blueberry muffin from Poppy's, along with a few others, just in case.
I love you.
London
A sad smile tugs at my lips. We haven't even had a chance to talk about our baby, but he's thinking about it, and in his heart, we're having a girl.
My fingers trace the paper's edge as I whisper, "You've always been exactly the man I wanted." The admission burns my throat. I fold the note with shaking hands, setting it beside me like a fragile piece of my heart. "Love sucks." I release a frustrated sigh.
Pain and heartbreak aren't unfortunate side effects of love. They're woven into its fabric, inseparable from the joy and tenderness that make us feel most alive. Real love demands everything: your peace, your certainty, your carefully constructed walls. It asks you to hand over your whole heart, knowing it might be returned to you in pieces, and that's precisely what I did with London Hale.
I peek inside the bag and pull out the blueberry muffin. I loved these things growing up. The best muffins arethe top-heavy ones. I can't get enough of the crunch in every bite from the coarse ground sugar. I've just sunk my teeth into a hefty bite when the smell of pancakes floats across my room. I love my mom's pancakes.
"Eggs or pancakes…" my mom says as I enter the kitchen with a mouthful of blueberry muffin. "Or both. What does the baby want?"
"Both," I say around another scrumptious bite.
I couldn't have eaten if I wanted to yesterday. Everything was too fresh, but I don't need a repeat of what happened at the coffee shop happening again. London was right in his letter. I need to eat and take care of our baby.
"Mom, I have some questions," I say, softly pulling out a chair at the table.
Without missing a beat, she says, "I'd be more surprised if you didn't. I'll do my best to answer all of them."
"London knew the man I killed was my father…" I pick at my muffin. "Did he know the rest? Did he know how he hurt you?"
"No." She turns away from stirring the eggs. "I didn't tell him that story. When your father showed up in town, walking the streets, I didn't tell anyone. I did my best to ensure he never saw me. I thought if he didn't see me, he wouldn't be able to find you. I had my name legally changed before I gave birth to you. There was no way he could have known our new names, so I was careful to stay out of sight. It's why I was working so many hours. I was trying to stay away from you so he wouldn't realize who you were."
I put down my muffin and rub my temples. I brought him here. I searched for him. I made the calls to family members, trying to reach him. I never did get in touch with him myself, but since he showed up in Willow Creek, I know one of the calls got back to him.
"When you decided to go to California instead of following me to college…"
"It was to get us as far away from him as quickly as possible," she confirms.
"Why did you come back?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"To keep you safe and ensure you wouldn't be implicated." She flips the pancakes. "And Willow Creek grew on me. It became home."
The first part of that answer was expected after I lay awake, piecing together all that I had learned and knowing all that had happened, but the second part is a bit of news. My mom may have had a darker reason for constantly moving to new cities, but I was always by her side. She liked exploring new places and finding new favorite eateries and boutiques. It wasn't all bad, and the memory that this town has of my father's blood spilled on the street has me hypothesizing that it's not just the town…but someone.
"Are you sure it was just the town and not someone?" I ask, curious intrigue evident.
My mother has never been in a relationship my entire life. The closest thing to a date I witnessed was the dinner date she went on with London's father in high school. Now, I understand her reluctance to date, but she said she was okay. Perhaps the peace she found in knowing my father could never hurt her again allowed her to open herself up to finding love.
"There might be." She opens a cabinet to grab plates, but I hear the smile in her tone.
