Show Me the Way (Fight for Me 1)

“Not sure I can give you that kind of chance, Janel.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“Who you abandoned,” I bit out, voice muted so Frankie couldn’t hear.

A sob tore from her. A loud, guttural moan. “I’m so sorry,” she whimpered. “So sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up to her. Anything. Please give me a chance. I just need to see my daughter.”

33

Rynna

I stumbled into my house, drawing in big, sucking breaths. Trying to keep it together when I already knew that was impossible.

Janel.

Janel.

Rex.

Frankie.

Oh God.

Agony sliced through my being, cutting me in two. Clutching Milo to my chest, I tipped my head back toward the ceiling. Tears slicked down my face and dripped into my hair.

Why?

Why did life have to be so cruel? Fate twisted. Warped and perverted.

I set Milo on his feet and frantically dug in my bag to find my phone. Uncontrollably, my hands shook when I tried to find Macy’s contact. Finally, I managed to push send. It rang twice before her groggy voice came onto the line. “Hello?”

It was three hours earlier there. No doubt, I’d pulled her from sleep. But I needed her. Had no one else to turn to. Sorrow wrenched from me on panted, shattered cries. No words but the tumble of frenzied, horrified confusion that gripped my mind.

“Ryn . . . is that you?” I could picture her shaking herself out of the haze of sleep. Panic surged into her voice. “Ryn, what’s wrong? Tell me what happened.”

“She’s here.” It was a whimper.

“Who?” she demanded before she caught on. Silence eclipsed the flood of worry that had been rolling from her mouth. “Shit,” she muttered. “Where’d you run into her?”

“She’s . . .” I struggled to find the explanation, choking over the revulsion at even having to say it. “She’s Frankie’s mom.”

A moan slipped from my tongue.

“Oh God, Rynna . . . sweetheart . . . shit. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t believe it,” I whispered.

Rex. The man I’d lost myself to.

She’d belonged to him. I couldn’t stomach it. The picture of her touching him. Of him touching her.

Sickness spun.

Spun and spun and spun.

Riding an agitator that fully wrung me out.

“Does he know?”

Grief constricted my chest. “No.” It was a wheeze. “I finally told him last night what’d happened. But he has no idea it was her.”

That was when I hadn’t thought it would matter. When the name and face meant absolutely nothing because the only thing remaining had been the scars.

Those scars had been ripped wide open.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. She’s . . . she’s over there now, and I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m supposed to do. She’s her mother.”

It dropped from me like a stone.

Sorrow.

Dejection.

Regret.

Janel was Frankie Leigh’s mother. That was a fact I couldn’t change. One I couldn’t stand in the way of, no matter how much I loved that little girl.

“Ryn, I’m so sorry. Tell me what to do. How can I make this better?”

“I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

“I can’t stand the idea of you clear across the country hurting and no one there to feed you gallons of ice cream.”

I choked out a soggy laugh. “I wish you were here, too.”

“If you need me, you know I’m on the first plane. You say the word, and I’m there.”

“I know, thank you.”

“Just . . . hold tight, Ryn. He’s probably as shocked as you are. See what comes of it. What he has to say.”

I nodded. It was the only rational thing I could do.

Wait.

And I thought the waiting just might kill me.

Three hours later, I was at the diner. It turned out I couldn’t wait. Couldn’t sit idle while Janel was directly across the street with Rex and Frankie. Not when I couldn’t see through the walls or hear what they were saying.

Torture. I couldn’t find another word to describe the turmoil that seethed within. Pulling and ripping and grinding. It felt as if I were being torn apart, rended by white-hot agony.

So, I went to the one place I would find solace. I stood holding a sledgehammer in my hands, blinking into the dimness of the old restaurant as if I had any clue what to do with it.

As if I could make a difference.

A thick coat of dust had settled on the floor, and plastic sheets covered the booths that had been moved against one wall, waiting for the contractor who’d been hired to reupholster them. The old tabletops ripped out, the empty spaces waiting for new tables to be delivered.

It was amazing what Rex’s men had already accomplished.

It seemed almost a dream now. The excitement and hope I’d felt the last time I’d been in this very spot just a couple of days ago, envisioning its completion. The day I would finally be able to turn on the neon open sign I’d ordered. When customers would begin to pile in, eager for a taste of my grandmother’s legacy that would become my own.