Chapter 13
“ I ’m sorry, Daddy.” I shrink into myself after Bo leaves. With him gone, I don’t feel so brave anymore. “Really, I am,” I say softly.
“You like Bo.” Dad is direct and gets right to the point.
“Yes.” I unwind a bit. Remembering Bo is in my corner gives me a boost of confidence. “He doesn’t treat me like the other kids do.” My chin comes up. “He thinks it’s cool that I like to read.”
“I think that’s cool too.”
“But…” I trail off, giving him a disbelieving look. “You’re always telling me to get my nose out of my books.”
“I’m sorry about that.” He comes to where I’m sitting on the edge of the bed.
My eyes widen in response to his apology.
“Yeah,” he says dryly. “I get that apologies from me are rare. And I have my reasons for cautioning you about all the reading.” He sits beside me. “But I never meant to hurt your feelings.” He glances at the ceiling. “Since I’m saying I’m sorry, you might want to scoot away and watch out for lightning.”
I giggle.
“Your dad’s not perfect, Peace. I should apologize more often. Tell you I love you more than I do.” His voice roughens. “But I love you. So much.”
“I know, Daddy.” I believe he loves me when my doubt doesn’t overwhelm me.
“Are you getting too old for me to hug you?” he asks, opening his arms.
Emotion swells inside me as I uncross my legs and hurl myself at him. I can’t even speak when he hugs me and kisses the top of my head. His warmth and the familiar scent of his woodsy cologne surround me.
“I love you, my little bookworm, just the way you are,” he confides softly, but the power of those words is a megaphone. “I might have trouble understanding you at times, but I love you with my entire heart. You get that, right?”
“Yeah.” I snuggle closer. “I love you too.”
His arms tighten around me. For the first time in a long time, I feel hope and wonder if maybe I’m wrong. Should I stop trying so hard to be who he wants me to be? Can he truly accept me, books and all? Can someone who thrives in the limelight understand someone who shuns it?
The next day, my dad proves that he’s trying to understand me. While Mom takes Harmony to a play, Dad drives me to the local library that would have been closed, except he pulled strings. My only disappointment is that I didn’t get to see Bo before we left the house.
“So why books?” my dad asks as I browse the shelves wearing my bookish T-shirt that says BOOKS ARE MY HAPPY PLACE.
“Why books what?” Not understanding the question, I shift to look at him.
“Why do you like them so much?” he clarifies, not whispering since we have the library all to ourselves.
“Because of the stories, of course.” I withdraw yet another book from the shelf and put it on top of the stack he’s holding. “Because of the places those stories can take me. Because of the emotions they make me feel.”
He nods reflectively. “I can appreciate that.”
“Really?” I tilt my head.
“Sure,” he says. “I’m not big on reading myself. But I’m glad you’ve found something you’re passionate about.”
“The way you’re passionate about music,” I guess.
“Definitely. At one time, songs were my only escape from a real shitty, I mean, terrible reality.”
“So music is like books for you.” He has that in common with Bo. And me too, but not to the degree it is for them.
“I guess you’re right.” He studies me for a long moment, his expression contemplative as he takes his time to absorb what I said. “Before Avery left, I overheard you talking to her and telling her who your favorite bands are.”
“I like Tempest.” My cheeks warm, remembering I left them off my list.
“It’s okay to like other groups besides your dad’s. Just not other types of music.” His eyes, which are light brown and gold flecked like mine, take on a teasing glint. “Only rock music. No country. Ugh. I couldn’t forgive you if you liked that.” He makes a face.
“I like books and music,” I share a little more. “Especially songs that make me feel something like stories do.”
“Feel how?” He leans closer, his warmth washing over me.
I open my mouth and then close it. This is personal, and I’m suddenly afraid to explain, worried he might take it the wrong way.
“You know you can tell me anything,” he urges gently, tucking a strand of my long blond hair behind my ear.
“When I’m reading certain books or listening to some songs, I feel safe, like I have a place to belong.”
He’s silent for a long moment. “Where do you feel unsafe or like you don’t belong?”
“School, mostly.” I bite down on my lip.
“And where else?” he presses, seeming to realize I’m holding something back.
My shoulders come up to kiss my ears. “At home sometimes.”
He flinches, and I wish I could take back the telling admission.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter and drop my chin.
“Don’t be sorry,” he insists, and I glance up to find him watching me closely. “You know a little about my past and how I grew up. Right?”
“Yes.” I nod. “You lived in Southside. It was…is a rough area. Your mom worked at a convenience store. You didn’t have any money, and you never knew your dad.”
“My mom regretted ever having me.” He drops that bomb and my jaw drops too. “I was an expense; one she couldn’t afford. My dad refused to admit I was his. Both my parents made it very clear they wished I’d never been born.”
“That’s awful.” I blink back a sudden rush of tears. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“I’m not sharing because I want you to feel bad for me.” His expression darkens.
“I know. It’s not that. It’s just…” I trail off, more wetness seeping into my eyes.
“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he says, his tone and expression lightening. “I’m still defensive about all that. I shared because I wanted you to know that it was tough for me, both emotionally and physically, when I was young.”
I nod, my throat too constricted to speak.
I know my dad, know he hates talking about emotional stuff. But now I know why. Obviously, he didn’t have a good example growing up like Mom had with her parents.
“In the schools I went to in Southside,” he continues, “you would get the crap beat out of you if you showed emotion or acted interested in school or things like reading.”
“I understand.” Feeling bad for the boy he was and what he endured, my bottom lip wobbles.
“I just want you to know where I came from and how it has affected me.”
“Okay, I understand.” I pin my trembling lip between my teeth.
“What I mean is, I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong.” He gives it to me raw and real, like he gives it to his fans in his music. “The only place I felt right before I met your mom was fronting Tempest. I don’t want that to be the case for you. I want you to feel like you belong inside our home, not just sometimes but all the time.”
He frowns, and I’m not entirely sure why until he speaks again.
“School is outside my control, but a word of advice.” He gives me an expectant look and I nod for him to continue. “It would be easier for you at school if you tried a little harder to blend in, or at least not to stand out so much.”
“I can do that.” That is a truth that stings, but I square my shoulders, determined to try. I want him to be proud of me. I don’t want to embarrass him.
“Good.” He gives me an approving nod. “Being different at school makes you a target to get your ass kicked.”
We regard each other for a long moment and the gap that I thought had diminished between us expands, maybe even wider than before.
“I get that books are your friends.” He’s the first to fill the silence. “But maybe if you set them aside when you’re at school, you’ll find a real friend who’ll have your back, yeah?”
“Okay.” I force my chin up and spit out words he wants to hear. “I’ll try harder at home too.”
“You shouldn’t have to try at home, baby.” He sets down the stack of books and pulls me into his arms. “You’re my daughter, mine and your mom’s. If you don’t feel like you belong, that’s our fault, not yours.”
Lifting my head with a curled finger, he swipes the spilled emotion from my cheeks. But his tenderness doesn’t comfort me the way Bo’s tenderness does.
“I love you, Peace. I’m grateful to have you, your sister, and your mom. You get that, right?”
“Yeah, Daddy.” I bob my head. “I know.” He’s saying I’m his daughter, just like Harmony, which is good, but he wants me to change, to be more like her. So he might not hate me like I told my sister, but he doesn’t accept me the way I am. That isn’t the type of love I need. Is it even really love if it comes with limits and conditions?