Nip it in the Bud (Bunch-A-Blooms 3)

“Same.” I rest my head on her chest for a moment. “Time for me to get you inside, beautiful.”

“Yeah.” She sighs and climbs off me. My lap feels empty and my hand itches to grip her ass once more. I look up at the ceiling and release a deep breath before I move to leave the truck. The walk up to her home takes forever.

“I had a good time today. Thank you for coming with me.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.” I kiss her gently. “I’ll set something up with the girls soon.”

“Okay. D-do you think they’ll like me?”

“I think once they get to know you they will, but they’ve been hurt by the one woman who was supposed to always have their back, and it’s left a scar. If their reception is icy, don’t take it personal.”

I glance down. I’m always going to feel guilt over the damage Monica has inflicted.

“Hey, I get it.” She cups my face. “It’s not on you. It’s pretty clear we’re both in this for the long run. I don’t scare easy.”

I pour my feelings into our kiss. Ilana and Neomi are my world, having someone who understands what they need and why they are the way they are is everything to me. I step back.

“Goodnight, Willow.”

“Night, Drew.”

I shove my hands in my pockets as I walk toward the car and start making plans.

Chapter Four

Drew

I scribble down the words, desperate to capture them before they disappear into the ether. I always do my best writing under pressure. Between the new thing developing with Willow and the papers filed for an Involuntary Termination of Parental rights being drawn up for Monica, I’m dealing with polar opposites. I’m looking at what I mistook for love and what I hope will develop into the right kind of love. It’s great for material, but hell on me personally.

The sun is just starting to rise in the sky and turn the inky night into something beautiful. The girls won’t be up for another hour, and I’ve been writing in my room writing since I woke from a nightmare around four this morning. The thing I had with Monica is getting under my skin. Our relationship was twisted from the start. We were two young kids, looking to fill an emptiness inside with pills and each other.

We fought, fucked, got high, and made up. It was a vicious, sick cycle made up of insane thinking. How the hell we thought anything would get better when we weren’t willing to change I can’t say. Thinking about that version of me makes me sick. We worked solely to feed our addiction. The habit damn near stole the girls from us. They were tiny, premature, and weak as kittens coming in under the three-pound mark.

I arrived just in time to watch the girls come into the world. The moment I laid eyes on their dark skin and the cap of black hair I knew they weren’t mine, not biologically. But none of it mattered. I knew Monica was in no shape to take care of them, and I refused to watch them become wards of the state. Knowing I’d gotten high with her while these precious beings were still inside of her, the one place they should be safest, brought me to my knees right there in the room. It was a come to Jesus meeting as the girls were rushed off to the neonatal unit. Seeing them in distress as the doctors swooped in like a group of pigeons coming after a piece of bread broke something loose inside of me … or maybe it realigned it.

In a way, the girls were what made my first shot at sobriety stick. I wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize their well-being. All the late night feedings, diaper changes, and firsts were experienced by me while Monica went through a detox and rehabilitation program. She was lucky. They’d taken pity on the new mother who’d never been caught using before. They gave her a shot to change her life and travel a different path.

She’d done her mandatory ninety-days, got out, managed three months clean, and blew it all with a high. I’ll never forget walking into our apartment to find her high as hell with the kids just a few feet away in a pack and play. I kicked her out, and the back and forth began with the kids. Streaks of a good runs were ruined by relapses and downward spirals hidden until they were so out of control it was obvious.

I set the pen down and stand, cracking my neck. Today the letter will be delivered while I lay down another track in the studio. I plan on channeling all that anger into “Good-bye.” I’m shutting the door on that chapter and opening a new one. Which means coming clean to Ilana and Neomi.

My girls are more observant than most. They study their environment and people’s behavior—a leftover tactic from living with a mom who was prone to going off the rails. They’ve asked where I go. Usually, when I’m home, I’m glued to their side twenty-four-seven. This time around I’ve been carving out time for Willow. I want to believe they’ll like her, but women make them wary. We’ve been dating for nearly two months and I know I’m not letting her go. There are more things to learn, and details to smooth out, but she’s my one.

The last thought before I go to bed, and the first one before I wake up, she’s haunting me like a ghost. My choices a

re influenced by her, and I count the minutes until I can see her again. We do more than have fun. We talk about things. Things I’ve kept close to my chest for years roll off my tongue with ease. If we’re going to work, she and the girls have to meet. With the tour schedule looming, I want the growing pains settled before I leave for the road. I set the new song developing aside and head to the shower. I’ll butter them up with their favorite breakfast.

After tossing the clothes into a hamper, I turn on the spray. I step into the heated water and bow my head, wishing I could rinse the dark memories down the drain. I’m still praying for a miracle. Maybe this once, she’ll open her eyes and put the girls first.

** *

I set the table with a pitcher of milk and orange juice as the sweet smell of the cinnamon apple French toast casserole fills the air. The girls stumble in like zombies, and I smile over the rim of my coffee mug. They’re no longer little girls. They’re young women. It’s a tough pill to swallow as they move toward me in their uniforms. Neomi has a high ponytail, and Ilana has a side part and free flowing curls that frame her oval-shaped face. I remember when I had to do their hair for them.

“Something smells really good, Dad,” Neomi says.

“It’s your favorite.”

“French toast casserole?” Ilana asks. Her eyes light up, and I nod.