Page 51 of A Love Song for Dreamers

“You’re not equal toanything. You’re my child. You will always mean more to me than anything in this world has a right tomean.”

My throat swells at the emotion in his words. “I just want you to know that I can handle myself. That you’d bet on me if I wasn’t your child. I want you to think I’ve grown into the kind of person you’d believein.”

I hold out a hand for the paint brush. “Go hang with Haley. I’ll finishit.”

His gaze finds mine, surprised. “And watch yoursister?”

I lower my voice. “I’ve pulled together changes from a whole host of writers. I can handle a four-year-old and a paintbrush.”

My dad looks as if he’s about to say something, but in the end, he hands me thebrush.

* * *

After finishingup at the gazebo, I scrounge some lunch for me and Sophie before taking a call with Miranda while my sisterplays.

We talk about the work, catch up on Ian. I let her know he’s pushingme.

“I emailed and told him I’d send him what we have nextweek.”

“What did hesay?”

I huff out a breath. “Nothing, yet. But I have to go,” I say to my writing partner as I look up to see Sophie climbing on the windowsill and jumping on theseat.

“I know you’re dealing with family issues, but we need to finish thatsong.”

“Iwill.”

If my voice has an edge, it’s in response to the urgency in hers. “I have a version, Miranda. And it’s good. But it’s notright.”

“You have good instincts. If there’s something more you can get from it, I trust you totry.”

“Thank you. I know it’s your dream to co-write a show from the beginning. We’ll make itwork.”

What happened with Ian was my mistake, not hers, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurtus.

After hanging up, I get Sophie off thewindowsill.

“I want to swim,” she decides, peering up atme.

“Okay. But after, we need some quiet play time so I canwork.”

I get her changed, and she insists on bringing the trucks withher.

My gaze cuts toward the hedges and the parking lotbeyond.

“That’s Tyler’s car,” Sophie informsme.

“Yes, it is.” His flight was supposed to get back from LA around noon, and I chastise myself for being so obvious a toddler could figure it out as I usher her toward thepool.

“Why’re you so into trucks?” I ask as she’s clinging to the ladder, her water wings keeping herafloat.

“They get things done. LikeMommy.”

I laugh. “NotDaddy?”

She wrinkles her nose. “No. Daddy makes messes. Mommy cleans themup.”

“That’strue.”

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