Page 53 of Perfect Composition
“This place will never be home to me again.” A silence falls between us as I flick my tablet on and quote what I read earlier. “After many years of travel with only a PO Box, Subject has identified a primary living residence in New York, New York. Inform client of new address for updated records.Austyn would have been three at that time. Three. When I finally told her who her father was, do you know what she asked me?”
“No.” He doesn’t say anything else. His gaze is steady on mine. He doesn’t deny or defend himself.
“She said, ‘Knowing would have been better than not.’ It wasn’t your choice to make. It was mine, his,ours. Even if you hated me for my mother’s death,” I fling out.
His head turns to the side, pain leeching into it. And his actions become clear. “That’s it, isn’t it? You hate us both because we were alive and my mother wasn’t?”
“Paige…” He twists his head back toward mine. But I step away, away from the man who manipulated my life while he claimed to love me, love my child.
“How could you look at us every day and live with your lies and your hate? How could you believe that’s what my mother would want for me? For Austyn?”
My father’s face is haggard. “You have no idea how hard it’s been living without the person you love.”
“I don’t? At least you didn’t believe the last thirty-seven years Mama left you because she didn’t love you. Try living with wondering if you weren’t enough of a woman while the man your heart is longing for parades on national television with one woman after another. That’s pain, Father,” I drawl.
“I didn’t do it to hurt you.”
“And that’s just another lie. Lie, lie, lie. All you’ve done is lie to me. From the moment I could cogitate, that’s all you’ve done,” I shout. A car pulls up in the driveway behind mine, but I pay it no attention. “You’ve lied to me about how much you love me, how much you respect me. You’ve lied to me about every fact of my mother’s death, including the fact I’m the damn reason for it, but we both know that’s not quite the whole story, is it?”
Tears well in his eyes, but I pay them no mind as heavy footsteps fall on the stairs. “What’s going on, Paige?” Jesse demands.
“Oh, good. I can tell you to kiss my ass at the same time.” I seethe, whirling on him. “How dare you taunt Beckett with Austyn’s existence when you saw him in a club in Dallas?”
“What the hell did you do, Jess? When the hell was this?” my father roars.
“None of this is your concern anymore, Father. I’ll protect my daughter and myself from whatever is necessary,” I inform him haughtily. I whirl back to find Jesse stunned. “Now answer me, you ass. What gives you the damn right to talk about her to him?”
“How did you find out?” is his only response.
“I’d like some answers too, Paige,” comes my father’s response.
“You want to know? Fine. I didn’t trust the slick law firm that was suddenly contacting Austyn to represent her legal interests as they also represent her father’s. So, I had your investigator do some digging.”
My father’s eyes close. If anything, his face turns a pasty white.
“Right. When I got to New York armed with all the information you gave me over the years, they came back at me with oh so much more. I was blindsided by how much you betrayed me, Father. You knew from the moment he was put on a steady payroll where to find him. You knew,” I hiss.
“I did it to protect you,” he tries to make me believe.
“You did it to hurt him, to hurt me! That’s all you cared about. You did it to perpetuate a cycle of pain because that’s all you felt when you looked at me. All this time, I was alone raising my daughter.”
“You had us, Paige,” my brother reminds me.
“And look at what good that did me.” Jesse falls back a step at my harsh words.
Tears trickle down my face. “If it was just me, I might find some way to forgive you. But despite both yours and E’s help, it was me raising my daughter. Alone. It was me wondering if I was woman enough every time I entered into a new relationship—when I had time. It was me wonderingwhenthey were going to leave, not if. But I could have known, had answers, if he”—I jerk my thumb toward our father—“had just told me the truth. Starting with the fact that it was Beckett’s mother T-boning Mama and not a damn infection that killed her. Isn’t that right, Daddy?”
Jesse’s head whips toward our father. His voice is shocked when he asks, “Dad?”
Our father’s face contorts, but he remains stubbornly silent.
“How did you find this out, Paige?” Jesse demands.
“It’s a damn police record, Jesse. The day before I was born, Mama was in an accident.”
“That’s…” He’s about to deny my words when something changes. “I remember now. She picked flowers in the field with Ethan that morning. Put them in a white pitcher on the counter. How could I have forgotten?” Jesse moves closer to me as he stares in horror at our sire. His hand grasps for mine as wounds of his own start to bleed.
I let him take it because I know how it felt in New York to bleed when no one else is there. But my anger at Jesse is still simmering just below the surface.
