Chapter 44 But, Daddy I Love Him
But, Daddy I Love Him
Ali
Ali blinked awake to warm light and an even warmer body wrapped around hers.
Dylan’s arm was heavy across her waist, his face pressed into the back of her neck, his breath steady and soft.
For a few blissful seconds, there was nothing but the rhythm of his breathing and the muted hum of birds outside.
Then came the ache behind her ribs.
Last night came flooding back—Jenna, her panic, Dylan’s duffle, the suffocating sobs, the truth. Her stomach turned, but before she could spiral, his arm tightened.
“You okay?” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
She nodded, then shook her head. “Kind of?”
He kissed her shoulder gently. “We can talk.”
So they did. Wrapped in sheets and sunlight, they talked.
About BPD. About how hard she’s worked to regulate and unlearn all the instinctual fears, the catastrophizing. She admitted that sometimes, it still felt like a war inside her head—fighting the voice that said she was too much, not enough, destined to ruin everything.
Dylan listened.
Then Dylan told her about therapy. About the first time he sat across from a counselor on campus, arms crossed and jaw locked, not knowing where to start.
How it took months to even say her name without his chest seizing up.
How he tried to deny the PTSD diagnosis.
How it was scary and confusing for him. But, how he stuck with it anyway—first out of necessity, then because it actually started to help.
He told her about the breathing techniques that calmed his spirals. The nightmares that still came sometimes, but less often now. The guilt he’d carried. The fear. The work he’d done so he could love her without letting that fear control him.
Ali listened.
She squeezed his hand, tears stinging behind her eyes—not from sadness, but from the quiet awe of being seen like this. Loved like this. Not in spite of the mess, but through it.
They sat with it all. No judgment. No rush.
And when it grew too heavy, Ali shifted the energy the way she always did—with a breath and a bit of light.
“So,” she said, nudging his chest. “Pancakes and emotional maturity? Or pancakes and farmer’s market?”
He cracked a smile. “Can we do all three?”
Downtown Honeyshore buzzed with a slow kind of life on Saturday mornings. Booths lined the squares with local honey, homemade soaps, fresh bread, and succulents in painted pots. A troubadour played covers of early 2000s songs, and toddlers squealed over kettle corn and cheese straw samples.
Ali wore a breezy white dress and her favorite crossbody. Her Golden Goose shoes comfy and worn in. Dylan kept a low profile in a navy baseball cap and sunglasses, but still looked like a walking billboard for hot boyfriend energy in his soft teal T-shirt and gray joggers.
He carried the reusable tote like it weighed nothing, full of peaches, sourdough, and some overly expensive jam Ali had absolutely been upsold on.
“You’re such a sucker,” Dylan teased, leaning in close as they walked past a flower stand.
“I like being romanced by artisanal preserves,” she said, biting back a smile. “Let me live.”
They paused at a corner booth draped in wildflowers, and Ali pulled out her phone. “Smile,” she said, already snapping the pic.
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “We’re doing selfies now?”
“We are when you look this good in natural light.”
He kissed her temple before she could pull away.
Back at the house, Dylan ducked into the shower, whistling something that might’ve been “Love Story” while Ali curled up in her bed with her phone.
She scrolled to the picture she’d taken earlier—Dylan’s arm slung around her shoulder, both of them squinting slightly in the sun, cheeks pink, eyes soft. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.
Her thumb hovered for a second, then she opened Instagram.
First: a college photo. Her in a Magnolia Bluff crewneck, leaning into Dylan in his uniform on the field after a win, both of them flushed and younger.
Second: the one from the market. 10 years later. Older. Softer. Still them.
She typed the caption quickly, then hit post.
He’s still the only one I’d let call the plays. ????
From the 50-yard line to forever. ???? // ??????
#DaliForever #FellForYouTwice #MyAlways #StillMyFavorite #WorthTheWait #QuarterbackedMyHeart #SharkBaitToSeaDate #TheTideDidntBreakWithUs
??Honeyshore, GA
She set the phone down and curled into the comforter, her heart doing cartwheels.
Maybe this was what healing looked like. Messy. Imperfect. But real. And—finally—shared.
Ali had barely set her phone down when she heard the unmistakable sound of Ashley squealing from the hallway.
“Cuuuuuuz!” Ashley’s voice echoed through the house, followed by the sound of her socked feet pounding against the hardwood.
Ali barely had time to sit up before Ashley burst into the room, launching herself onto the bed like a human cannonball, phone clutched in one hand and eyes wide with excitement.
“Omg, I’m so proud of you!” she practically shouted, bouncing on her knees and holding her phone out like it was glowing. “You posted! Like, publicly! With words! And his face!”
Ali laughed, her cheeks warming. “Oh my gawd, Ash. You act like I just proposed or something.”
“No, no, no,” Ashley said, flopping down beside her with a dramatic sigh. “This is bigger. This is, like, soft-launching your entire healed era. This is giving vulnerability. This is giving main character energy. I’m obsessed.”
Ali rolled her eyes, but her heart fluttered. “Okay, relax. It’s not that big a deal.”
Ashley grinned. “Ali Presley, this is your Super Bowl. Let me have this.” Ashley’s phone buzzed in her hand, and her eyes lit up.
“It’s Abigail!” she said, already accepting the FaceTime call before Ali could protest.
The screen lit up with Abigail’s perfectly curled red hair and a raised eyebrow. “Okay excuse me,” she said, grinning. “Are we not going to talk about the fact that my best friend just broke the internet with her soft-focus football thirst trap?”
Before Ali could respond, Abigail clicked something on her screen.
“Hold, please—merging in Raleigh Ann.”
A beat later, Raleigh Ann’s face popped up in the corner of the screen, her eyes wide. “Y’all. Y’ALL. I had to pull over. I was crying in the Starbucks drive-thru.”
Ali groaned and pulled a pillow over her face. “Oh my gawd.”
Ashley yanked the pillow away, laughing. “Nope. You don’t get to hide. You gave us permission to be feral the minute you captioned that photo with feelings.”
Abigail was already nodding. “I mean… ‘from the 50 yard line to forever’? That’s practically a sonnet. I’m printing it on a sweatshirt.”
“I’m making it my next phone background,” Raleigh Ann added. “Do we think Dylan will autograph it?”
Ali rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop smiling. Her cheeks hurt, and her chest ached in that warm, full way that only the people who knew every broken piece of her could bring out.
“I hate all of you,” she said, wiping at her eyes and laughing.
“You love us,” Ashley said, throwing her arm around Ali’s shoulder.
“Obviously,” Abigail said, smirking. “And we love you back. And also—that post? That man? Ali, babe… you won. Like, in life. That’s your man.”
“And your cleavage looked amazing,” Raleigh Ann added.
Ali snorted. “Thank you.” The screen erupted in giggles, and for the first time in a very long time, everything felt exactly right.