Page 69 of Beneath the Hood

Blakely

When I wake up in the morning, he’s gone.

I panic for a few seconds, thinking it was either a dream or that he decided I wasn’t worth it, until I roll to my side and see a note left on my nightstand. Smiling to myself, I reach out and pick it up, a giddiness dancing through me.

The paper crinkles in my hand as I roll onto my back and read it.

Princess,

Leftearly so no one would see and didn’t want to wake you.Can I see you tonight?

-Jax

My arms and legs smack against the bed as I squeal, happier than I can remember being in a long time.

But the happiness never lasts.

Slowly, the reality of my situation knits its way through the joy, reminding me of all the ways my world is twisted upside down.

Ugh.

Glancing at the clock, I spring from the bed, irritation pricking under my skin from oversleeping. I rush through my morning routine, cursing myself because I know that this is going to throw off my entire day. But there are some things I just can’t skip over, and as my eyes bounce from the scale to the measuring tape that’s still laying haphazardly on the floor dread stomps my chest like a stampede, the comments from the day before clouding my mind.

It’s fine. I just need to work harder.

My insecurities dangle from the gaping hole in my stomach, but I grip the measuring tape in my hand and take a deep breath, preparing myself to get through it.

I already know the numbers have fluctuated.

Of course they have, you idiot.

Sierra’s words ring through my head, and even though she said them in passing, they stick to my bones and curdle my insides.

Puffy.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated a word so much.

Rushing through the measurements and trying not to compare them to the other numbers on my wall, I slip into my workout gear and head downstairs to grab a water bottle and get in some fasted cardio.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee makes me stop short.

Who the hell would be here, drinking coffee?

My stomach tightens and I cautiously place one foot in front of the other until I’m standing in the entryway to our gourmet kitchen.

The breath is sucker punched from my lungs as I take in the sight of my father sitting in the breakfast nook, a cup of coffee on the table and a newspaper covering his face.

I clear my throat, my heart stuttering as I make my way further into the room. Heading to the fridge to grab my water, my eyes trail back to him every few seconds.

The noise must catch his attention because the top right corner of the paper flops down, his dark chocolate eyes gazing at me from across the island.

“Hey, honey.”

I swallow, his voice sucking me into my memories. To a time when hearing him speak in the mornings was commonplace—something that happened every week. Then every weekend. Until eventually it whittled down to nothing, and that became our new normal.

Seeing him here now is jarring.

My head cocks as I take him in, wondering what the cause of his sudden appearance is. I already know it isn’t me.

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