Chapter 13 Too Scared to Want
TOO SCARED TO WANT
MORGAN
INTAMICY ISSUES By Lilyisthatyou
With Hazel’s tiny hand in mine, we cross the street to the Puddle Jumpers Academy. The lights barely flicker on when I pull open the door.
“I don’t want to go to school today,” Hazel stomps her foot. She’s been a bear this morning. There were thrown socks and tears over breakfast cereal.
“We already talked about this. Mommy has to go to work,” I plead, but she pulls back, her small frame rigid with stubborn resistance.
“What is going on with you today?” I say a little sharper than I mean to and kneel down in front of her, my heart twisting at the flash of hurt in her eyes.
“I want to talk to my daddy,” she demands, and I sigh, a familiar ache tugging at my heart.
“You just spoke to him on the phone over the weekend,” I remind her, trying to keep my tone gentle.
“He said he would take me to the dinosaur park,” she whines, and I curse Christian for making promises he knows he can’t keep. Another in a long line of disappointments.
“How about I take you to the park?”
Her eyes crinkle as a smile spreads across her face.
“Today?”
“I can’t,” I explain, my heart constricting as her smile falters. “Believe me, I’d rather be at the park with you than at work.” Especially today because I have a meeting with Dylan to go over showcase details.
She crosses her arms over her chest, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout that’s pure Christian.
“You have fun in preschool, remember?” I smooth down a wild piece of her hair, tucking it behind her ear.
“I’m always first, and I wait too long,” she draws out the last word.
The lot only has one other parked car besides mine.
Shit.
“I promise, once this big project is done at work, I’ll have a lot more time to spend with you.” This is do-or-die for Left Turn. If we pull it off, we might actually have a chance at survival. If not…
“Promise?” Her face lights up.
I smile and tap her nose. “Promise.”
Mrs. Bleary meets us at the front with a smile. Maybe she can sense Hazel’s attitude, or she overheard, but she takes her hand. “Do you want to help me set up for the day?”
Hazel takes the bait and jumps onto the balls of her feet. “Yes!”
I give her a quick kiss on the head, and as I turn to leave, Mrs. Bleary stops me.
“Ms. Clemson, if you have a minute…”
“I have to get going,” I tell her, already calculating how much time I’ll need to prepare for the meeting with Dylan.
“Hazel bit one of the kids the other day.”
“What? Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”
“Pickups are always so hectic, and I wanted to catch you alone.”
“Hazel never had problems at her old preschool,” I explain, part in defense and partly because I’m mortified. My daughter, biting another child? What kind of mother am I?
“Sometimes, when kids change schools, it can cause behavioral problems. You mentioned you moved here from New York,” Mrs. Bleary says.
Behavioral problems?
I nod but I’m unconvinced. She adjusted so well. She never asks about her friends from preschool in New York—just Christian. A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. I thought the divorce was behind us, that we’d all moved on. But maybe Hazel is still processing it in ways I haven’t recognized.
“We have a three-strike rule here at Puddle Jumpers,” she starts to explain.
“It won’t happen again,” I cut her off, and she nods with a tight smile.
I steal another look at Hazel, wondering if I’m making the right choices. New city. New job. New life. All for a fresh start, but at what cost?
As I walk to my car, I can’t shake the gnawing guilt. We moved here so I could take over Left Turn, to honor my father’s legacy. But am I sacrificing Hazel’s well-being in the process?
* * *
The office is barely waking up by the time I get there. The temporary receptionist greets me as I glide in, and I force a smile.
I set my coffee down on my desk and flip open the showcase file, scanning the performer wish list and sponsor targets Dylan sent over yesterday.
The numbers aren’t as grim as I expected. Co-sponsoring the event with Stonewall gave Left Turn enough breathing room to dream a little.
Maybe… if we could get some outside sponsorships too, make the event even bigger…
A few luxury brands, some PR buzz…
The idea clicks into place, and I reach for my phone. If anyone can help me pull this off, it’s Ava.
She answers on the second ring. “Oh god, you’re saving me from a meeting about Instagram brand partnerships. I owe you.”
“I need a favor,” I say, smiling despite the weight on my shoulders.
“Who do I need to bribe? Or do I need a shovel?”
I laugh. “No felony necessary. I was actually wondering if you could help me wrangle some sponsorships for the showcase. Some fashion houses who want free PR, in exchange for donating pieces.”
“Anything, you know that, but you could always design something yourself,” Ava says cautiously.
“I can’t. I have a lot on my plate as it is. I—I barely see Hazel. I feel like I’m taking advantage of my mom way too much.”
“I’m sure your mom is loving the grandma life now that you live closer. Which I’m still bitter about, but I’ll survive.”
“She bit someone,” I mutter, my mind swinging to Hazel.
“Your mother?” Ava sounds horrified.
I giggle. “No, Hazel.”
“Like bit, bit?”
“Full velociraptor. I’m mortified.”
“Remember the model during our fall preview who bit an intern because she brought her the wrong brand of coconut water?”
I let out a groan. “I think she drew blood.”
“She also booked the next three campaigns we pitched. Bite your way to the top, baby.”
A reluctant smile forms. “Hazel is four. I’d rather she didn’t start her villain origin story quite yet.”
“Oh, honey,” Ava’s voice softens. “She’s just processing a lot right now.”
“I know, but I can’t help feeling responsible. She was asking for Christian this morning.” I hesitate, then add, “Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice, moving us out here. It’s too much change, all at once.”
“The divorce wasn’t your fault, Morgan. Christian made his choices.”
“I know, but…” I trail off. “Maybe if I’d been more present—”
“You didn’t break your marriage. I watched you pour yourself into everything you touched, while he kept drifting further away.”
I sigh. “I don’t want Hazel to suffer because of our mistakes.”
“Have you thought about getting her into some kind of activity? Something structured but fun? Kids need outlets for all that emotion.”
“There’s actually a dance studio next to the park near our condo. Mom mentioned it when we first moved in. I was thinking about signing her up for ballet.”
“Yes!” Ava practically shouts into the phone. “Physical outlet for all that energy. Creative expression. Cute tutus. Win-win-win.”
“So I’m raising a tiny Hannibal Lecter who likes tutus.”
“Stop it,” Ava scolds. “You’re doing great. This move has been a big adjustment. Get her into those dance classes—it’ll give her something that’s just hers in this new city.”
“You’re right,” I say, already feeling a little lighter. “I’ll call the studio after work today.”
Her tone softens. “Admit it, you miss fashion.”
“Oh yes, I miss biting models and people taking credit for my designs.” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.
Ava gets silent. “Is that why you really left?” she asks.
I sigh. “I mean, partly. Everything happened at once with my dad, Christian…it was time for a fresh start.”
I lean back in my chair, staring out the window at downtown L.A., tapping a pen to my lips, a lump in my throat I can’t swallow as my mind wanders.
“Morgan…”
Before I can answer, the receptionist enters my office.
“Hold on,” I tell Ava.
“Delivery for you. From a Dylan Kernish-Grant.”
Of course it is.
“Hold that thought.”
“Oh my god,” she says immediately. “Is it donuts? A stripper? A cease-and-desist letter?”
“No,” I laugh.
“At least I hope it’s not donuts. I won’t be able to fit into my jeans,” I grumble, grabbing the sleek, black box, tied with a blood-red ribbon, and haul it to my office.
“What is it?” Ava asks, and I set the phone down, putting her on speaker so I can tug the ribbon free.
“What the…”
“Don’t leave me in suspense.”
Inside, nestled in soft black tissue paper, is a brand new pair of Jimmy Choos.
There’s a small white card in Dylan’s messy scrawl:
A peace offering. — DKG.
“Morgan!”
“Jimmy Choos,” I croak, pulling them from the box and inspecting them.
“Uh, you wanna explain why your arch nemesis is buying you $800 shoes? And where can I find me a man like that,” she grumbles. “You know what they say….”
“What?”
“Villains do it better.”
I rub a hand over my face. “They’re a replacement from the paint fight at Elevate L.A.”
“Paint fight?” she demands.
“The volunteer event for the teen entrepreneurship got out of hand. I swear he antagonizes me on purpose.”
“Oh, I see,” Ava says.
“I’m afraid to ask, but what does that mean?”
“It’s the old kindergarten trick, pulling on your pigtails to get your attention,” she explains.
“I’m not tracking.”
“He likes you,” she says in a juvenile manner, drawing out the words.
I stare at the shoes, heart thundering. Being pressed to the elevator wall flashes through my mind, so vivid I can almost feel the cool metal against my back, the heat of his breath on my neck.
“We might have had sex.” I place a hand over my eyes, the memory of Dylan’s touch smoldering through me like a slow-burning flame—lazy, dangerous, and far too tempting.
The scent of his cologne seems to cling to my skin even now, days later.
I swear I can taste him sometimes, in the moments before I fall asleep.
“He must not have been good if you’re not sure. Don’t ruin my image of him by telling me he has a tiny dick.”
“Quite the opposite. I still have bruises from hitting the railing in the elevator.”
“You had elevator sex with your sworn enemy?!”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss.
She laughs so hard she wheezes. “Wait, was it the kind with mirrors?”