Page 54 of Wild Love
Heard she’s fine. Which means I’ll punch her again next time I see her. But with my thumb on the outside.
I must read it three times. It makes less sense every time. Based on the date, Rosie was seventeen and I was nineteen going on twenty when she wrote this. This was our prime bickering era. Her parents worked a lot, and West always included her. She tagged along everywhere with us. I’d have been the same with Willa had we been closer in age, but the five years between us changed that dynamic. And she was often off competing at horse shows in the summer while I bummed around in Rose Hill.
Bummed around in Rose Hill and tried my damnedest to keep from falling in love with Rosalie Belmont.
I’m still trying.
Which is why I shove any feelings about this journal entry down deep—where they belong—and toss the page into the top drawer of my desk.
I walked in here, bound and determined to give her thespace and respect she needs to work through this bumpy phase of her life. To support her in any way I can. And to smile when she spreads her wings and takes off again.
Because I’m a grown-ass man. Adad. I can be mature.
Which is why I slump down in my chair and make the phone call I’ve been putting off for far too long now.
A single swipe and my phone rings. Once. Twice.
“Ford!” My mom’s smoky voice fills my ear and I smile.
“Hi, Mom.”
“How’s my boy?”
“Well, as it turns out, I have a daughter.”
I decided earlier that ripping the Band-Aid off would be the best approach.
“And such a knack for delivering big news,” she says.
I knew my mom would be the one to talk to. Where Dad would blow up and calm down eventually, Mom is the steady Eddie. That’s always been our dynamic. Plus, the older I get, the less I want them meddling in my business. I know they mean well, but it irks me all the same.
“Figured it was best to just come out with it.”
“I imagine if you’d done that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She laughs, amused by her own wisecrack. Something I’ve grown accustomed to with a sex therapist as a mother.
“I donated sperm when I was nineteen.”
“You always have been charitable under that crabby exterior.”
“Mom.”
“I’m sorry. No one prepared me for this conversation.And that’s really saying something considering the things I hear on a daily basis. Care to elaborate on why you were donating sperm? Based on the number of times I found you doing your own laundry with a bright red face, I assumed you were mostly making your donations at home.”
“Fuck my life.” I scrub a hand over my face, wishing the floorboards would give out and drop me down into a dark hole. “I needed money to buy my ticket to the Rage Against the Machine concert. Dad wouldn’t spot me any cash.”
Mom sighs heavily. “Well, you sure showed him.”
My cheek twitches. That’s the exact same thing Cora said.
“Right. Well, anyway, she’s living with me right now. And will be around for the foreseeable future. So if we could not talk about her like she’s a burden, I’d appreciate it.”
That brings on some silence. Like the reality of it is really sinking in.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Have… have you crossed your t’s and dotted your i’s?”
I know this is her gentle way of asking if I’m being responsible from a legal perspective. I’ve got a lot of assets to consider now, as my lawyer reminded me repeatedly.
“I have. Her name is Cora. And, well, she wants to meet you. And Dad.”
