Chapter 33
Dax
“Daddy!” Poppy comes running into the kitchen while I am making scrambled eggs and starts pulling on my slacks. “Daddy! Delilah said that Miss Libby can’t stay in my room, but I want her to stay in my room because she loved my room. More than Delilah’s!”
“Honey, I am trying to make breakfast,” I say, not intended for there to be any tone in my voice but knowing full well that it’s there.
I am exhausted. Coming home has been a wild ride, from dealing with Jenna who made damn sure I felt guilty for being home a day late (thank you flight delays) and falling back into work (I have another Hemingway opening in Denver this week).
Not only that but I decided to pop the question to Libby.
Well, not THE question, obviously. But I did ask if she’d move in with us. It may have been crazy but here we are.
“I didn’t say Miss Libby would stay in my room,” Delilah says, joining us in the kitchen.
I pick up the skillet off the stove and hold it high. “Poppy, honey, I need you to move. Daddy is trying to make breakfast so we can get you to school on time.”
“We’re never on time,” Poppy says, crawling into a chair. Meanwhile I realize she is in a full fairy Halloween costume from two years ago.
“That’s not true,” I argue, divvying the eggs and bacon onto plates.
Meanwhile, Delilah is still on conversation number one. The conversation I’m still not sure how to deal with.
“Miss Libby is going to sleep in Daddy’s room because they’re dating,” she says matter of factly as we sit down to eat.
“She could also sleep in the book nook!” Poppy exclaims, her plastic crown nearly falling off her head, pointing out the fact that I still need to do her hair before we leave. I swear under my breath before inhaling deeply so I don’t completely lose my shit.
Both the girls are quiet for a moment as they eat their food, and I take the opportunity to address the elephant in the room.
“How do you girls feel about all of this?” I ask. “I know we talked about it, but I want to really talk about it.”
“About where Miss Libby is going to sleep when she lives here?” Poppy asks, wiggling as she chews.
Poppy has always danced when she eats. She dances all the time.
Doctors have told me it could be ADHD. But Tess used to dance about as well.
As if everything in life, even the daily mundane, was a little bit exciting.
“About Miss Libby moving in with us,” I say and then I wait.
“I think it’s exciting,” Poppy says without a thought. Poppy also doesn’t remember Tess much.
“Delilah?” I ask looking at my daughter who is seven going on twelve.
“I think it will be kind of nice,” she says thoughtfully but there is some hesitancy there.
“Does that mean you’re going to get married?” Poppy asks.
“People don’t have to get married to live together,” Delilah tells her. But then she looks at me. “Are you though? Going to get married I mean?”
I set my fork down and reach for my coffee. This is a hefty conversation for seven in the morning. “I don’t know yet. But I do know that I like her a lot. And I know she likes both of you a lot too.”
“We love her,” Poppy says simply. Because when you’re five, it’s that easy. Thinking about Libby for a second I realize it might be that easy for me too. I glance at the clock. “We need to get going so you girls aren’t late. Poppy, go grab a hairbrush for me.”
Poppy shoves the last piece of bacon in her mouth and prances off, leaving me and Delilah alone. “So, you’re really okay with it?” I ask. “Because I would never make a decision like this without you.”
“Does she make you happy?” Delilah asks.
“She does. Very happy.”
She thinks about that. “She makes me happy too. It’s fun having her at our house…” Delilah trails off again, her eyes somewhere else. “I miss mom.”
The air lets out of my lungs like I’ve been shot in the chest. “I do too, honey,” I choke out. “Every single day.”
She nods slightly, pushing the eggs around on her plate. “Is it okay to love more than one person at a time? Like…more than one mommy or more than one wife?”
The question is phrased a little funny, but I know what she is trying to ask. “I think so,” I tell her, my words strangled in my throat as I try to hold myself together.
“Good. Because I love mommy. But I really like Miss Libby too. I just don’t want to break any rules.”
I run my hand down the blonde braid that hits the middle of her back. She’s way too grown up for a seven-year-old and it breaks my heart.
“I don’t think there are any rules when it comes to love,” I say, and for now, that seems to be a good enough answer.
On my way to the office, I switch mental hats. I do my best not to frown around the girls because for a while, after their mom died, that was a whole thing.
“Daddy is always sad,” they would say. “Daddy forgot how to smile…”
Forgot how to smile. Forgot how to laugh.
Forgot how to eat, sleep, breath, function.
It’s the aftermath of it all that is practically life threatening in itself.
Because when the person you love more than life is ripped from your world, you die inside too.
But your body is still here, and you have to keep living.
Especially when you become a single parent.
You have to keep living. For them, you have no choice but to keep on living.
Sometimes it's hard to forget your shortcomings though, especially when you are constantly reminded of them. Jenna wasn’t happy when I called her from the airport.
I knew she wouldn’t be. It’s not that my late wife’s sister doesn’t love her nieces.
She adores them. But she likes to remind me constantly how absent I am.
How selfish I am. How much the girls are missing since Tess died.
I’m sure it’s the default of her own heartache.
But all that pain needs an outlet, somewhere to throw it, sharp blades, and all.
And unfortunately, I’ve become the target.
“The girls missed you so much while you were on vacation,” she told me over the phone during mine and Libby’s layover. “I visited them several times while they were with Mom and Dad and all they talked about was missing you.”
If I had to guess, this is the way the conversation actually went…
“Are you having fun with Nana and Grampy?”
“Yes!”
“Do you miss your daddy though?”
“Yes.”
“He’s very far away.”
“How far?”
“Very, very far.”
“Oh…”
That’s the kind of sister-in-law Jenna is and that’s what I’ve been dealing with since my wife’s funeral. My frown deepens as I think about it. As I replay the phone conversation over in my head, one line in particular.
“Of course I’ll take them. It’s not like I can say no. Sometimes I wonder if they’re with me more than they are with you though.”
They’re not, of course. But something about the way Jenna phrased it made my stomach turn. And I can’t help but feel like a storm is coming.
The sound of my phone ringing fills the car speakers and breaks through my thoughts.
Libby.
As soon as I see her name, I smile.
“Hey beautiful,” I answer.
“Hey yourself. How’s your morning going?”
“Chaotic,” I laugh. And it’s a real laugh. Because that’s what Libby does to me. It’s who she is.
“I bet. How are the girls?”
“Also, chaotic. But good. Poppy went to school in a fairy costume because there are too many hills to die on for me to choose from and I don’t have enough caffeine in my life. And because that’s only the tip of the iceberg today.”
“Well, I can’t wait to see them again,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. I can also hear that she is buzzing around the bookshop and the very image of it makes me smile even more.
“I can’t wait to see you again,” I say.
“Already? But you just spent a whole week following me around a foreign country.”
“I know,” I say. “And I have the sunburn to prove it. But for real. I want to see you. We should go to dinner.”
“We could have dinner at my place,” she suggests. “I need to pack anyway. We can order take-out or try a new recipe or–”
“If we go to your place, no packing will get done. I think it’s safe to say cooking wouldn’t either. I need to be in public with you, so I don’t rip whatever cute and quirky dress you’re wearing off your delicious ass.”
“I’m actually wearing jeans today, thank you, which are much more of an obstacle.”
“Are you suggesting I can’t rip those off just as quickly?” I ask and the phone is silent for a second before she answers.
“You’re right. The Irish Pub it is.”
I laugh. “Irish food huh?”
“I’m in the mood for bangers and mash. And a beer.”
“God, can you just say that again? That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say and she giggles, another sound that keeps my smile in place. “I tell you what. The girls are going to a sleepover at their friend Ruby’s house tonight. Meet me at the pub at six.”
“Sounds good. I can’t wait.”
“Me either.”
We hang up and as I make my way up to the office, I have a bit of spring in my step.
Leave it to Libby to be the cure all. To help me forget about Jenna’s words and Poppy’s wild hair, and costumes for outfits and everything else.
As I walk through the door I greet the secretary, catching her off guard I think.
I grab another cup of coffee from the shop on the first floor, the same brand as the ones in all the Hemingway stores.
Then I head to my office, open my computer, and prepare myself for the day.
Both hell and highwater could come at this point and nothing would dampen my mood.
The clacking of heels approaches my door, and I assume it’s the secretary with my mail.
I’m sure it’s backed up over the week, but she knows I prefer to have it handed to me directly.
“Just set it on the desk there, Brenda,” I tell her.
But when the woman’s throat clears, I realize it’s not Brenda. In fact, it’s no one I know.
“Mr. Daxton Hemingway?” the woman asks with little to no expression. She’s in a solid black pantsuit, holding a large manila envelope.
“Yes,” I answer carefully. “What is it?”
“Mr. Hemingway, you have been served. Please sign on the line.”
Motherfucker.
It wouldn’t be the first time someone has come at me with legal papers. I own a bookstore empire. People have tried to sue me for everything from holiday wages (we do pay more by the way) to not having cushy enough mats for the cashiers to stand on.
I take a deep breath and sign on the line. It’s a bump in my day but it’s not going to ruin it. As the woman leaves and I tear open the envelope, I am determined not to let it bring me down, no matter how petty the lawsuit is.
But as my eyes skim though the first page, premise, the lawyers, the names I realize it’s not one of the pesky lawsuits that CEOs often deal with. I have to reread the first page three times just to make sense of it and even then, I am left with my head spinning.
I lean back in my chair and wipe my hand down my face, my palm over my mouth in disbelief. Then I do the only thing I can think of to do. I call Libby.
“Miss me already?” she asks with the same energy as before. But right now, even that isn’t enough to lift my spirits. I can hardly breathe, let alone smile.
“Jenna is suing me,” I let out.
There’s a beat. Then,
“What? What are you talking about?” she asks. Then I hear her ask Summer to watch the counter. A moment later, a door closes, and I know she’s in the back room because the acoustics change.
“She’s suing me,” I repeat, the words feeling foreign and wrong coming from my mouth even the second time around.
“For what?” she asks.
“Custody of the girls.”