8. 8
8
Bo
T he accident that killed my mother, Queen Selene of Laandia, happened two days after I secretly married Hettie.
After I confessed to what Hettie and I had done, my mother went to pick up Lyra.
I can’t blame Lyra for this; we all hated when a castle driver came to get us from an activity or friend’s house, Lyra most of all. She was having friend issues back then and didn’t want any more unwanted attention.
Mom’s death did damage to all of us, but none more than Lyra.
But the fact was I told Mom I was married; she got in a car and drove to Eliza Liu’s house to get my sister, after which she got into an accident and she died.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the accident was my fault. She was upset when she left, probably distracted. If I hadn’t told her, she would still be alive today.
If I hadn’t married Hettie, she’d be fine.
If I hadn’t married Hettie, I wouldn’t be finding out that I have a daughter, years after she was born.
I have a daughter .
Those words swirl around my brain like a tornado, touching down every so often to give me such a severe jolt that I tighten my hands on the steering wheel of my old truck.
I have a daughter. I’m going to meet her.
Hettie has been quiet but I feel her watching me. I’m not sure yet what to say to her about all this. What I want to say could very well involve shouting and anger and saying things I don’t mean and might not even intend to say. So many of my emotions are connected to Hettie Crow and I’ve let them tangle too long so that the knot is too tight to be unraveled.
I don’t want to untangle them because what do I do then? Figure out how I feel about her, only for her to leave again? What good would that do?
“What did you tell her about me?” I don’t think to ask until we’re in the car on the way to Abigail’s parents’ place. I hate the thought of Hettie leaving our daughter to come and talk to me. I wish she had told me she was in town and I would have flown home and met her.
But I know how close she and Abigail have always been. She left home with Hettie, with the Lockes’ full support.
I know that because a month or so after they left, I ran into Mrs. Locke in town and had to endure a lecture about how I forced Hettie to leave. She was always more of a mother to her than Hettie’s own.
They didn’t know we had married, just that my actions had broken us up. As far as I know, only two people still in Battle Harbour know that Hettie is legally my wife—Spencer and Mabel Crow .
I’m going to have to tell my family. Not looking forward to that.
“I told her your family was important, and that you had a lot of responsibilities that kept you away,” Hettie says carefully. “That you might not be around, but that didn’t mean you didn’t love her.”
“So you forgot to mention to her that you never even told me that I had a daughter.” I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice. It’s not a good look for me.
“No, I didn’t tell her that. She’s seven. She wouldn’t understand.”
“You don’t know that. I’ve heard kids are resilient.”
“Bo…”
Hettie sounds guilty. She sounds… upset. But after eight years apart, I can’t be sure of anything about Hettie now.
There is only silence until we pull up in front of the Lockes’. I was here so often when I was younger; the three of us spent a lot of time together and the family welcomed me as much as they did Hettie. Abigail was my friend too, and I missed her when she left.
I was also angry because she could be with Hettie and I wasn’t.
I grip the wheel and stare at the house. The last time I was here, I was driving the same truck. It had been brand new and I had been so proud of it. Mr. Locke had come outside so I could show it off.
I have no idea what to say to him now. I have no idea what to say to my daughter.
How do you meet your own child after never knowing she existed?
“Are you all right?” Hettie asks hesitantly.
“Not really, no. ”
She sighs, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her hand move toward my fingers. It stops before she touches me.
It seems crazy that I’m still desperate for her to touch me.
“We don’t have to do this now,” she says gently. “You can take your time. In fact, it might be better—”
“Were you coming back to tell me?” I interrupt, voicing the thought that has been dancing around my brain like a merry-go-round. “If I had said I’d divorce you, would you have left without telling me about her?”
“No.” Her reply is too quick. Even after all the years away, I can tell from her expression that’s not the truth.
“You’re lying,” I say flatly.
“I don’t know what I would have done,” she confesses. “It’s just… I don’t know. I have to think of Tema.”
I’m thinking of Tema, too, but I don’t say that. It’s only been hours but already she’s important to me. There’s a connection there, has been since I saw her picture. Maybe it’s because she looks like a little Lyra, but I will not allow her to be hurt. I don’t doubt Hettie is a good mother but she hasn’t had the best example from her parents.
But I can’t assume I would be any better.
What am I doing? Is this a good idea? I don’t know this child—I don’t know Hettie. I never would have believed she would have kept this from me. I knew she would move on, meet someone else but to hear her ask me for a divorce—? What will that do to Tema?
It’ll do nothing because she doesn’t even know me.
The cab of the truck seems too small, too close to be having this conversation. The console separates us, but it would be easy to take my hand off the steering wheel and touch Hettie’s knee. Turn just a bit and cup her cheek. Reach out with both hands and draw her close.
I keep my hands firmly where I can see them. “Do you really want a divorce?” I ask, my voice rough like I haven’t used it in a while.
Another sigh like she’s the wronged party. Technically, she is… but so am I. “Did we even have a marriage?” she asks in a small voice. “I know it was real…”
“Justice of the peace. And it was… consummated.”
I cannot think about how it was consummated. About how it felt to hold Hettie that last night, never dreaming it would be the last time. We planned our life together—
We made a baby that night. We conceived a child. I swallow the lump in my throat. “That’s not what I’m asking. Are you really in love with this—what’s his name?”
Timothy. She told me what his name is.
I hate that name.
“Timothy,” Hettie says. I hate the way it slides over her tongue, like he matters to her.
I hate that he matters to her.
I hate that I let that happen even more.
“Yeah. Him.”
“I care about him,” she says carefully, like she’s crossing a river by stepping on wet stones.
“That’s not what I’m asking,” I say again.
“Bo—we shouldn’t talk about this now.”
“Should we go back to why you didn’t tell me about her, then?” I ask. I heave a deep breath. There’s nothing to gain by arguing with her. It’s only going to strip me of more time. “Tema. Where did that name come from?”
“There’s a girl at the school where Abigail works. She talks about her a lot and I fell in love with the name.”
“Is Abigail a teacher?” I ask, confused. I should know this. I should know all of this.
“Teacher’s assistant. She wouldn’t take the time to go to teacher’s college.”
I should know all of this. My knuckles turn white.
“Bo? Do you want to go inside?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit. “I don’t know what to say, how to be a dad.”
“You don’t have to be anything.”
“I am her father.” It comes out as a snarl, like when I try and take one of Kody’s chew toys away from him.
“But Tema doesn’t know that. You’re a stranger to her, so you don’t have to worry about doing dad stuff right away.”
“Will I have to worry about it later? Are you taking her back? Is this the only time I have with her?”
Hettie closes her eyes. She may have changed, but I can still read her like a book.
She had no intention of telling me about her. She came to get a divorce, and then she’ll take my daughter back to her life with this Timothy.
I’ll be asking castle security to check up on him as soon as I can. In the meantime, if this is my only chance to meet her—
I open the car door and without waiting for Hettie, head across the lawn. My boots make dark imprints along the melting snow .
Abigail answers my knock, as Hettie hurries to catch up. “Bo,” Abigail breathes, looking around for Hettie. “What are you—?”
“It’s okay,” Hettie tells her but Abigail doesn’t move aside.
“Is this a good idea?” she demands. “It’s not what we talked about, Het.”
“I wasn’t part of that conversation,” I say. “I haven’t been part of any conversation, so I think it’s a great idea.”
Abigail stands in the doorway, having a silent argument with Hettie. I’m not about to push past her or lay a hand on either of them to move aside, so I wait. Impatiently.
She looks different, not like the Abigail who had been my friend. The hair that had been a rainbow of colours over the years is back to basic black, cut short and sharp at her jaw. Her glasses are purple now, and there are more studs in her ears than when she left.
It’s her eyes that are the most different: still bright green, but no longer full of laughter and adventure. She looks at me warily, coolly appraising me.
I’ve never not been welcome in this house. Or anywhere in Laandia.
Finally, Abigail moves aside and I step into the house.
At least the house looks the same and I half expect Mrs. Locke to greet me with a snack and questions about my family.
But it’s only Abigail to greet me… and the sounds of girlish laughter.
“Bo…” Hettie puts a hand on my arm. “Let me first—”
“Do it now,” I plead. “I can’t wait any longer.”
I think she’s about to argue, but with a shake of her head to Abigail, she leads me down the hall to the living room at the back of the house.
It’s like I’ve stepped back in time. The place still smells like apple candles and cookies. The pictures on the walls are the same—photos of Abigail and her brothers over the years, the family grouped together with big smiles and funny expressions.
Hettie is in a lot of the pictures.
I’ve been here countless times with Hettie, with Spencer. This was where we hung out; a safe space away from me being a prince and from Hettie’s family.
I catch my breath before I step into the living room. Plants fill the windowsill, but I don’t go there because out the window, I can see the castle in the distance. The couch is new, but the comfortable recliner where Ted Locke would sit and talk books with me is the same.
Hettie and I, along with Spencer, would sit with Abigail and her parents, crowding around the coffee table or the kitchen table, and play games—Abigail loved board games. There is still a shelf full of them behind the new couch. Scrabble and Monopoly, Risk and Ticket to Ride.
Twister in the basement the night Spencer brought beer. The silly Ouija board Hettie demanded we try and then got scared when the thing moved.
But I’m not here to play games. And I’m no longer seventeen.
The television is on. She—Tema—is sitting on the floor playing with LEGO. I don’t make a sound. My heart stutters as Hettie lets me drink her in.
She’s—she’s beautiful .
Dark reddish hair caught up in an easy ponytail with frizzy curlicues surrounding her face. Pale pink Taylor Swift sweatshirt over bright purple leggings. Round cheeks in a heart-shaped face that is all Hettie.
She smiles at something on the TV, completely caught up with her life at the moment. A kids’ show on television, toys to play with. Her tiny hands press the colourful blocks together.
She’s mine? It doesn’t seem possible. This tiny person came to be because I loved Hettie, loved her so much that we made a baby.
That I knew nothing about.
I make a noise deep in my throat, full of pain and fear and anger—why didn’t she tell me? How could Hettie keep her from me?
What am I about to do to her life? How can I just show up and tell her I’m her father?
How do I even be a father to her?
Hettie puts her hand on my arm, which is a good thing because I was just about to bolt. This is a lot. This is a child—my kid.
How can I be a father if I couldn’t even be a husband?
“Okay,” Hettie whispers, giving my arm a squeeze. It’s not a question or a request, it’s a let’s do this , and I stuff all my emotions back into the dark place and take a breath.
“Tema,” Hettie says.
The little girl looks up and her face brightens. “Mommy. You’re back.”
She looks straight at me, and everything shifts. There’s no fear or trepidation. Green eyes meet mine with a hint of a smile. “Hey,” I croak.
“You’re Prince Bo,” Tema states .
I start and glance at Hettie. “You are part of a famous family,” she says under her breath.
“Yeah, but—”
“Are you my father?” Tema asks.