Chapter 4
LYDIA
I fumed the whole way back to my dad's house.
Anger had my hands shaking as I gripped the steering wheel, and my stomach clenched.
Because without Brand's help, the task I'd set for myself was going to be even harder to accomplish.
I refuse to let the word "impossible" assign itself to the job I've given myself.
Because if I do, I'm afraid there's no hope of it happening.
The front door sticks, and I have to put my shoulder against it and shove before it finally opens. It's been like that for so long and every time I mentioned it, Dad would say, "I'll get around to it."
Except he never did. Time ran out, and there were so many things left unfinished.
Looking around the dim, dusty living room, the weight of what I've taken on fully hits me.
All these reminders of the man I loved and respected surround me, and there's no doubt it's still his place.
His home. But I was happy here with him.
And while the happiness is hard to find in these moments, I still feel safe and comforted.
There's no giving up allowed when I'm in this place.
Just like every time he'd help me with my despised math homework, hugging me when frustrated tears fell as I struggled over problems that absolutely made no sense.
He'd reassure me, reminding me that he believed I was smart enough, even though it might not come easy.
"Easy victories are wins, no doubt about it, sweetheart. But the hard victories, the ones we have to fight for, those feel different. So much better than you ever expected. When you earn those kinds of wins, it stays with you. Solve this problem and you'll know what I'm talking about."
His voice still fills my mind, and as I repeat those over and over in my head, belief seeps into me.
His belief in my ability to overcome challenges.
I can almost feel his arms encircling me again, holding me close and lending me his strength when I was small and everything out in the world felt so much bigger than me.
When I open my eyes again, the stubborn streak my father always shook his head and laughed over flares back to life.
"It's just a problem that needs solved. That's it. You can do this." It's my voice this time, but I hear the echo of my dad in them.
I make my way to the desk and sink down into the old leather chair. It's cracked and coming apart, but it still smells like pipe smoke and spiced whiskey. Reminders of the man who sat here for years.
His battered notebook is on the scarred wood surface, and I pull it toward me as I fire up my laptop. If the grouchy, painfully handsome mountain man won't help me, I'll just have to find a way to help myself.
And it'll feel damn good when I'm done.