33. Blakely
THIRTY-THREE
Blakely
When I wake up in the morning, he’s gone.
I panic for a few seconds, thinking it was either a dream or that he decided I wasn’t worth it, until I roll to my side and see a note left on my nightstand. Smiling to myself, I reach out and pick it up, a giddiness dancing through me.
The paper crinkles in my hand as I roll onto my back and read it.
Princess,
Left early so no one would see and didn’t want to wake you. Can I see you tonight?
—Jax
My arms and legs smack against the bed as I squeal, happier than I can remember being in a long time.
But the happiness never lasts.
Slowly, the reality of my situation knits its way through the joy, reminding me of all the ways my world is twisted upside down.
Ugh.
Glancing at the clock, I spring from the bed, irritation pricking under my skin from oversleeping. I rush through my morning routine, cursing myself because I know that this is going to throw off my entire day. But there are some things I just can’t skip over, and as my eyes bounce from the scale to the measuring tape that’s still lying haphazardly on the floor, dread stomps my chest like a stampede, the comments from the day before clouding my mind.
It’s fine . I just need to work harder.
My insecurities dangle from the gaping hole in my stomach, but I grip the measuring tape in my hand and take a deep breath, preparing myself to get through it.
I already know the numbers have fluctuated.
Of course they have, you idiot.
Sierra’s words ring through my head, and even though she said them in passing, they stick to my bones and curdle my insides.
Puffy .
I don’t think I’ve ever hated a word so much.
Rushing through the measurements and trying not to compare them to the other numbers on my wall, I slip into my workout gear and head downstairs to grab a water bottle and get in some fasted cardio.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee makes me stop short.
Who the hell would be here, drinking coffee?
My stomach tightens and I cautiously place one foot in front of the other until I’m standing in the entryway to our gourmet kitchen.
The breath is sucker punched from my lungs as I take in the sight of my father sitting in the breakfast nook, a cup of coffee on the table and a newspaper blocking his face from my view.
I clear my throat, my heart stuttering as I make my way farther into the room. Heading to the fridge to grab my water, my eyes trail back to him every few seconds.
The noise must catch his attention because the top right corner of the paper flops down, his dark-chocolate eyes gazing at me from across the island.
“Hey, honey.”
I swallow, his voice sucking me into my memories. To a time when hearing him speak in the mornings was commonplace—something that happened every week. Then every weekend. Until eventually it whittled down to nothing and that became our new normal.
Seeing him here now is jarring.
My head cocks as I take him in, wondering what the cause of his sudden appearance is. I already know it isn’t me.
It’s never me.
“Hi,” I murmur, opening up the fridge so I don’t have to meet his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.” His tone is light. Teasing. But try as I might, I can’t find it in me to match his amusement.
“You sure about that?” I huff under my breath.
“What was that?” he asks.
I spin from the fridge, gripping the water bottle tight in my hand. “Nothing.” I shake my head, forcing a smile on my face. “It’s just nice to see you is all.”
His eyes light up with his grin and my chest pulls tight. It’s so rare to see it, I had almost forgotten it existed.
He places the newspaper down, picking up his mug and sipping. “I thought we could spend the day together.”
His request pierces through my skin, squeezing my heart until it’s numb to the bruising.
My teeth sink into my lower lip and gnaw, my mind like a seesaw as I weigh the pros and cons, resisting the urge to cancel everything that’s on my schedule just to appease him. But then I remember that he’s never done the same for me and resentment billows inside of me, wondering why, in a world where money is limitless and everyone knows my name, I can’t make my father love me enough to put me first.
My jaw tics and I straighten. “Oh, sorry. I can’t today.”
His smile drops, a melancholy shadow swirling through the chocolate of his eyes. A sting finds its way to the center of my chest, but I bat it away, letting his voice from the other day play through my head, reminding me of all the ways he thinks I’m up for lease .
He frowns. “Can’t rearrange your schedule, just this once?”
My brows shoot to my hairline. The irony in his question is rich and it tastes a lot like hypocrisy. How many times have I asked him to rearrange his work schedule for me, and how many times has he actually done it?
“Sorry, nope. I know you don’t consider what I do work, but it is, and I can’t just cancel things. Especially since I’m spending most of my time at Donahue Motors, working for you. ”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s for your own good.”
I cross my arms. “And suddenly you’re an expert on what’s good for me?”
Hurt flashes across his face and it makes my stomach tighten. I squeeze the water bottle in my hand to keep from apologizing.
“First of all, cut the attitude.” His eyes narrow and anger spikes through my stomach. “Secondly, I just don’t want to see all of your wasted potential. You need direction, and I can give you that.”
I need a father.
It’s on the tip of my tongue, but instead of letting it out, I gulp around the words, my eyes watering from the sting as they drop back down and settle in my chest.
“Look, Dad.” I sigh. “The only wasted potential here is our relationship.” I glance away as I say it, not wanting to see whether my jab will hit its mark, or worse, if he’ll seem unfazed.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I shoot back. A knot of emotion surges through my throat and teases the back of my eyelids. “You know what’s not fair? That I’m doing what you ask. I’m always doing what you ask. I’ve given up my own dreams to placate your wish that I sit behind a reception desk and do absolutely nothing. You want to talk about wasted potential? Let’s start there.”
My chest heaves as I suck in a deep breath, my free hand clenching into a fist at my side.
One. Two. Three.
His forehead creases. “Let’s talk about it, then. What’s your dream, Blakely?”
His question catches me off guard, my hand reaching up to rub at the sudden ache in my chest. “It’s…”
A pit opens in the center of my stomach when the words don’t come. My rehearsed lines, my goals from the past few years, suddenly none of it seems concrete. Not the way it used to be. Now…now I just feel like I’m wading in murky water, trying like hell to find solid ground.
My spine stiffens and I stick out my chin. “If you don’t know that by now, then I don’t know what to tell you.”
My heart squeezes tight when his eyes droop.
“Look,” I continue. “I told you I’d do it, but I wish you’d realize I don’t have to. I make my own money.” I smack my chest. “I make my own way.”
Desperation oozes out with every breath, willing him to notice all the hard work I put in. How much effort it takes for me to be seen.
He shakes his head. “I’m talking about a sustainable career path, Blakely. Not a celebrity flash in the pan.” His finger jams into his newspaper. “You think they’ll care about you in five years? You think they care about you now ?”
My throat swells. “Yeah, well…at least they remember I exist.”
His jaw snaps shut, the muscles working tight as he stares at me.
I turn around quickly, walking away before he can see the heartbreak he causes sliding down my face.
He doesn’t deserve my tears.