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by May, McKinley

Her sudden yelp scares the crap outta me.

  "What?"

  "I need more blues. No...teals. Beards don't have teal in them."

  And now she's muttering about color in her 'inspired-artist' voice, which means this convo is pretty much done for.

  "That's my cue to let you get back to work."

  "Okay, hon. Call or text me whenever. I don't even care if it's two in the morning my time—stay in touch! Love ya!"

  "You, too."

  After hanging up, I head to the shower. I turn that shit to max heat and step under the scalding water.

  By the time I get out forty-five minutes later, the room is so full of steam I can't see one foot in front of me. I wrap a towel around my waist, muster my way through the self-made sauna, and grab my phone from the counter.

  My mom sent a pic of her almost-finished piece, and the serene waterfall looks really awesome.

  Not at all like the facial hair of some dude after his twenty-year nap.

  Underneath the image, there's a one-word text.

  Mom: Visualize!

  My eyes instinctively dart toward the ceiling.

  That's always been her solution to everything. The answer to all life's burning questions and problems.

  "Picture the outcome in your mind!"

  Which I guess makes perfect sense coming from a painter.

  Usually, I just shrug off the advice, but this time...

  I dunno.

  There's a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach, an apprehensive sensation urging me to give it a shot.

  And I did swear, after all.

  Leaning forward, I wipe off the fogged-up mirror until a fuzzy image of myself comes into view. I feel lame as hell as I rest my forearms on the smooth marble and squeeze my eyes shut, but fuck it.

  Nobody's around to watch me get my mindfulness on.

  I take a few deep breaths, inhaling waves of spearmint-scented-steam.

  What the hell is my life gonna look like in five years?

  What do I want it to look like?

  Judging by the dark nothingness I'm seeing, there's a strong chance I'm either dead or blind.

  Not good.

  I'm wondering if I need to say some magic words or start spouting off some freaking incantations to make this shit work when suddenly it comes into view.

  Crystal-clear images play through my mind like a commercial for my future.

  There's me, splitting my time between coaching middle-schoolers and playing professionally.

  Next up is a badass log-cabin style house on an acre of land in the country. It's surrounded by towering trees and borders a brilliant blue lake.

  Last and definitely not least, there's my sexy as sin, interior-decorator wife with a cute as hell baby bump...

  Holy shit.

  And the most important detail in this strangely-vivid image?

  It's not here.

  The sudden clarity that overcomes me is crazy.

  'Cause everything makes fucking sense now.

  I let the chatter get to me. Let people pour opinions and unsolicited advice down my throat, poisonous shit that caused me to question myself and what I should do...

  Turns out they were all wrong.

  From the moment I stepped off the plane, I've been fighting the same doubts I started feeling around 17 years old, those familiar inklings that this isn't for me. I've tried pushing them aside, but they always bubble right back to the surface.

  And as great as London is, as much as my eyes bugged out when I saw the number of $$$ on the proposed contract, it doesn't matter.

  None of that shit matters because this isn't where I'm supposed to be.

  It never was.

  Holy fuck has it taken me forever-and-a-half to finally get that straight.

  "I don't want this," I mutter to my mirror-image.

  Then I say it again. Louder.

  It's like a massive weight is immediately lifted from my shoulders the moment I confirm it audibly.

  Swear I've got permanent whiplash from how many times I've tried to convince myself otherwise.

  Me: I'm coming home.

  Mom: I had a feeling.

  Me: How tf do you know this stuff?

  Mom: Blame it on a little thing called mother's intuition.

  But someone else knew I was making the wrong choice, too.

  Lexie.

  Lexie knew, and she tried to tell me. Even fought me on it.

  And what did I do in response?

  Moved halfway across the world, risked our relationship for something I didn't even want.

  Go ahead and say it—I'm a dipshit.

  In a matter of seconds, I'm in my room, flinging open drawers and yanking clothes off hangers as I immediately start to pack up. As I haphazardly shove shit into a suitcase, I make a mental to-do list in my mind.

  1. Tell my dad I'm not signing with the team. Again.

  2. Get my ass on the first flight back to Texas.

  And 3. Go apologize to the girl who knows me better than I know myself.

  39

  I wake up to my thigh vibrating bright and early Sunday morning.

  With a groggy moan, I reach down, searching for my phone that somehow got wedged between the mattress and my leg in my slumber.

  Let me sleeeeep.

  Judging by the angle of the sun rays streaming through the blinds, I can tell it's before nine. The only person who would call this early on a weekend is Chelsea.

  In fact, I've received many calls from her outside of that socially acceptable 10 a.m. - 10 p.m. window in the last few days, but for good reason.

  Ever since she was released from the hospital with official Momma-Bear status, I told her I was ready and willing to come over at any hour to help out. She's taken full advantage of that offer—I've been at her house every single day, trying to make the transition to newborn life as easy as possible. I bring heat-and-eat casseroles and homemade lasagna, do a few loads of laundry, and watch the baby while her and Ryan shower and nap in an attempt to feel like semi-functioning humans again. Baby Banks is currently nocturnal, snoozing during the day and waking up just as the sun makes its descent. The adorable night owl loves looking out the window at the dark sky, blinking those big, baby blues at the stars and moon.

  It's super fitting considering they named her Luna.

  With a yawn, I grab my cell and wipe off the strands of hair matted to my cheek. I squint at the screen, ready to tell Chels I can be there ASAP, but it's not her.

  My brows shoot to the ceiling when I see the number.

  "Hello? Oh, hi." I've got that awkward, high-pitched 'phone voice' going on, and I swallow before continuing. "How are you?"

  I listen as the familiar voice proposes an unexpected question.

  "Breakfast? Um, yeah. In an hour?" I sit up in bed and throw off the comforter. "Sure. I can do that."

  I walk into a hole-in-the-wall diner exactly sixty minutes later.

  The moment I step inside, I'm instantly hit with the smell of bacon, eggs, and grease-fried hash browns. I come to a halt in the middle of the restaurant, swiveling my head around as I search through the crowded establishment.

  "Coming through!" A waitress in a blue-tulle skirt balancing a tray of overflowing plates squeezes past me. "You lookin' for something, honey?"

  "Yeah, I'm supposed to meet—" I stop when I spot a pair of sea-green eyes identical to my own. "There he is."

  My dad waves me over to a booth situated snugly in a corner.

  Yep.

  My dad.

  The man who shares half of my genes, yet I barely know.

  I have no clue what he's doing in town.

  "Hey." I greet him as I scoot into the rubbery seat.

  "How are you?"

  "Great. You?"

  "Doing well." Pointing to a steaming mug in front of me, he adds, "I ordered you coffee. You do drink coffee, right?"

  I nod and take a long sip.

  He grabs the laminated menu, perusing it for a s
econd before offering me a stiff smile. "Are you more of a waffle or pancake person?"

  As we discuss our breakfast-cake preferences (both a big fan of built-in syrup pockets, btw) and put in our order with the waiter, the only thought racing through my mind is This is so freaking weird.

  Me, my father, partaking in small-talk over a meal...

  We don't do this.

  We've never done this.

  Ever.

  In fact, the whole thing is so unusual, my mind suddenly jumps to worst-case-scenario—he must be here to reveal some bad news. Bad news that's too horrible to tell me over the phone.

  "Is everything alright?" I ask abruptly. The hair on the back of my neck rises as my brain goes into overdrive. "Is Mom okay? Are you okay? Is it Grandpa? Did something happen to Elizabeth or Abigail or—"

  "Relax, relax." He eases my worries with a deep chuckle. "Everything's fine. Everyone's in tip-top shape."

  "Good." I blow out my anxiety on a long breath. "I just thought...well, you being here is really unexpected and all, so..."

  I don't finish the sentence, but he knows exactly what I'm getting at.

  "Sad, isn't it? I come to see my daughter and the immediate assumption is that someone's on their death-bed." Guilt coats his tone as he shakes his head in disappointment. "I suppose that's the sort of parent I've been, though. Disengaged."

  He's not fishing for a denial by me, not that I would even offer one if he was.

  He has been disengaged and detached.

  No question about it.

  "Why are you here?" I ask with curiosity. "Not that I don't want you here! I'm a bit confused."

  "Understandable. I know it's unexpected, but I'm here to try and make things right." He meets my intrigued gaze, crossing his arms on the table as he continues his explanation. "I'm getting older—sixty next month—and I'm ready to start scaling back at work, perhaps consider retirement within the next year or so. As I was thinking about this major life change a few weeks ago, I began to reflect on my past. Something became very apparent to me. I've had an astounding career, one that I am quite proud of. I've lived a good, healthy life and helped to create a beautiful family. But I've neglected that family, particularly my duties as a father, for my job. I haven't been there for you like I should. I'm worried if I don't patch things up with you and Elizabeth and Abigail now, I may never get the chance to. May never get to bond with my girls, may never get to meet my grandchildren."

  The palpable hurt dripping from his words makes my chest constrict with sadness.

  "I wish you'd realized this a while ago," I admit softly.

  "So do I." Genuine remorse crosses his face—his face that bears fine lines I'm just now noticing have deepened over the years. My eyes travel up to his hair, taking in the smattering of grey on the sides. "I'm truly sorry, Alexandra."

  I nod a few times, a sort of half-acceptance of his apology.

  It's too soon for verbal forgiveness, so that's all I can offer him.

  "There's also another reason I'm here," he reveals. "I'm sure your mom has informed you she will no longer be covering your college expenses."

  "She might've mentioned it."

  Actually, I haven't spoken to her since the disaster that was Easter Sunday, nor do I plan to anytime soon. Not until she respects me and my choices.

  But she's still found a way to effectively communicate with me. No words were necessary when she completely drained my university account—the message was received loud and clear.

  Luckily, I'm on partial-academic scholarship at Windhaven. It doesn't cover everything—not even close—so I've been scouring the internet for summer jobs all week. Because I got a super late start, the best part-time gigs have already been snagged by other students. I did get a callback for some bartending job at a sleazy dive bar. Not exactly my top choice, but hey.

  Beggars can't be choosers.

  "I love your mother, but I don't agree with her stance whatsoever," he says before reaching for something beside him. "She might not be contributing to your schooling any longer, but I will."

  Both of my eyebrows shoot up as he holds out a check. When I catch a glimpse of the never-ending 0's, I quickly shake my head.

  "Wow, Dad. You seriously don't have to—"

  "I want to, Alexandra," he confirms gently. "This should cover tuition and housing for your final year of undergrad and fund your program. Interior design, correct?"

  He remembered.

  "Yes." A little smile pulls at my lips. "You're sure about this?"

  A sharp nod precedes his words. "Absolutely. I will stand behind you in whatever you choose to pursue."

  He extends his arm, offering me the much-needed money once more.

  "There is a catch, however," he amends just as my fingers graze the crisp paper. "I don't want this to be like before. I don't want to be the kind of dad who throws money at his children and that's the extent of our relationship. I'd like to support you in more ways than just financially. So along with the money, I'd like to visit you twice a month. We can go for coffee, a movie...whatever you'd prefer. We could even make this our spot." He swivels his head around the bright restaurant before smiling. "If the food is decent enough, of course."

  "Twice a month?" I ask, head spinning as I attempt to process everything. "Me and you?"

  "Just the two of us." With a hopeful glint in his eyes, he adds, "Only if that's alright with you."

  "I think I'd like that, but..." I slant my head, still a bit skeptical of the suddenness of all this. "Let's see how today goes first?"

  He seems satisfied with my answer.

  "Fair enough. We'll consider this a test drive."

  ———

  Two hours and a stack of delicious waffles later, I can safely say the test drive has been a success.

  Yeah, there were some bumps in the road and a bit of awkwardness getting used to the unfamiliar car, but overall, pretty good.

  The verdict? I'm considering purchasing the vehicle.

  On a serious note, this morning has been great.

  Better than great.

  Never in a billion years did I expect my dad to take an invested interest in my life.

  And never did I realize how much I wanted his support...needed it.

  It means more than I can put into words.

  Does one favorable daddy-daughter date make up for two decades of shitty parenting and putting his work first every time?

  Uh, no.

  But it's a decent start.

  We're there for so long, the waiter brings over lunch menus. I'd actually be down for another meal, but my phone keeps chiming over and over again.

  When Chelsea's picture pops up for the third time in a span of five minutes, I apologize and take the call. She sounds frazzled, spitting out phrases like "burp cloths", "nipple lotion", and "leaky boobs" that have me promising to head over straight away.

  My dad stands, engulfing me in a big bear hug.

  "Thanks for visiting with me, Alexandra," he says as he pulls back. With both hands on my shoulders, he gives me an appreciative squeeze. "I'm looking forward to more of this. More chances to strengthen this relationship."

  "Me, too," I say sincerely.

  I go in for one final hug, grab my purse, and toss it over my shoulder. Just before I turn to go, I catch his eye.

  "Oh, and Dad?"

  "Yes?"

  "Will you do me a favor?"

  "Of course."

  A warm smile breaks across my face.

  "Call me Lexie."

  My exuberant mood is on display for the world to see as I drive to Chelsea's house. I've got my top down, wind whipping through my hair, and my umbrella hat looking cute as heck as I belt out the lyrics to a Camila Cabello song.

  For the first time in weeks, I feel like myself again.

  Well, almost.

  I pull up to the Banks' house and let myself in with the spare key.

  "Hey, Lexie." Ryan gives me a zombie-like greeting as I jut my he
ad into the kitchen. "Thanks for coming."

  "No prob. Need a hand?" I ask as I watch him rinse off dishes.

  "Got it under control," he assures me.

  "Okay, but..." I hold back a laugh as he starts to shove some baby bottles in the oven absent-mindedly. "...you should probably put those in the dishwasher."

  "Wha—Oh." He looks down, realizes what he's doing, and shakes his head. With a grin, he points at me. "You. You are seriously a blessing. Don't know what we'd do without you these past few days."

  "Anything for you guys. You're like family."

  I smile and he nudges his head to the left. "They're in the nursery if you want to go on back."

  "Lunaaa," I sing-song as I walk towards the small room. "Your Aunt Lexie's here to hold you and squeeze all your adorableness until you're blue in the face!"

  "Actually, she's already got that covered." Chelsea's loud voice floats into the hallway. "But you're more than welcome to take on the next diaper change!"

  "That's a crappy trade-off. Like, literally crappy."

  The moment I step into the room, I immediately screech to a halt. My eyes go wide as I notice Chels and Luna's surprise guest.

  "Weston?"

  When he turns around, my stomach starts doing every circus trick in the book.

  That charming half-smile, the backwards baseball cap covering his adorably-messy hair, those hazel eyes raking down my body like it's an autonomic response...

  I'm not sure how, but he looks even more breathtakingly attractive than I remember.

  And when I see the tiny infant tucked comfortably in his muscular arms—swoon alert.

  Weston holding a baby?

  Ovary explosion commences in 3, 2, —

  "Luna loves her room." He slowly rocks her back and forth before giving me a wink. "Told me herself."

  "Wow." I swallow, trying to play it cool. "Talking less than a week out of the womb? I'm impressed."

  "What else would you expect from my offspring?" Chelsea remarks as she stands. "You two have lots to chat about, so I'll take the baby-genius and give y'all some privacy."

  Weston gently places Luna in her outstretched arms.