will.”
Her brows pinch together—half with heartbreak, half with anger. She steps away from me, her voice breaking. “I do not want to be the sacrifice you make! I never did! We both deserve better than that.”
And then she launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist, her soft warmth aligned with mine, burying her face in my chest, refusing to let go. I hold her right back, tight and safe, kissing the top of her head, murmuring gentle words, pressing my nose to her hair because it smells so sweet.
We stay like that for a while, until her tears are all dried up. And it just feels . . . sad. Like the very last minutes of a funeral.
“I’m marrying JD on Saturday, Stanton. I need you to understand.”
I grip her arms and lean back, so she can see my eyes. “It’s a mistake. I came here for you. I’m not giving up on us. Understand that.”
“You don’t know—” she starts.
But then I get an idea and I cut her off with a comically heavy Alabama accent. “I’m not a smart man, Jen-ney. But I know what love is . . .”
She covers her ears, and squeaks, “Don’t do that! Don’t you Forrest Gump me! You know that movie makes me cry, you evil sonofabitch.”
She punches me on the arm, both of us almost smiling.
“Yeah, I know.” I sweep her blond hair back, letting the heat of my hand seep through her T-shirt, rubbing my thumb along the ridge of her collarbone. “Does he know that? Does he know you like I do, Jenn?” I step closer, leaning toward her. “Does he know how much you like those long, wet kinds of kisses or how licking that spot behind your—”
Her hand covers my mouth. She peers up at me with patient amusement, like I’m an incorrigible adolescent. “That’s enough, you. He knows me—some things better than even you. What he doesn’t know, he’ll have plenty of time to find out.”
I stick out my tongue, licking circles on her palm.
She squeals and snatches it away.
“I want you to meet him, Stanton. He’s a good man. You’ll like him.”
I cross my arms. “If he’s breathing, there’s no way I’m gonna like him.”
Jenny jerks her thumb toward my truck. “C’mon, take me home. Presley will be done with cheerleadin’ soon.”
“Let’s pick her up,” I suggest as we walk side by side to the truck. “Together. She’ll like that.”
“All right.”
I reach out to hold Jenny’s hand, like I’ve done a million times before, but she moves it away. I frown. Then I snatch it, not letting her escape, purposely entwining all of our fingers.
She gazes impassively. “You done?”
Holding her eyes, I slowly bring her knuckles to my lips. “Darlin’, I have not even begun to start.”
She stares up at my face, looking like she can’t decide if she wants to laugh or burst into tears—maybe both at the same time. Her hand cups my jaw, her head shaking.
“Oh, Stanton, I know I’ve turned this whole thing into a shit-show . . . but I have missed you.”
12
Stanton
After I drop Jenny off at her parents’ house, I bring Presley to mine. She and Sofia seem to hit it off when I introduce them in my old room. Then the two of us head outside, tossing a football. My throw spirals through the air, arching midway, then comes to rest in her hands. A perfect pass.
It’s nice to know I’ve still got it.
She aligns her fingers on the laces like I’ve shown her since she was old enough to hold a ball and launches it back. She most certainly has her daddy’s arm.
It’s not that I want her going out for the football team or anything, but I think there are certain skills every girl should learn—if only so they’re not overly impressed when some cocky little prick comes along trying to show off. How to change a tire, throw a football, ride a horse, drive a manual transmission—how to change the oil in a car is important too.
Plus, our catches give us time to talk. To reconnect when I’ve been away for months at a time. I’ve always imagined having those chats when she’s a teenager—about drinking, smoking, screwing—will be less awkward if there’s a football between us.
“So . . . what do you think about this weddin’ business?”
She giggles as she catches. “Were you surprised? I was gonna tell you all about it last week, but Momma said to wait—she said you’d be really surprised.”
I force a smile. “Oh, I was surprised, alright.”
“I get to be the flower girl!” She practically bounces. “My dress is blue and satin, and I feel just like a princess in it. And Granny got me blue slippers to match. Momma said I can get my hair done up and I can wear lip gloss!”
Her enthusiasm loosens my lips into a more genuine grin. “That’s good, baby girl.”
Presley’s next pass is wide, and I jog to grab it as it bounces on the grass. “And this JD guy . . . you like him?”
My daughter nods. “Yeah, he’s real nice. He makes Momma all giggly.”
Giggly? Wonder if she’ll fucking giggle when I remove his head from his shoulders.
“What, ah . . . What are you gonna call him . . . if he and your momma get married?”
She holds the ball, her tiny features scrunched in contemplation. “Well, I’ll call him JD, o’course. That’s his name, silly.”
My breath comes out in a quick relieved burst, sounding like a gravelly chuckle. I catch Presley’s pass, then ask, “But you’re sure you like him?”
She stares at me for a moment.
Thinking.
“Do you not want me to like him, Daddy?”
Times like this never cease to amaze me. All the things we don’t say in front of children to preserve their innocence, the words we spell, the actions we hide so they don’t copy our bad habits. Like the way my father used to smoke behind the barn, out of view. But we could still smell it on him.
They don’t listen to what we say—they look at how we say it, picking up on the undercurrent of emotion like a sixth sense.
And they just know.
I don’t want to share my daughter’s affection with another man. But I also don’t want to tear her in half—make her choose between the two people she loves most in the world. It’s not her job to protect my feelings or her mother’s. It’s our job to protect hers.
And I hate myself just a little bit for the fact that she felt the need to ask.
I walk to her and kneel down so we’re eye level. “I want you to be happy, Presley—you and your momma. And I want you to tell me if the day ever comes that you’re not. But I never want you to feel that you can’t like him, or anyone, because of me. Does that make sense?”
“Will you be sad when Momma and JD get married?”
How the hell am I supposed to answer that one? Well, darling, I’m here to make sure that never happens.
I tip my hat back and deflect. “Will you?”
Her smile is shy, like she’s about to reveal a secret. “When I was little . . .”
“When was that?” I tease. “Last year?”
She pushes my shoulder playfully. “Nooo . . . when I was little . . . like five or six. I used to wish on the stars before I went to bed. After Momma tucked me in, I’d climb out, look out the window . . . and I’d wish for you to come home.”
A knot twists in my chest, tighter and tighter, until I can barely breathe past it.
“Or that you’d take me and Momma with you to DC and we’d stay there . . . forever.”
Jenny and I are good parents, I don’t doubt that . . . but it’s hard to hear that you’ve let your child down. To know they wished fervently for something that was actually in your power to give . . . but you just didn’t.
“I didn’t know you did that, Presley.” I avert my eyes and pick at the blades of grass. “Do you still wish that?”
“No.” She sighs thoughtfully. “You’re happy there. You have your office and the White House . . . and you have Jake. And Momma’s happy here. And now she
has JD to keep her company.”
Great—Momma gets JD and I get Jake the fucking grouch. What’s wrong with this picture?
Then she perks up even more. “Plus, this way I get two Christmases—who in their right mind would be sad about that?”
I laugh outright. And pull her into my arms. “I love you, baby girl.”
She wraps her arms around my shoulders and squeezes with all her might. “I love you too.”
13
Sofia
Presley Shaw was everything I’d pictured she’d be, from the sound of her voice and the photographs that fill Stanton’s apartment. Vivacious, sweet, with a mischievous shine in her eyes that reminds me of her father.
I continued to work after Stanton popped in to tell me he was driving her back to Jenny’s parents’. I was still drafting a brief as the sunlight outside faded and the orange fireball in the sky slipped lower on the horizon.
I put my laptop away only when Mrs. Shaw came to collect me for dinner. The table was set, with Marshall, Mary, and Carter Shaw Sr., Stanton’s dad, already seated—it seems family dinners are a consistent thing, with a regularly set time. Mr. Shaw is a tall, burly man with a handsome, weathered face and stoic disposition. The strong, silent type. He’s older than his wife by about ten years, I’d guess, but there’s a tenderness in the way he looks at her and a devotion in her voice that tells me theirs is a happy marriage.
I was the center of attention, answering questions about my family, about growing up in Chicago, and regaling them with stories of DC courtroom shenanigans. In between bites of delicious pot roast and potatoes, they told me tales about Stanton—high school football glories, an adolescent prank that almost burned the house down, and how he broke his leg when he was five jumping off the roof because he was sure his Superman Underoos would give him the power to fly.
A place at the table was set for Stanton—but his chair remained empty.
After dinner, back in his room, I call Brent to check in. Apparently Sherman is becoming quite accustomed to his new standard of living, and might not want to come back to me. Ever.
After a shower, I slip into a chocolate-colored nightgown, dry my hair, and open the window before lying on the bed, on top of the covers. It’s a cool night and the crisp air feels good on my skin. My eyes get heavier as I watch the window. Waiting to see headlights, the return of a certain black pickup.
No, not just waiting. It’s much worse than that.
I’m hoping.
• • •