by Tara Leigh
But Jolie? I’d bared my fucking soul to that girl. She’d known me inside and out. Even if I’d been the one to end things between us—how could she decide that a child we’d created together, in nothing but love, should be raised by neither of us? Did she believe that I was simply a carbon copy of my father, destined to live a malignant life of destruction and greed?
Except that I hadn’t sent that text. Jolie broke up with me, not the other way around. How the fuck had we both gotten the same goddamn text?
And why did Romy believe Nina was her mother? Why would Jolie voluntarily give up her child? Of course, she was involved in Romy’s life—which was more than I could say—but only as her sister. Did Jolie think so little of herself that she didn’t believe she’d make a good mother? What could have made her voluntarily give up her own daughter?
I wanted explanations. I wanted to understand.
I wanted all of this to make sense.
None of it did.
But I knew one thing for sure. My daughter was not going to be raised by a woman who detested the sight of me.
The broken shards of my spine fused together again, connected by steely resolve and a seething rage.
If Jolie wasn’t on the same page, this was going to be a disaster of epic proportions. An international birth, lawyers, custody battles. No child should go through that.
My phone didn’t have much battery left but I thumbed out a quick text to Lance to make getting Romy’s Swiss birth certificate a top priority. Was I even listed as the father?
By the time Jolie and Romy slid into the car, my brain was on overdrive. Somehow I managed to pull myself together and slap a fake-ass smile on my face. “All set?” I asked, pumping cheer into my tone as I turned to glance in the backseat.
Romy was so excited she was practically vibrating. “New York City here we come!”
My heart gave a lurch. Was she really mine?
I shifted into reverse and backed down the driveway, giving the thundercloud over my head a forceful shove. Romy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and I had at least two hours in a car with her. Everything else could be handled. “So what are your plans for the weekend?”
“Jolie promised we’d pick out furniture for my bedroom together. And see a Broadway show. And walk through Central Park. And go to the Top of the Rock. And—”
I arched an eyebrow, looking at her through the rearview mirror. “That’s quite a weekend you’ve got planned.”
She grinned, leaning forward to put her chin on Jolie’s shoulder and kiss her cheek. “That’s because I have the best sister in the world. I’m so glad you decided to move somewhere close, finally.”
Jolie sniffed, giving a tremulous smile. “Me too, Romy.”
The harsh sting of my anger decreased to a dull throb in the face of Jolie’s obvious discomfort. Clearly, she wasn’t entirely thrilled with the current situation either. We had a lot to talk about, but it wasn’t going to happen with Romy between us.
As the miles added up, putting distance between us and Nina, some of the color came back into Jolie’s cheeks. I couldn’t imagine what Nina had said to her back at the house. Truth be told, I didn’t even want to. “Any chance I can crash some of your less girly plans?” The question was purely for Romy’s benefit. I was going to be a part of my daughter’s life, starting now.
“Sure!” Romy answered for them both.
I peered at Jolie. “Have you gotten tickets to a show yet?”
“No, I thought we’d just walk around and see what was available.”
I frowned. “Well, what’s the best show that’s age-appropriate for Romy?”
Her lips twitched slightly as she turned toward me. “Age-appropriate?”
I fiddled with the console until Romy was bopping her head and lip-syncing to a song I hadn’t heard before. “I’ll handle the tickets.”
“You sure?”
I’d never been more sure of anything in my life. Getting tickets would be easy—everything was available for a price, especially in Manhattan. The hardest part would be waiting for Saturday night to roll around.
I was barely driving the speed limit, but the car trip passed by in a flash with Romy filling us in on everything and everyone in her life. There was no bullshit, no artifice. Just a genuine info dump of everything rolling around her nine-year-old mind. I didn’t understand half of what she was talking about, but that didn’t matter one bit. I loved every minute.
Too soon, I was pulling to a stop outside Jolie’s apartment and helping them out. Romy darted into my arms, hugging me with a quick squeeze around my neck and making me wish I could freeze time, or maybe fast-forward to the day when she would know I was her father and she was my little girl. “Thanks for the ride! See you tomorrow.”
Swallowing the enormous lump in my throat, I returned the gesture. “See you tomorrow.”
The automatic swell of love I felt for Romy was accompanied by a fresh wave of fury toward Jolie.
She stood beside Romy now, and I surprised her by drawing her into my chest and leaning down so that my lips were less than an inch from her ear. “Things are gonna change,” I whispered, determination turning my voice into a gritty rasp.
She pulled back, her eyes clouded. “I know. They have to. You’re going to make an incredible father, Tripp. I’m so sorry. I just—”
Tears started to overflow and I pulled her back against me, not because I was approaching forgiveness. The anger and anguish swimming through my veins and buzzing in my brain hadn’t evaporated one bit. “Don’t cry in front of Romy unless you’re willing to tell her why.”
She recoiled from the harshness of my tone. “I—”
“No. No more apologies. No more excuses. You owe me that, at least.”
She nodded against my shoulder and wiped her face, blinking back any remaining tears. “You’re right.”
“I’m going home, and I’m going to figure out what my rights are in this fucked up situation you and Nina created.” I dipped my head, positioning my mouth just above her ear. “Don’t fight me on this, Jolie. I’m so angry I can barely see straight, but you and I created that amazing little girl together. And I will do whatever it takes to have you both.”
34
Jolie
As a kid, I fell from the monkey bars and broke my arm. Not the kind of break that actually split the bone, but a Greenstick Fracture—where several tiny cracks were visible on the x-ray but from the outside, my arm appeared fine. I remember looking down and not understanding how I could be in so much pain when there was no blood, no obvious wound. And that’s exactly how I was feeling right now. Like everything inside of me was broken and hurting, but from the outside I looked perfectly fine.
The hurt I’d inflicted on Tripp, the pain that had radiated from every inch of his body, slamming into me with each enraged glare, had vibrated so strongly through my bones that they were splintering from the pressure.
I wasn’t fine. I wasn’t fine at all.
“Your friend has a funny name,” Romy said as I pushed my mail key into my apartment’s assigned cubby with shaking fingers.
Like a coward, I pretended not to hear her as I removed the small stack of envelopes and catalogues. “I’ll bet you’re starving—what are you in the mood for?”
She raised the shoulder not burdened with a bulging backpack. “Can we just drop our stuff upstairs and then walk around your new neighborhood, see what looks good?”
I cleared my throat, attempted a grin. “Sure.”
Romy ran around my apartment for a few minutes, chattering about the Pottery Barn Teen canopy bed she’d seen online that would be perfect for my second bedroom, her bedroom, and how she wished she could live in New York City.
I forced myself to focus on the here and now—Romy, in my apartment—and sliced away at the rest. “But wouldn’t you miss all your friends, and having a big backyard, and living in an actual house?”
She answered my question with a question. “You grew up in
an apartment. Did you ever wish you could move to a house?”
I thought about it. “Sometimes, I guess. But everyone I knew lived in apartments nearby, and that’s just how you live in Manhattan.”
“Exactly. And we almost never go in the backyard anymore, not like when I was little and would play on the swing set. Mom says there’s mosquitos, and when I’m outside I’m usually with my friends, riding around the neighborhood. I’d miss them, but I could videochat with them like I do with you. And besides, I’m going to a new school next year anyway, and not all of my friends are going to the same one.”
“Oh no?”
“No. My school only goes until the third grade. Some of my friends are going to the public school next year, and there’s a bunch of private schools, too. If you can convince Mom to move into the city, I could go to school here and see you all the time. Wouldn’t that be great?”
Tears pricked my eyes as I drew Romy in for a hug and swallowed the lump of emotion clogging my throat. “That would be so great.” Closing my eyes, I squeezed my daughter’s wiry body to me, dipping my head and breathing in the scent of her favorite green apple shampoo. There was nothing I’d like more than having Romy close to me. Not as a sister but as a daughter. My daughter. Tripp’s daughter. Our daughter. And for the first time since Romy was just a few months old, seeing her for more than just quick FaceTime calls and occasional sleepovers was an actual possibility.
Nina had been a wonderful mother to Romy. Better than I could have been, at least at the beginning. I didn’t expect Nina to just hand her over now that Tripp was in the picture. But somehow there had to be a way that the three of us could each play a role in Romy’s life.
So much was up in the air right now. The only thing I knew for sure was that lying was no longer an option. Soon Romy would know that I was her mother. Her biological mother, at least. The prospect was both exhilarating and terrifying. What if she was angry I had lied to her? What if she resented me for trying to usurp Nina’s position in her life?
While I was waiting for Romy to change and shower, Nina had made her feelings perfectly clear. There was no love lost between her and anyone with the last name Montgomery, and the thought of entrusting her daughter to Tripp was unfathomable.
Except that Tripp was Romy’s father.
All of this was my fault. I’d put Nina in this position. At eighteen, I’d been naive and scared. Clueless about being a mother when I was still barely an adult myself. I didn’t anticipate that the fragile preemie I’d borne would one day become a vibrant and spirited nine-year-old I adored.
Beyond giving birth to Romy, I’d done little to earn the title Mom, but oh how I wanted it. Dreamed it. Needed it.
But—did I want it badly enough to take it away from the woman who had spent the past nine years living up to the name? To the woman who had helped launch my modeling career and even now was trying to get my business off the ground with her friend’s investment? No. I couldn’t do that, to either Nina or Romy. But there had to be some middle ground.
We would just have to find it.
As Romy and I strolled through the doors of the lobby, exiting onto the quiet street I’d chosen in Chelsea, she brought Tripp up again. “Where does your friend live?”
I knew exactly who she meant, but I didn’t want to talk about Tripp with Romy. Not when every mention of his name was tainted with all that I couldn’t yet say. My insides felt hollowed out and heavy at the same time. It didn’t make sense, but then again, nothing made sense right now. “Which friend?”
“You know, the one that drove us back here. Tripp. He lives in New York City, too, right?”
As we turned onto Broadway, I pointed toward a tall building due north. “He lives right there, sweetie. Not very far at all.”
“Is his name really t-r-i-p?”
“It’s a nickname.”
“Because he’s so clumsy?”
I laughed. “No. And it’s Tripp, with two p’s.”
“So,” she looked up at me with sly eyes, “is he your boyfriend?” The last word was drawn out, almost teasing.
“Since when do you know about boyfriends, little miss?”
“Since my friend Sarah’s parents got divorced. Now her mom has a boyfriend and Sarah sees him more than her dad. And why is he called a boyfriend when he’s not a boy? He’s old, like Sarah’s mom.”
I laughed at her logic, and that she’d called Tripp old. He was barely thirty. “I guess that’s just what people call someone who’s a special friend.”
“Is Tripp special?”
“Of course.” The answer flew out of my mouth before I realized that I was being set up by a nine-year-old.
“Then he’s your boyfriend.”
I finally gave in. We were talking about Tripp. “He was my boyfriend. A long time ago.”
Romy tilted her face up toward mine, complete sincerity in her expression. “Then who is he now?”
Catching the end of Romy’s braid in my hand, I twirled the dark strands around my fingers. “That is a very good question. And to be honest, I think we’re both kind of figuring out the answer.”
“When Sarah and I first met, I didn’t like her very much. She doesn’t play soccer, and she has a little sister that follows her around everywhere and is really annoying.”
“I thought Sarah was your best friend?”
“She is, now. But it took us a while to figure that out. We both like riding horses, reading books, and gymnastics, so we became friends because we like some of the same things. Maybe you should get to know Tripp better, find out what you have in common.”
I stopped at a restaurant, pretending to study the menu in the window as the words blurred in front of me. “You know what, I think Tripp and I have something pretty great between us. We’ll have to focus on that.” Clearing my throat, I turned back to Romy. “How did you get so smart?”
“Mom makes me eat a lot of vegetables.”
My heart cracked in two as I forced a smile. “No vegetables tonight then. You’re getting way too smart for me.”
Her eyes widened. “Can we do ice cream for dinner, like we did that one time last summer at the beach?”
“Ice cream in February?”
She thought for a minute. “It’s almost March . . . and we can ask for extra hot fudge.”
My lips twitched. How could I say no? “Deal.”
Later, as we tucked into an overflowing banana split sundae with extra hot fudge and extra whipped cream, Romy chewed thoughtfully on the maraschino cherry. “I have an idea.”
I groaned. “Don’t tell me, candy for dessert.”
She giggled. “No, but that’s a good one.”
“Absolutely not, I can’t send you back home with a dozen cavities. Anything but that.”
“My idea wasn’t about food. It’s about what you and Tripp might have in common. What was he doing in Connecticut today? Does he know someone on my soccer team?”
I realized I’d been so taken aback by his showing up at all, it hadn’t occurred to me why he was there. “That’s it. No more vegetables for you, young lady.”
35
Tripp
Conflicted as hell, I drove back to my apartment, quickly realizing that I didn’t have the access code for the parking space that came with my apartment. After explaining the situation to the doorman out front, he assured me that he would park my car and leave the key with building security. I lurched through the lobby, feeling like I’d aged fifty years, my hands less than steady as I pressed the call button for the elevator.
I was a fucking father.
“There you are. I was beginning to worry you weren’t coming back.”
The familiar voice clawed its way up my spine, traces of a distinctive perfume catching in the back of my throat as I inhaled a wary breath.
Jesus Fucking Christ. I’d forgotten all about my mother.
I scrubbed a hand over my face to rub away a look of distaste before turning around.
S
he was walking toward me from the seating arrangement across from the concierge. “I said I would call.”
She gave a small sniff. “Well, now I’ve saved you the trouble.”
Grinding my teeth, I held the now open elevator door. “After you.”
We shared a silent ride. Once we were inside my apartment, my mother cast reluctantly approving eyes around the oversized space. “An invitation would have been nice, Tripp.”
I quirked a brow, studying the woman I hadn’t seen in many years. “Clearly you didn’t need one.” She was very thin, almost frail, her St. John suit swimming on her tiny frame.
“Well, if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mountain.”
“And does Mohammed also visit prisons?”
My mother looked down at her lap. “So you’re finally ready to talk about your father.”
“I have no intention of talking about him. I’m asking whether you talk to him.”
She cleared her throat. “Tripp, your father is sick.”
“Yes he is.” I leveled a hard gaze at her. “He’s a sociopath with no moral compass who has destroyed the lives of everyone he’s ever known.”
She held my stare, blinking rapidly. “He has a heart condition. He’ll be undergoing surgery next week. His prognosis is not particularly good.”
I let her words sink in, waiting to feel some kind of emotional response. There was none. The truth was, my father was already dead to me, and had been for years. “Is that what you’ve come here to tell me—that his ticker might not tick for much longer?” I shrugged. “I’m sure the devil is rubbing his hands in anticipation.”
“Remington Owen—” My name was a not so subtle rebuke.
“Calling me by his name won’t make me feel some kind of father/son bond that doesn’t exist.”
“It’s your name, too.”
“An error in judgment on your part that I’ve had to live with.”
Her expression remained stoic even as her shoulders fell slightly. “I didn’t come here to argue with you.”
