Chapter Thirteen
A Chance
Maverick
I don’t expect the call.
All day I’ve been pacing my apartment like a caged animal, bouncing between fury, hope, and fear until I’m raw. I keep telling myself she won’t call, that Zora will lock the door on me for good this time, and I’ll never get the chance to fix what she’s broken.
But then my phone lights up with her name.
For a second, I just stare at it, my pulse slamming in my throat. I answer, my voice rough. “Zora?”
Her inhale shakes through the line. “Maverick. I...” Silence. Then, softer, “I think it’s time you met her.”
The world tilts and I grip the phone harder, pressing it to my ear like I can fall through the line into her living room. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes. Tonight. But...” Her voice wavers. “You have to let me lead this. She doesn’t know who you are. Not yet.”
My chest burns, tight with everything I wanted to say. I’m her father. She should know. She should’ve always known. But I swallow it down. This isn’t about me. Not anymore.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll follow your lead.”
****
The drive to Zora’s place is the longest of my life. My hands sweat against the steering wheel, my stomach twisting into knots. I’ve never been scared of anyone, not once, but the thought of a six-year-old looking at me and turning away would break me in ways fists never could.
When I pull up outside Zora’s house, my heart is beating like a damn war drum. I don’t bring more flowers or teddy bears. Just me. Because this can’t be about grand gestures. It has to be real.
The door opens before I can knock twice. Zora stands there, pale and tired but steady. “She’s in the living room,” she whispers. “Remember, please don’t overwhelm her.”
I nod, forcing my shoulders to relax even though every muscle is strung tight. “I got it.”
She steps back, letting me in. The scent of crayons and grilled cheese cling to the air, the kind of small, homey things I’ve missed.
The moment I walk into the room I see her. Ivy sits on the carpet, curls spilling wildly around her face, a stuffed bunny tucked in one arm while she colors in a book. She looks up at the sound of the door, big gray eyes just like mine locking on me.
My breath stutters. Christ. Those eyes. My eyes.
She blinks, curious but cautious, her little body leaning slightly into the stuffed rabbit. “Mommy?”
Zora’s voice is soft, careful. “Baby, this is my ... friend. Maverick. He works with me.”
Friend. The word is a fucking knife slicing me to ribbons, but I keep my face steady. I crouch down low, making myself as small as I can, my voice gentler than I knew it could be. “Hey, Ivy. It’s nice to meet you.”
She doesn’t answer, just studies me like she is trying to figure me out. Her gaze catches on my arm, where ink curls up my skin.
“You’ve got pictures on you,” she says finally, her voice full of wonder.
I smile, something easing in my chest. “Yeah. A lot of them.” I roll my sleeve up a little more, showing her the wolf etched across my forearm. “This one’s my favorite.”
Her eyes light up. “Why?”
“Because wolves stick together,” I tell her. “No matter what. They’re a family. They fight for each other.”
She hugs the stuffed bunny closer. “Like me and Bun-Bun.”
“Exactly.” I nod solemnly, like Bun-Bun is as real as she is. “Looks like he’s part of your pack.”
Her mouth curves, the smallest smile tugging. She shifts, scooting closer on the carpet. “Does it hurt? Getting pictures?”
“A little,” I admit. “But sometimes the things that mean the most are worth a little pain.”
She studies me, then holds out a crayon. “You can help me.”
My throat tightens. Carefully, like the crayon is gold, I take it and kneel beside her coloring book. Together, we fill in a crooked castle, her small hand bumping against mine.
Zora leans in the doorway, arms folded, watching with eyes that shimmer.
“Bun-Bun wants purple,” Ivy declares.
“Then purple it is,” I say, bowing my head like Bun-Bun’s word was law.
Ivy giggles, the sound like sunlight cracking open something inside me. Minutes bleed into an hour as she shows me every picture she’s drawn, every crayon she loves, even letting me hold Bun-Bun “just for a second.” Each time her smile grows, my chest aches harder.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, she looks up at me, curls falling into her eyes, and says, “When things are hard, you just gotta keep swinging.”
The words hit me like a punch. My mantra. My armor. The thing I’ve said a thousand times to survive. I blink hard, swallowing the fire in my throat. “That’s ... a good saying.”
“Bun-Bun thinks so too,” she says with a solemn nod, returning to her drawing.
I sit there frozen, fighting the storm in my chest, until I feel Zora’s gaze on me. I look up, and for a moment, the world stops spinning. She knows what it means. I know what it means. Our daughter has carried a piece of me all along.
Not long after, Ivy yawns, curling against Zora with Bun-Bun clutched tightly to her chest, and my heart is wrecked. She hasn’t asked who I am, hasn’t demanded answers. She’s just let me in. Even for a little while.
Zora tucks her onto the couch with a blanket and Ivy whispers, “Can he come back?”
My breath catches.
Zora kisses her head. “We’ll see, baby.” Ivy’s eyes drift shut, soft and safe, and Zora turns to me. Her voice is low, cracking. “She likes you.”
I swallow hard, every nerve shaking. “I like her too.”
Zora’s lips tremble, her eyes glassy. For a moment, neither of us speak before I nod, forcing myself toward the door before I break down in front of them both.
As I step onto the porch, I look back one last time. “I’m here now,” I say quietly. “And I’m not leaving.”
Zora doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t close the door either. And for now, that’s enough.