“I’ll be the best father to you. I promise. You won’t even know we missed the start. I’ll make up for it all. And I won’t miss a thing in your life. We’ll see movies and stay up late and build forts out of pillows and sheets. I’m not sure how it’s going to work yet. Your mom and I, we have a lot to figure out. We’re going to need some time. But that’s our baggage; that’s not yours. You won’t miss out on the good stuff because of it. I promise. And nobody is ever going to hurt you. Sweet dreams, baby girl. You’re safe for always and forever. I’ll make sure of it. You can keep my heart for collateral.”
I push up enough for my lips to reach the top of her head, and I dust her with a soft kiss before pulling the blanket up to cover her arms. She doesn’t stir at all as I float back toward the door. I hold my breath the entire way, and I don’t exhale until I’m safely in the hallway, halfway between Tommy’s old room and Hannah’s.
The faint light from her room cuts a line across the hallway, and for a moment, I consider crossing it and heading downstairs to talk to her parents, or maybe to sleep in my car. That’s not what I want, though. That’s the move of anger. That’s hostile resentment and unfair judgement. It’s what has ruined us for years.
No. Now is the time to do the hard stuff. I won’t make the same mistakes Colt Bridges made. I won’t become cold and callous. I’ll never be mean. And when something holds the promise of love, I’ll see it through. I’ll fight for it. One hard step at a time.
I push open Hannah’s door and stare at the place where her feet, still bundled in her shoes, hit the floor at the end of her bed. My eyes move up to find her hands on her knees, her back straight and her eyes focused on me. She was probably waiting for me to appear.
My mouth forms a faint smile, one mirrored on Hannah’s lips. Her mood is directly tied to mine right now, and I understand why. I respect it, and it’s the reason I’m guarded and careful with my words. We could fight. I’m sure we will. But using words as weapons to lash out won’t make a damn thing better.
So I choose the hard way. I move to her bed and sit a few feet from her, pushing my shoes from my feet with my toes until I’m in my socks. I rest my weight on my left arm and shift to my side, moving until my head rests on her shoulder. I stay there for a breath until her hand reaches up and her fingers sink into my hair, massaging my scalp and urging my body lower until I’m lying in her lap.
“Tell me the story again. About how our daughter was born. And don’t skip a single thing.”
I blink out at the darkness as Hannah scoots back enough to fully accommodate my weight. This room is filled with her—with us—the scent of vanilla and flowers and honey. I let my eyes fall shut as she begins.
“It was four in the afternoon, and I wanted a donut,” she says.
“Maple.” I smile, but keep my eyes closed.
“Yes, always maple,” Hannah says, and I can tell by the timbre of her voice that she is smiling, too.
We’re going to be okay. Someday, we won’t be broken.
13
I’m not sure when I dozed off. I was awake for most of the night, long after Dustin fell asleep in my lap. I don’t remember slipping out from under his weight, but somehow we ended up cradling each other in the center of my bed.
I don’t know how long he’s been looking at me, but I hope it’s been awhile.
His face is hard to read. That’s to be expected given the rollercoaster I took him on. The man has been afflicted with so much emotional and traumatic damage over his lifetime, and it’s unfair to expect him to become whole all at once because I want him to.
“Good morning,” I utter, sucking in my lips. I fight the urge to smile simply because I’m in his arms. I haven’t earned that right.
He doesn’t respond, but his eyes flit around my face, moving from one corner to the other. I feel exposed, and when his gaze comes back to mine, I swallow down the sharp rock in my throat.
“It’s early yet. You should sleep some more,” he says, his hand moving to my face and dragging a few stray hairs from my eyes. His fingers hover at my shoulder for a second before he drops his hand again, resting it along his hip.
“I’m shocked I slept at all,” I admit.
“I had a really good bedtime story,” he responds.
I breathe in deeply through my nose and allow myself one faint smile. I’m glad he feels that way. It’s a good sign.
“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move. That also gives me hope.
I swallow again.
“Okay.”
Neither of us moves. The birds are waking outside, which means the clouds have probably cleared and the sun will be bright and high today.
“I thought you were going,” I say, testing the waters with my usual brand of teasing sarcasm. This is us. It feels like us anyhow.
“You’re so pushy,” he says back, and allows himself the tiniest smile in return.
“Well, go on, then,” I continue.
“I’m going.”
We both shake with a silent laugh. It doesn’t last more than a handful of seconds, but it is everything.
I don’t know what to say next. I vacillate between apologies and thankful grace. Words are too small for what Dustin deserves. Nothing either of us could do can replace the two years our daughter lost.
My thoughts must show on my face, because Dustin reaches up and runs the tip of his finger along my dented brow. I let my eyelids fall shut at his touch, mostly so I don’t cry. I’m cried out. I can’t anymore.
“Bristol,” he says, urging my eyes open at the way his voice forms her name. It rounds the ends, the deep timbre of his sound cradling her name and giving it a richness. “How’d you come up with that name anyway?”
My lip ticks up.
“You always said you wanted to win in Tennessee,” I admit.
His eyes shut, squinting tight with his warm laughter.
“Bristol Motor Speedway,” he pieces together.
“You always did love a short track.”
Naming our daughter Bristol was never a question in my mind. I’d fantasized about giving her that name since the days of doodling I <3 DUSTIN BRIDGES in my notebook. I knew he’d be along for the idea, and maybe part of me left it as a clue.
“What’s her middle name?”
“Bea, after my great grandmother. She was a hellraiser, and I liked the idea that our daughter would be triple B one day.”
His expression softens and stills, and I sink into his eyes. We’re so close that the slightest push, a sign from either of us, would lead to something more. But that is me rushing. That is me wanting and avoiding the journey. I have to tread the distance to receive the rewards.
“So she’ll be Bridges?” He swallows his emotions and sucks in his lips.
“I downloaded the application yesterday, right before Jorge left. He helped me find it online. Seventy-five dollars and our daughter will finally have a complete and true birth certificate.”
“That’s less than it cost for Colt’s ashes,” he jokes. I push his chest and he wraps my hand in his.
Any attempt to laugh at his dark humor is consumed by the new tension tainting the air.