Late Nights & Love Lines (Single Dad Hotline #2)

6. When did fighting turn into foreplay?

6

WHEN DID FIGHTING TURN INTO FOREPLAY?

ROWAN

I t’s been a long-ass day. I haven’t spent this much time with a six-year-old in ages, especially a six-year-old like Kade. That kid has so much energy I’m surprised he doesn’t combust, and yet I hope he never loses that spark that makes him special.

There’s nothing sadder than a child beaten down before they have the chance to fly.

Like Seren. I’ve put the boys to bed, and Pappy is on the porch reading through Leo’s plans for his new summer camp. It won’t surprise me one bit if he’s also making notes for improvements out there too.

With a low groan, I reach for the door to my room. I can’t hold off talking to Seren any longer, but I need a few minutes to strengthen my armor. Warily, I enter, wondering what kind of shit she has planned for me tonight.

The door swings open and I kick my foot through it first, trying to trip any traps she may have set. When nothing happens, I lean my head in and scan the ceiling, floor, and all the open space.

Nothing looks out of place. The room was decorated with clean lines and a beachy theme before I arrived. The light-gray walls offset the bright white and aqua bedding. I hate to admit that it’s exactly what I would have done if I’d decorated it myself.

I’m about to enter my room when I hear the softest whimper and sniffle coming from Seren’s room down the hall, and my stomach twists into a knot.

Reminding myself that this is temporary does nothing to squash the heartache that burns at the sound of her pain. Moving quickly into the room, I set my shower caddy on the desk, and the sight of the journal I’d given Seren catches my attention on the corner of my bed.

A beautiful guitar graces the cover. I open it and am not the least bit shocked by what she’s written.

I hate you. I don’t need a nanny. I don’t need anyone. Just leave me alone.

The pain she’s suffering is parallel to my own life. Different situations, but it hurts the same.

Taking my pen from the nightstand, I go back to the hallway and sit outside her room, then flip the notebook over to a fresh page.

I was ten when my dad died, eight when he got sick.

Shit. Am I really going to do this? I’ve never talked about this with anyone. Seren sniffles, and my hand glides across the paper. I’ll do whatever it takes to help her through this. It’s why I went to school for music therapy—if only I’d been able to stay in one place, I could have put it to better use.

At least the hotline still allows me to help.

The need to help a child in pain is a living, breathing part of my makeup with no off button, and it’s why my pen glides across the paper almost as fast as I can think.

Pappy’s camp was important to my dad. He loved music too, that’s why I’d gone. And why he left money in his will for me to keep going as long as I wanted.

My stepfather had other plans though.

When I was twelve, my mom remarried. Suddenly I had a new dad, and a stepsister. If you look up the name Haley Ford in the dictionary, you’ll really see what the devil looks like.

She wanted everything, and she got everything.

My room. My piano. My life.

But she didn’t have my camp. It’s what I waited for all year. It made all their terrible treatment and punishments worth it.

They came to the camp recital when I was thirteen. The one where I played that song your dad sang pieces of to you. I had my first-ever panic attack before I even started playing, and your dad came to my rescue. He sat with me while I faced my stage fright, my family’s glares, and began to play.

I got lost in the song.

I didn’t hear Haley screaming at her dad to make me stop.

I didn’t hear him approach, or when he scolded me for embarrassing him in front of strangers.

But I felt it when he ripped me away from the piano with such force that my feet left the ground. They removed me from camp that day, they took away my music, and my life changed forever.

My mother never stepped in. Not once.

I know how much it hurts to be let down by someone who is supposed to love you.

For me, things went from bad to worse, and I did what I had to survive. My only regret is that I allowed them to silence the music in my heart—even temporarily.

Don’t let that happen to you. You have a family who loves you and will support you always, so lose yourself in your art, not your anger. Express all those big feelings through music because you deserve to be heard. You’re allowed to tell the world how you feel.

You’re too special to allow someone else’s mistakes to rob you of your gift, and what you have is a gift. Don’t waste it because someone was too blind to see it for what it is.

XO,

Rowan

Closing the book, I knock quietly and enter after a few beats of silence.

The room is pale pink with light gray accents. It’s exactly what I would picture for a princess. Music notes decorate the walls, and a guitar sits in the corner with broken strings.

I place the notebook next to Seren on her bed and sit at the foot of it. Her little body shakes with silent tears, but her hand slips out and draws the notebook to her. I hear pages being flipped and hitches in her breath, so I move a few inches closer and place a hand on her back, hoping she’s read my note.

“My mother loved me once—in her own way,” I say softly. “After my father died, she lost herself. She became indifferent. It’s the indifference that hurt the most.”

Seren stops shaking, so I push on, even though she hasn’t poked her head out from her blankets yet.

“After that, nothing could hurt me. I took her indifference and made it my entire personality.”

“What did you do?” she whispers.

“Well, my situation is different than yours, but I think some of the feelings we’ve experienced may be similar.”

“How?” She still doesn’t pull her blankets down, but the tremor in her voice is lessening.

“You have a dad who loves you and will do anything for you. I had a cruel monster parading around as a doting stepfather. I haven’t experienced love since I was ten years old. But you can. You have your dad, and Pappy, your brothers. It’s easy to want to punish everyone around you, to make them experience the pain you’re feeling, and I don’t even fault you for it. You’re going through a tough time, but you can learn to handle all those big scary things while still allowing people to love you.”

I tap the notebook that has slipped out from beneath her blanket and she finally peeks out at me. “Write it down. Get it out. Sing about how unfair it all is until your voice is raw. I think you’ll be surprised by how much it helps. Musical therapy is a thing for a reason.”

“How did you handle it if you didn’t play anymore?”

When she scoots back to sit up, I flash her a wobbly smile. “The difference there is that I couldn’t play anymore. That choice was taken from me with a sledgehammer to my piano.”

She gasps and her eyes well. If she blinks, I’ll be forced to witness her tears as they fall.

“Things can be taken from us, Seren. But it doesn’t define who we are.”

“What did you do after your piano was ruined?”

I ran. I ran as far from home as I could get because I had no doubt the rage building in that house would be what ended me if I didn’t.

She doesn’t need to know that though. Instead, I say, “I left as soon as I could. I didn’t have anyone to lean on, but it was my only option. You have a lot of people who love you and a lot of people who want to help. All you have to do is ask.”

“I hate my mom,” she blurts, and immediately tucks herself under her blankets, but it’s too late. I saw the truth, the pain, and the confusion that confession causes her.

“I understand that emotion more than you could know,” I say. “She hurt you, and forgiveness is something that takes time.”

“She doesn’t care about my forgiveness.”

What do I say to that? I haven’t asked much about her mom, and suddenly that’s feeling like a massive error in judgment on my part.

“I hate my dad too,” she whispers so quietly I could almost convince myself I made it up. But when her body trembles, I know I didn’t.

Her statement makes my skin prickle. “Why do you hate your dad?”

“Because he didn’t make her stay. He didn’t try to fix us. Daddy always fixes us.”

Oh, sweet baby Jesus.

“Sometimes things can’t be fixed, sweetheart. But you will be happy again. I promise you.”

“Are you happy?”

Her question catches me off guard. Happiness isn’t something I’ve ever reached for. Survival is my way of life.

“There’s happiness to be found every day,” I say instead. I’m already in too deep with her. These are conversations for people who stay, for lifelong nannies who never plan to leave. They’re not for me—someone who only knows how to move on.

“You’re not so bad, I guess,” she mutters.

“Neither are you, kid.” I give her a crooked smile.

“Maybe—maybe we can help each other be happy again.”

The lump in my throat explodes like shrapnel.

“I’m happy to help,” I choke out. “And I’ll personally help you choose your permanent nanny too. Things will get better, Seren.”

She doesn’t reply, so I stand and place the notebook on her nightstand. I’m at the doorway and turning off her light when she speaks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into the darkness.

“I know.” Seren doesn’t elaborate, she doesn’t need to. I think I understand her more thoroughly than anyone else in my life.

Quietly, I pull her door shut and then nearly run to my room with my heart in my throat. I can’t get into my own bed fast enough. I’m running even though I haven’t left the house because the love lines of this family are slowly tying me to them one thread at a time, and I don’t know how to get free—or even if I want to.

I’m almost asleep when a tear falls down my face, startling me awake, and Seren’s words ring loud in the silence.

Maybe we can help each other be happy again.

The fucking noose I’ve been running from pulls tighter against my throat, and this little girl might be the one holding the rope.

“Single Dad Hotline, I’m your helper, how can I help you?” I ask, then gasp as my foot hits a slippery patch of grass and I’m forced to slow my run to a steady walk. Without my music blasting in my ears, the sounds of the forest accentuate the dark shadows caused by the early morning light hitting branches far above my head.

“Hi, did I wake you?” Seb’s tone is husky. Did he just wake up?

“Ah, no. I had a daddy emergency at four forty-five, so I decided to get up and work out. But I happen to know that all of your children are still sleeping peacefully and nothing has changed since we spoke last night, so what can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure. I just, I needed to call.”

Danger. Danger.

Keep us on task, Rowan. Do not go off the rails.

“Are you okay?” There go my fucking rails.

“Yes,” he says too sharply. “Yes, thank you.” He’s not fooling anyone with his forced softer tone.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No. Not really. My ex-VP made a thinly veiled threat against the kids. I haven’t been able to sleep since.”

I ran into Leo on the trail this morning. He told me a little more about Sebastian’s situation. That conversation also taught me that I shouldn’t tell Leo anything important. The man is a bigger gossip than TMZ.

Sweat dots my skin. This damn family makes me so freaking uncomfortable, but Sebastian especially.

“I can promise you that they’re safe, and they will be safe here. They’re in their own little bubble for now—it’s good for them.”

“Logically, I understand that. But not being there with them, it’s hard. I’m all they’ve had since their mother left—maybe even before that. I tried to do it all, I really did. I wanted the perfect family for them.”

The hair on my arms stands on end. “You know that perfection isn’t something tangible in a family, right? Families, the way families should be anyway, are full of imperfections that are applauded and revered. It’s the unconditional love in the face of those imperfections that make a family perfect.”

Or so I’ve been told. Thank you, Family Psych 101.

I swear I hear him swallow over the line. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to create the family I never had but always wanted. I wanted so badly to give my children a childhood without the trauma that shaped me, and I failed. Miserably failed.”

A crack of thunder sounds overhead, drawing my attention to the dark clouds that rolled in while I was solely focused on the timbre of Sebastian’s voice.

“Being aware of what you want to give them, in spite of whatever you’ve gone through, is already doing better than your past.”

“What about you?” he asks. A drop of rain hits my forehead, so I turn around on the trail that will lead me to the house.

“What about me?”

“Well, you didn’t have an idyllic childhood. Did that shape you and the kind of family you want and surround yourself with?”

My laughter is a little unhinged. “No, actually. I stay away from entanglements altogether. I’m temporary, remember? I use my history as a reminder to help children find people who can give them the love and affection they need.”

“You make it sound as though you don’t give those things.”

My feet squelch in the mud, and I slide down a small hill. When I’ve gotten my footing, I focus on what he said.

“I don’t. Not really. Don’t get me wrong, I give the children in my care what they need, but I’m more of a wordsmith than a hugger. But I do realize children need affection, so I make sure I’m always?—”

“Temporary.” His tone is low and whisper-soft, almost as though he’s repeating something so unfathomable, he doesn’t dare say it too loud. “That’s a lonely fucking existence, Peach.”

That knife only he can wield slips between my ribs. He’s always called me Peach with so much affection my body would go numb, but when he says it now, it’s a wildfire, blazing hot as it races across every pore.

And yet, I don’t, can’t, acknowledge the stupid nickname that means so much I tattooed the damn thing to my body—a small peach on the inside of my wrist that’s always covered by my crystals.

“It’s survival, Sebastian.” I don’t know what makes me hiss his name, but I do know he has no right to judge how I live my life. “Not all of us get the happily ever after. Not all of us have the same capacity to give or receive love, and that’s a fact.”

“Do you think this is weird?”

His subject change has me spinning in a circle, glaring at the clouds as if someone up there’s to blame for all the turmoil uncoiling in my mind.

“What? Do I think what’s weird?”

“That we’re bickering like we’ve known each other our entire lives?”

My stomach lurches up to my throat, but the rest of my body behaves in a very different way.

When did fighting turn into foreplay?

“We’re not?—”

“We are. I remember finding you behind the snack shack at camp. You were crying, but you wouldn’t tell me why.”

“I was eleven. What’s your point?”

“I was thirteen, and I came to your rescue then. You hated it and did everything you could to make me leave you alone. You did the same thing when I found you at the pavilion, hiding from swim lessons.”

“I was a chubby kid who hated bathing suits.”

“You were perfect. You were my friend.”

I snort, thankful he can’t see the blush heating my cheeks.

“And after that asshole dumped paint water on you, I chased you into the woods, sat with you against that giant tree, and talked at you until you eventually gave in and talked back to me.”

“Okay, so you’re relentless. What’s your point?”

“My point is, in the end, I always made you laugh and would sit with you until you were ready to face the other campers, but it was the story you hid behind your eyes that has always stayed with me.”

My throat itches. I must have formed a new allergy in the last ten minutes. Can I sue him if I go into anaphylactic shock because of him?

No. I do not get worked up and emotional. I just don’t, so I reach for anger instead.

“Yeah, well, I remember you taking pity on me when I was twelve, and no one, I mean no one would choose me to be on their team—for anything. In whiffle ball, they pretended they didn’t see me. Arts and crafts, oops, sorry, there wasn’t enough room at their table. I know you always felt bad for me, but honestly, you didn’t need to do it then and you certainly don’t need to do it now. I. Am. Fine.” My nostrils flare with my last three words.

“That wasn’t pity, Peach. That was friendship, and we can—will be friends again. I know we could fight about this all day, but I have a meeting with an office in London that’s about to start, so I’ll leave you with one thing to remember. It’s never been pity I felt when I looked at you. Not when you were ten, not when you were thirteen, and definitely not now.”

“Then wh?—”

Ping.

Did he? That asshole hung up on me.

“Rowan?” A little voice breaks through the torrent of words and memories swirling in my mind. I spin to find Miles standing in front of me holding an umbrella. He’s on his tiptoes trying to share his shelter.

“Miles? What are you doing out here?” My surroundings come rushing back as if time had forgotten to move and now it’s speeding up to fit in all that it’s missed. How long have I been standing outside of the house in the rain? Nothing’s penetrated my armor since I first put it on. Nothing but Sebastian, and that’s a huge problem.

“I saw you standing in the rain. I don’t want you to get sick. Come inside before you get sick, please.” The worry in his voice makes my body tremble.

“Oh, right. Let’s go.” I usher him toward the porch. “Sorry, buddy. I was on the phone and then got lost in a daydream.”

He smiles shyly. “I like to daydream.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask while shaking out his umbrella under the cover of the front porch.

“Yeah, in daydreams things can be however you want them to be. You don’t have to feel any sort of way but happy.”

Suddenly I hear a ticking in my soul—a time bomb waiting to go off. I haven’t learned what the triggers are yet so I have no idea when it will explode—but I know with certainty that it will.