Chapter 4
Chapter Four
MYA
T he silence is suffocating.
It stretches through the penthouse like a ghost, all cold air and heavy limbs brushing up against me as I shuffle barefoot across the polished floorboards. Kingston’s at practice, and for the first time since I left the ranch, since Fletch and the band stopped being my built-in background noise, I’m alone. Not metaphorically. Not the kind of alone that feels poetic and moody. The kind that crawls beneath your skin and makes your chest feel like a birdcage missing its song.
I miss the chaos. The clatter of coffee mugs on ceramic. The buzz of guitar strings being tuned and retuned until someone yells for the love of God, shut up . I even miss Carson’s trashy snack wrappers on every damn surface.
My phone pings on the counter, a little chirp that breaks the stillness like a rock through glass.
Dad: Hey, sweetheart. Any chance I can see you today?
I stare at the message for a beat too long, like maybe the letters will rearrange themselves into something else. Something casual. Something normal.
But they don’t. They just sit there. Unassuming. Unexpected.
Me: Sure.
I hesitate, then add a smiley face—because apparently I’m that bitch who still performs politeness for her own father.
Twenty minutes later, the elevator dings “You’re here,” I say, swinging the door open so he can come in. My voice cracks like a cheap vinyl record.
“I was nearby,” he shrugs, stepping inside. “Figured I’d check in.” He steps inside my borrowed luxury, towering and tan despite the dull New York sky, olive skin and the same raven-black hair as mine, though his is streaked with silver now. As if time couldn’t decide whether to weather him gently or rip him down the middle.
“You were in the city?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his dark eyes skimming the room like he’s cataloguing every sin I’ve ever committed. I pull at the hem of my sweater—an oversized off-the-shoulder knit that skims the top of my thighs and clings softly around the subtle curve of my bump. It’s not big. Not yet. But it’s there. A whisper of a future I’m still figuring out how to survive.
“I didn’t realize you were coming to New York,” I say, padding to the kitchen. “You want coffee?”
“Sure. Black. You know how I take it.”
While the machine hisses and spits like it’s angry at being woken, I grab a mug for him and a clean cup for my tea. Something herbal. Something that won’t mess with the growing life inside me, or the carefully stacked lies I tell myself every morning in the mirror.
Dad leans against the island, arms folded, presence loud in a way the apartment isn’t. His gaze is sharp, but not cruel. That’s the thing with him. He’s always been the softer one. The eye of the storm, not the lightning.
“You didn’t say why you’re here,” I say, sliding his mug toward him and cradling mine like it might anchor me.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
My stomach clenches, hard and fast. Like the words hit some internal tripwire I didn’t know I’d set.
“I’m… fine.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the twitch of his jaw. The way his hand tightens around his mug before he lifts it.
“You sure about that?”
No.
“Yes.”
Dad exhales slowly, setting the mug down with a dull clink. “Truth is, I needed a little space from your mother.”
My brows lift, a ripple of surprise skating up my spine. “Really?”
He nods, shoulders sagging like the weight of that admission cost him something. “She’s been… difficult. Ever since she found out.”
“You mean since I got knocked up and decided to keep the babies without a ring on my finger?” I say it sharper than I mean to, the words laced with sarcasm and too many bruises.
He flinches, but doesn’t argue. “Your mom… she doesn’t understand. She’s old-school. Catholic to the bone. This wasn’t how she pictured your life.”
“Yeah, well… neither did I.” I blow on my tea. “But I’m managing.”
“I know you are.” His voice is gentler now. “That’s not why she’s upset. I think, deep down, she’s scared.”
“Of what? That I’ll embarrass her at church? That her daughter isn’t the perfect little trophy anymore?”
“She’s scared you’ll break,” he says, and I swear the words hit harder than anything Mom’s ever thrown at me. “That you’re doing this alone. That we failed you.”
That we failed you.
God. That one sneaks past my defenses like smoke under a locked door.
“I’m not alone,” I lie. Because saying I am would make it too real. Too raw. And I’ve already cried enough this week.
Dad watches me for a long moment. “She’s mad that I’m here. That I’m supporting you.”
“You’re supporting me?”
His eyes soften. “Of course I am.”
“But it’s caused issues between you two.”
Another slow nod. “She thinks I’m encouraging you. That I’m making it easier for you to live in sin or whatever bullshit phrase she’s clinging to these days.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“No,” he says honestly. “But I’m more okay with being your dad than I am with pretending I’m not.”
A lump forms in my throat, thick and scratchy, like I’ve swallowed the sun and it’s burning its way out. I sip my tea to keep it down, but it doesn’t help.
“Thanks for coming,” I whisper, voice cracking.
He reaches across the counter, his hand warm over mine. “You’re not alone, Mya. You’ve got me. No matter what.”
And maybe that’s the thing that breaks me.
Not the silence. Not the empty apartment. Not the memory of Fletch walking out.
It’s this—my dad, sitting across from me in a penthouse I don’t belong in, telling me I’m not alone while everything in me feels like it’s unraveling.
Because sometimes, love doesn’t sound like promises.
Sometimes it sounds like a coffee cup clinking against marble and a father saying ‘I’m here.’
“How long are you planning to stay in the city?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want the answer.
Dad exhales hard through his nose, the kind of breath that sounds like it’s carrying more than just oxygen. Like it’s hauling guilt and grief and a thousand unsaid things.
“I don’t know,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck like the motion might buy him some courage. “A few days. A week. Longer if I have to.”
“If you have to?” I echo, my stomach lurching like I just missed a step on a staircase I thought was solid. “Why would you have to?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he looks past me, toward the rain smearing the window glass like watercolors left out in a storm. “Because I gave your mom an ultimatum.”
My mouth goes dry. “What kind of ultimatum?”
“She either apologizes to you and starts acting like a damn parent, or I move out.”
His words drop like stones in a still lake, rippling out, distorting everything I thought I knew about my parents and their perfect little bubble.
“Wait—what?”
“I’m serious, Mya.” He finally meets my eyes, and the sadness in his expression guts me like a fish. “I can’t sit back and pretend everything’s okay while she tears you down for something she doesn’t even try to understand.”
“She’s your wife.” My voice cracks. “You guys have been married for—what? Thirty years?”
“Thirty-eight,” he says quietly. “And I love her. God, I do. But this? This isn’t about you coming between us. It’s about her refusing to be decent about any of it.”
I sink back against the kitchen counter like my bones forgot how to hold me up. “I didn’t want this,” I whisper, cheeks hot with shame. “I didn’t want to be the reason?—”
“You’re not,” he cuts in firmly, voice razor-sharp. “She is. Her pride, her expectations, whatever the hell story she’s been writing in her head for years—none of that is your fault.”
The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy. Like rain clouds pressing against the ceiling.
I shift gears, because I can’t sit in this wreckage much longer without choking on it.
“Why Kingston?” I ask, watching the way his mouth softens at the name. “Why did you arrange for me to stay with him?”
Dad smiles like he’s remembering something that made sense once. “Because I know he’ll take care of you.”
I raise a brow. “You trust him that much?”
“I do,” he says without hesitation. “He’s already taken care of you before.”
I blink, heart thudding unevenly. “That was years ago.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “He showed up when it counted. And after what happened with his ex…” His voice trails off, but the look in his eyes says everything. Regret. Sympathy. Maybe even something close to pain. “I think he needs someone to take care of him too.”
The air between us shifts again. Warms and tightens, like a string being pulled taut.
Dad clears his throat, nudging his mug forward. “You feel like getting out of here? Maybe grab some lunch? Just you and me.”
I blink. “Lunch?”
“Yeah,” he says, almost too casually. “We haven’t hung out in a while.”
It’s true. And not just because I’ve been drowning in hormones and heartbreak and Reese’s insane calendar. My dad and I—we’re solid, but we’re also satellites, orbiting the same planet but never quite syncing up. Still, I nod.
“Sure. Let me throw on some shoes.”
We end up at this cozy little place a few blocks over—brick walls, booth seating, indie rock humming overhead like it’s trying not to be noticed. I’m in maternity leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder every time I move. My bump is small, barely there, but still real enough to press against the table when I lean forward.
Dad orders a BLT. I get a veggie wrap I’ll pick at.
Halfway through my lemonade, he glances up. “So. Any thoughts on your next move?”
I blink. “Professionally?”
“Or personally. I just mean… what comes next for you?”
I stir my straw like the answer might float to the surface. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m still figuring it out. I’ve got six months to sort through the chaos.”
He nods, but there’s a furrow between his brows that never quite goes away. “You don’t have to figure it all out alone.”
“I’m not.” I offer a smile that feels more like a shrug. “I’ve got Reese. The band. My job still exists. And now… this.”
“This,” he echoes, then leans in. “Look, I’ve been thinking. If Fletch doesn’t want anything to do with you—or the babies—then maybe it’s time we make that official. I could call my lawyer. Get the ball rolling. Terminate parental rights. You shouldn’t have to worry about him showing up months from now trying to play dad because he’s bored or lonely.”
The idea makes my stomach twist into knots. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s right. Too right.
I nod slowly. “I’ll think about it.”
It’s easier than saying I don’t want to think about it. Easier than unpacking the guilt still stapled to my ribs every time someone says his name.
We finish lunch. Talk about music. About the upcoming shows. About nothing and everything.
And when he walks me back to the penthouse, the wind bites but my chest feels lighter. Like maybe I needed this more than I realized.
The second we walk in, I hear the unmistakable sound of kitchen cabinets opening and closing—and then he’s there.
Kingston.
Still wearing his practice gear, hair damp, gym bag on the floor by the entryway. He pauses when he sees us, his eyes jumping from me to my dad, and then his expression shifts into something warm and familiar. Like old sun through new windows.
Dad smiles. “Hey, son.”
Kingston nods, stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr. Sequera.”
“Thanks for looking after her,” Dad says, his voice thick with something too big to name. Gratitude, maybe. Relief. Maybe a mix of both. “I really appreciate it.”
Kingston gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “She’s family.”
Something inside me stutters. Trips over the softness of those two words.
She’s family.
My dad claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve always been a good man.”
I look between them—my past, my present—and feel the weight of everything I never expected.
Because this isn’t the life I planned.
But maybe… just maybe… it’s turning into the one I need.
I promise Dad another visit soon. Another dinner. Another chance to pretend we’re a normal father-daughter duo who don’t have a decade’s worth of unspoken disappointments wedged between us like a brick wall built by silence courtesy of my mother.
When he steps out of the penthouse and closes the door behind him, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. It leaves me deflated. Hollowed out like a jack-o’-lantern three weeks past Halloween—rotted at the edges but still smiling.
“You okay?”
I turn at the sound of Kingston’s voice, soft and low, like he already knows I’m not.
“Yeah.” I lie with the confidence of a girl who’s mastered the art of emotional gymnastics—vaulting over memories, backflipping past triggers, sticking the landing with a smile. “He wants to do dinner next time. With both of us.”
Kingston’s brows lift, just a fraction. “You, me, and your dad. Sounds like a party.”
I laugh, short and sharp. “Sounds like something.”
He doesn’t push. Just leans a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes steady. Kingston Maddox has always known how to wait me out. Since we were kids stealing donuts from the concession stand during Little League games. Since I was the girl with scraped knees and a too-loud laugh. Since before everything changed and I forgot how to breathe in my own skin.
“How was it?” he asks after a beat. “Spending the day with him?”
I shrug, arms wrapped tight around myself like I’m holding something in. “Weird,” I admit. “Nice. Uncomfortable. Kind of like hugging someone in a wet sweater.”
Kingston smiles softly, but his eyes stay serious. “You miss him.”
“I do,” I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds. “Isn’t that stupid?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not stupid. Just honest.”
There’s no judgment. No sarcasm. Just that easy Kingston quiet that makes it feel safe to say the things I never let out.
I study him—messy hair, a faded hoodie, the dimple that appears when he smiles like he means it. He was always my safe place in a world full of sharp edges. A familiarity I could fall into blindfolded and never hit the ground.
“I always felt like I was the disappointment,” I murmur, eyes drifting to the window. Rain slicks the glass like tears too stubborn to fall. “My mom wanted a perfect daughter. Pretty, polished, poised. Someone who didn’t cry too much or ask why she had to wear heels. Someone more like her. Like my perfect siblings.”
Kingston’s gaze hardens. “You were never the disappointment, Mya. She just didn’t know how to see you.”
His words land like a sucker punch to my chest—unexpected, jarring, and somehow exactly what I needed.
I blink fast, trying not to let it crack me open. “Being with him today…it made me feel like I still matter. At least to him.”
Kingston doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t have to. His presence is enough. Grounding. Anchoring me in the eye of a storm I’ve been trying to outrun for years.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit. “Trying to juggle work, this pregnancy, how my life has blown up, emotions—” I laugh bitterly. “I’m dropping balls left and right.”
He smirks. “That’s what she said.”
A laugh escapes me—unexpected and warm. The tension eases from my shoulders like a sigh wrapped in sunlight. “God, you’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that knocks the wind out of me.
My heart stumbles, clumsy and stupid. Always running toward him even when I tell it not to.
Our eyes lock. Something shifts in the air. Heavy. Humming. Like the static before a thunderstorm.
The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s thick with meaning, the kind of quiet that’s louder than any scream. The kind that says I see you. I know you. I’ve always known you.
And maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t lean into him more than I should.
Maybe I’m tired of pretending he isn’t the only one who’s ever made me feel like being myself is enough.
So I take a step closer.
And then another.
Until I’m standing in front of him, the scent of fresh rain clinging to his hoodie and the ghost of comfort hovering in the space between us.
“Thanks,” I say, voice barely a whisper. “For being here. For asking.”
Kingston shrugs like it’s nothing.
But it’s everything.