Chapter 46
Kieran
brOTHER FROM ANOTHER MOTHER
why the hell were you in my house again
do you keep forgetting that I have a Ring camera?
KIERAN
this text message is not very neighborly of you
I needed to borrow something
brOTHER FROM ANOTHER MOTHER
you walked out with your hand shoved in a box of my cereal
KIERAN
yeah the thing I’m borrowing was in my pocket
the cereal was just there
brOTHER FROM ANOTHER MOTHER
Bella put it in a locked box, the cereal wasn’t just “there”
KIERAN
;) tell her to pick a better code than your birthday then
Tiptoeing into a room without waking someone, I’ve come to learn, is an art, a form which I feel I can confidently say I’ve mastered after sneaking into Emmy’s room to make sure she’s all right.
My newly acquired skill comes in handy this morning as I slowly slide the tray table onto my side of the bed.
When I’m confident it’s far enough away that if Layla rolls over she won’t knock the tea to the ground, I smile down at her sleeping form.
She’s tired, has been for a few weeks now.
She thinks I don’t notice but I do. I know that she probably thinks if she’s honest with me about how she’s feeling I’ll ask her to take a step back with Emmy, or perhaps it has nothing to do with me at all and she’s scared that the medication might not be working anymore.
But I’ve noticed. I always notice everything about her.
I don’t think she’s fully flaring but something isn’t right. She’s more lethargic than normal and I’ve spotted her rubbing her hands and knees from aches when she thinks I’m not looking.
I’ve researched enough about lupus to know that her body is showing the signs of arthritis-like symptoms and that the lethargy is “normal.” If you ask me, nothing is normal about the disease.
I couldn’t imagine my own body fighting me, couldn’t imagine feeling bone-tired to do the most mundane of tasks.
Layla is the strongest woman I know, and that’s why she deserves to sleep in.
I place a featherlight kiss on her forehead before leaving and closing the door, a smile on my lips as I imagine her face when she wakes up to the breakfast I made for her, the tea, and the new book I bought that she recently added to her wishlist. Yes of course I know she has an app to track everything, and I most certainly have notifications on so I get updates of what she wants.
I wrote a letter as well, nothing long but not too short either, just explaining that I’m taking Emmy out for a daddy-daughter morning and that she deserves to sleep. Perhaps I also signed it that I love her as well.
It felt surreal writing that.
I love you, Layla Carson. With everything that I am, I love you.
And she’s going to read it and not run from me. She loves me back.
Layla loves me.
Last night still feels like a fever dream. Putting the outstanding, life-altering, mind-shattering sex aside—because yes, it really was that good—to hear her say that she loves me, to hear those words come from the woman I’ve dreamed of for nearly two years, fulfilled every fantasy I’ve ever had.
I love you, Kieran Ashford.
I thought I’d only hear her say that in my fantasies, but I saw the way she looked at me when she said it, she had finally lowered that wall around her heart, had let the vulnerability coursing through her to shine in her eyes, and had laid her heart bare for me.
I’ve taken the gift she’s given me and will savor it, protect it, until my dying breath, and even then I’ll stand guard of Layla’s heart as a ghost, because I can’t see myself ever growing tired of her.
She is a soul that I will search for in every lifetime, one that I will cherish and love for eternity because she’s special, so incredibly special. I know she’s the one.
Opening Emmy’s door, I come to a stop as I spot her looking in the mirror, turning this way and that, assessing the clothes she chose for herself. It may be mismatched but it’s all her—a pink ballet-like bodysuit with a rainbow tutu, layered with a denim jacket.
She must love what she sees because she smiles at herself. Her dimples, matching my own, pop out as she grins.
I’m about to step forward and praise her, always praising her, but I hold myself back as she leans forward and cups her hand, whispering to herself in the mirror, “Don’t worry, Daddy won’t scream at you that you’re ugly. He’s not like Mommy.”
The happiness that was coursing though my bloodstream comes to such an abrupt halt I don’t think it’s circulating to my heart any longer. It certainly isn’t beating.
Before I can wipe my horrified expression off my face, Emmy’s honey-brown eyes dart up, spotting me in the doorway. She spins, holding her little hand to her chest in panic.
“It’s okay, munchkin,” I quickly assure her. “I talk to myself too. It’s normal.”
My words do nothing. Instead, Emmy’s lip starts to quiver, tears springing to her eyes.
Rushing forward, I kneel before her, laying my hands gently on her arms. “Oh sweetheart, I promise it’s okay. Why are you upset? Did I startle you? I’m sorry, I should start knocking, huh?”
Her tears slide down her cheeks and across her lips, but they still don’t move to talk.
“Munchkin, I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to scare you. I promise it’s okay to talk to yourself. I do it all the time. In fact, we should do it together.”
Her gaze turns assessing, disbelieving.
Lifting her up, I take a seat in front of the mirror, placing her in my lap so we’re staring at each other, her little nose red from crying.
Maybe I embarrassed her or perhaps she didn’t want me to know that her mom called her ugly.
Whatever it is, I will do anything to put that smile back on her face.
I refuse to be the one to make my daughter cry—ever.
She might come to me crying about what others have done to her, but never in her life will she go to others crying about what I’ve done to her.
I quickly place a kiss on her head and wrap my arms around her, trying to comfort her.
“Every morning I stand in the mirror and look at myself and say, I am strong, I am kind, I am smart, I am handsome”—her lips twitch—“and I am powerful.” Squeezing her a little, my smile genuine as I spot the tears beginning to dry, I go on.
“And now we can do it together, every morning if you want.”
Pointing at her in the mirror, I say gently, “Look at yourself and say it with me, Emmy. I am strong.”
I pause, waiting for her to follow, and my heart skips a beat at her hesitant voice.
“I-I am strong.”
“I am kind,” I coax.
“I am kind.”
My smile spreads at her soft voice. “I am smart.”
“I am smart.
“I am beautiful,” I say with a little flourish.
She giggles, her hand cupping her mouth. “I am beautiful.”
I whip my arm out beside me, fist pumping the air. “I am powerful!”
Her little fist springs upwards. “I am powerful!”
Her cheeks are growing rosy from smiling.
“I am good enough,” I all but choke out, my voice thick. Perhaps I need to take my own advice.
Emmy’s smile is infectious. “I am good enough.”
“I am loved.” Her eyes fly to mine, and for some reason, I feel the need to repeat myself. “You are so loved, Emmy.”
Biting her lip, she swings her eyes back to herself in the mirror and whispers, “I am loved.”
“So very loved,” I remind her before kissing her cheek. “So loved, in fact, we’re going out today.”
Her eyes widen as she scrambles off my lap. Even with my butt on the floor and her standing, that only brings us to eye level.
“We’re having a daddy-daughter day,” I declare.
Surprise thunders through me as she rolls her eyes.
Gasping dramatically, I tickle her stomach, her squeals of happiness music to my ears. “Did you just roll your eyes at me, Miss Emmy?”
“Y-yes,” she stutters through her laughter.
“And where did you learn that little move?”
“Layla rolls her eyes at you all the time.”
“She’s going to have a field day when I tell her about this,” I murmur to myself. “Well, what did I do to deserve the eye roll, missy?”
“It’s daddy-daughter day every day!”
And doesn’t that just melt my heart.
“Of course it is, because I love spending time with you. You’re my favorite person to hang out with.”
Her eyes widen, her giggles from the tickles long-forgotten as she whispers, “I am?”
“Of course!”
“What about Layla?”
Leaning forward, I whisper conspiratorially, “I love Layla, but you are my number one girl.”
Her eyes widen even farther before she flings forward, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“What do you say, munchkin? Ready to go shopping?”
“Hell yes!”
Biting my lip to stop myself from laughing, I make a mental note to stop saying hell around the house.
Four months ago, if I told myself I’d be driving back from spending the day shopping with Emmy and that she spent the entire time yapping my ear off, I wouldn’t have believed myself.
For one, I wouldn’t have believed she was a talker, and second, I wouldn’t have believed that in such a short amount of time she’d come out of her shell like she has, but here we are.
And I’m fucking loving every moment of it.
Just the mere knowledge that Emmy trusts me enough, that I’ve made her feel comfortable to talk, has my heart melting. It means I’m a good father.
“Daddy?”
I flick my gaze to the rearview mirror, the new Barbie doll I bought sitting clutched in Emmy’s hand.
“Yes, munchkin?”
“I like living with you.” She’s looking out the window like she isn’t turning me into a blubbering mess. “I’m not scared anymore.”
I sniffle, trying to blink away the emotions. “I’m glad, sweetheart. I never want you to be scared again, not in your home.”
She nods along, her eyes watching everything pass by us on the highway.
I quickly wipe away the tear that escapes. “I love that you live with me. It’s made me very happy, Emmy.”
“It has?” She looks at me now, our eyes locking in the rearview mirror.
I nod, not trusting myself to talk right now without choking on my emotions, and give her a watery smile.
“Layla, too,” she adds. “I love Layla.”
“Me too, munchkin, me too.”
“Why can’t Layla be my mommy?”
Fuck me.
Taking a deep breath, I pause to try and think this through. What the hell do I say to that?
“You really want her to be your mommy, don’t you?”
She nods emphatically. “She’s the bestest.”
“She is the best. She’s very sweet.”
“Nice, too. She plays with me.” Her voice grows quiet. “And she doesn’t scream at me or lock me in the closet.” Her little sniffles make me want to pull the car over. “My mommy wasn’t a nice one, was she?”
“No, sweetheart, she wasn’t.”
Some might not agree with me here, that I didn’t try and put a positive spin on her mother; the last thing I want to teach my daughter is that people who love you can sometimes hurt you.
If someone loves you—truly loves you—they won’t hurt you, and there is not a reality in which I will ever teach her to accept poor behavior from anyone.
My daughter will know that love is soft, kind, and uplifting. That the one who loves you is never meant to lay a finger on you out of anger. They say kind not hurtful words, they lift you up not tear you down and most importantly, love is not pain.
Arguments can occur of course, different opinions and beliefs, yet she will know that those can be had respectfully.
“Why was she mean?” Emmy suddenly asks me.
Heaving out a breath, I can’t help but shrug. “There are very mean people in the world, Emmy. I wish I could tell you there aren’t but there are, and I’m not sure why.”
Frowning, she says with utter conviction, “I will never be a meanie.”
“No, you’re not capable of it. Your heart is pure.”
“P-pure?” she says, as if tasting the word.
“Pure,” I confirm. “Your heart is very kind, Emmy. You’re a good person, and you would never go out of your way to be mean or hurt someone.”
“I don’t want to make people cry like my mommy made me cry.”
“I know, sweetheart. That’s why you have a good heart.”
“Maybe if I be really good, Layla can be my new mommy.”
My eyes widen, my hand fisting on the wheel. How the fuck do I explain to a near four-year-old that it actually depends on me? That it depends on me being a good enough partner that will make Layla want to continue to date me?
Because trust me, I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about marrying her, about making it official, about Layla adopting Emmy if she wanted to. I’ve thought about all of it because I want Layla to be a part of our family. I want to be a husband to her.
I want to be everything to Layla.
“Emmy, you are already enough, sweetheart.” Flicking my blinker on, I pull over, needing to face her fully for this.
I unbuckle my seat belt and turn in my chair.
“You don’t need to change anything about yourself.
Layla loves you as you are, and whether you call her Mommy or not, she is your family because she loves you. ”
“She’s family?”
Nodding, I explain, “Uncle Grayson is family. Grandma Allie and Grandpa Carlton are family.”
“Auntie Bella!” she squeals.
“Exactly! Even Uncle Irving is family. Family doesn’t mean blood, and we don’t have to call people titles like Mommy to know that they love us like family.”
She’s nodding her head as if she understands but I know this concept might be too hard to grasp at her age but all she needs to know is that she is loved dearly by everyone in her life.
Cocking her head, she frowns. “Can I call Lil Auntie?”
My lip twitches at the nickname she picked up from Bella.
Shrugging, I say, “If you want to. It doesn’t change how much she already loves you.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
She smiles. “You love me, Daddy?”
Mirroring her smile, our matching dimples shine bright at one another. “With my entire heart.”