Chapter 3
Natalia
Parents say they want the best for you because they love you. But I think they say that because they actually hate you. And having your parents come to town after traveling for the past year as a “retirement celebration,” is all fun and games until your father asks you—
“How’s the boyfriend?” Daddy asks.
“Peter,” Dad hisses, slapping Daddy’s arm.
“Last time we visited she had a boyfriend, Richard,” Daddy tries to whisper.
Daddy’s name is Peter. Dad is Richard. I made the distinction as soon as I learned to talk and it will always be that way.
Sometimes there’s a disconnect, and sometimes I sweep it under the rug. I have two dads—Dad is Black, Daddy is Korean—and I’m…I don’t know what I am. It’s strange when all I know about my birth parents is that they have African and Latin American roots.
My dads’ have their family, cultures, and traditions.
All of which we have always practiced as a family—integrating them together and raising me with both backgrounds.
And although my experiences were lovely and wholesome, and even though they never once made me feel as though I was not…
one of them…the older I get the more out of place I begin to feel.
My name is Natalia Mae Davis-Jeong. I love my name, but I do wonder what my name would have been if—
It doesn’t matter.
“We broke up, Daddy,” I mutter. “I broke up with him. Last year.”
And that’s almost how long it’s been since I last saw my dads since their decision to celebrate their retirement all over the world.
First it was most of Europe—France, Italy, Croatia, Switzerland, then parts of Africa.
England, Scotland, Ireland, Australia…the list goes on.
They lingered around in Paris, Seoul, and Rio de Janeiro for a bit too until they got bored and returned to the states to explore.
So, how nice of them to stop in Willow Springs before they head for Canada.
My dads aren’t neglectful. I was raised in a wonderful, loving home where we lived comfortably. Daddy was a corporate lawyer, Dad was a general surgeon with his own practice—both now retired.
Life with my dads was amazing. I grew up speaking English and was taught Korean by Daddy and my grandparents. Dad’s family always came around spontaneously and it was my grandmother who taught me how to bake, braid my hair, and lay my edges.
My dad’s aren’t perfect—no parent ever is, I know that.
Dad was at the hospital a lot and Daddy was swamped with work.
I kept reminding myself that it was for us as a family—for me.
In the end we were always a happy family and their hard work paid off because now they are able to retire and experience the world.
But I miss them—having them close to talk, see, and go home to and feel safe with.
Now they’re gone, traveling the world and wherever else they can reach.
And I’m not sure if I regret not joining them when they asked me to, but I was so afraid that if I had gone, I wouldn’t have had these roots to come back to.
I wouldn’t have this bakery meticulously decorated with all of my favorite things and colors, and I might not have had my friends the way I do now.
“Oh, Natalia.” Dad frowns, but the corners of his lips twitch with a smile he’s struggling to keep at bay. “I don’t want to be that father, but I hated him. He was horrible to you.”
The ambivalence is a brainteaser most nights, one I think about when it’s two a.m. and I’m wide awake overthinking everything, playing out different versions of my life if I had made different decisions.
I nod. “I know.”
I don’t like thinking about the ex and there’s too much to unpack about my last relationship to do it here in my bakery, in front of my dads, when I should be doing it in therapy.
But at least they can finally see the thing I am most proud of.
The Black Cat, in my opinion, is very me.
Black, white, purple, and green—a combination of my favorite colors and inspired by some of my favorite movies, but mostly inspired by Beetlejuice.
And, of course, it’s called The Black Cat because Binx, my beautiful cat with bright green eyes, is a black cat. We’re soulmates.
I fight asking if they’re proud of me for owning a bakery—if it’s enough for them.
It’s enough for me. It has to be.
Daddy smiles slightly. “Well, he’s gone and you’re doing better.”
“I am.” I force a smile of my own. “I’m…I’m dating, I work, and I’m happy,” I lie, to avoid the questions about the damage Adrian left in his wake a year and a half ago. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“You know we will worry anyway, sweetie,” Dad says. “Is he good to you?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t exist. “He’s…amazing.”
“Good, I’m glad you aren’t married to your work like you used to be,” Daddy says. “It isn’t healthy, darling. You were working yourself to the bone.”
“I’m good,” I lie again, as though I’m not here every waking moment to keep my brain busy. “I take weekends off, I have a good staff. And I’m still going to therapy.”
Barely. Even though I know I should be going more often than I do.
My dads smile in unison. “I’m so glad,” Dad says. “Will we be able to meet this man who may or may not deserve you?”
I snort. “I don’t know, Dad, he’s a busy man.” Busy not existing.
“Oh, come on,” Daddy whines. “Tell me his name at least, give me something.”
I chuckle. “Daddy—”
“Natalia!” Oh no oh no oh no. I look over my shoulder and see the most beautiful blond man with ocean eyes and a pearly white smile on his lips. Damn him.
I’ve been trying not to think about him since Isabelle’s birthday party last week—how close he got to me and how worried his eyes were when he looked at me.
Candidly, I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to make the dark loneliness go away, but that isn’t his job.
But that doesn’t mean a temporary fix won’t work, right?
No. It’s Rowan. He deserves better than that and better than me.
“What a surprise seeing you here,” he says, approaching the table with my dads. “You weren’t behind the counter.”
“Rowan,” I rasp and clear my throat quietly. Nervous chuckles bubble in my throat and escape through my gritted teeth. “What—What are you doing here?”
The best thing I can do for this situation is be friendly and get him to go away before—
Daddy’s eyes go wide. “Is this why you didn’t want to tell us?”
“No, no, no—Daddy—”
“Rowan!” Dad reaches out his hand and a very confused Rowan shakes it anyway. “How have you been?”
Rowan gives them the charming half-smile and his deep, ocean blue eyes glitter. “I’m doing well, and yourself?” he asks before he takes a sip of his drink, one I didn’t make.
“Natalia didn’t tell us you were dating,” Daddy says, incredibly invested in my love life as usual.
And Rowan snorts, choking on his cappuccino. “What?” He laughs, wiping his lips. “We are—”
“Natalia, honey, I don’t understand why you were so secretive,” Daddy says with a frown, brows pulled together tightly. “We love Rowan.”
Fuck. “Dad—”
“Yeah, Natalia…” Rowans sighs, pulling out the seat beside me. He smiles and puts his hand on my thigh. “We planned to tell you together, but it seems you two are too smart for us.”
I force a smile and punch his thigh beneath the table. The corners of his smile don’t waver.
Son of a bitch!
Daddy reaches over the table to put his hand on mine. “Natalia, we know you’ve always had a crush on him—”
I groan, tampering the scream I really need to release. “Oh my god, Dad—”
Rowan laughs and shrugs. “I’ve always had a crush on her too, actually. Had to finally act on it.”
I growl quietly and dig my fingernails into his hand on my thigh. I love the weight of it—the warmth and comfort it provides.
But that’s none of his business.
“You’ve always been so sweet, Rowan,” Daddy says, swooning. “I remember how often you came around, always looking out for her. It was so cute.”
“Daddy,” I hiss.
Rowan somehow both tenses and relaxes beside me as he says, “I worry about her,” he says softly—almost earnestly. “Every day.”
I believe him, especially after he followed me home on Saturday to make sure I was safe. No guy has ever done that for me before, and it wasn’t the first time Rowan did it.
I think I could love him. I think I could have feelings for him if I didn’t have this thing in my brain and this ache in my chest. But it’s too dangerous to love him when I know I’ll hurt him.
He deserves better than that, better than me. So I do it from afar—suppress it. Keep it hidden in a sealed vault because I know it’s for the better.
“You’re very sweet,” Dad says. “I’m glad our girl has someone like you to look after her.”
“I don’t need looking after,” I groan, and his hand squeezes my thigh gently.
Is pretending to be in love with Rowan really the best way to get my dads off my ass about my mental wellbeing? Well, it certainly isn’t the smartest way to do it but it’s distracting them just enough for them to forget everything else.
My dads put me in therapy when I was twelve, just after my first period—which was embarrassing enough when I bled through my pants in P.E.
It was a rough year for me, wondering why I wasn’t lovable enough for my mom to keep me, or why I didn’t have one to begin with.
My friends all had help from their mothers when it came to pads and tampons and feminine hygiene, and, although my dads were educating themselves and trying their best, I wanted that with a mother—not just my aunts and grandmothers.
Honestly, those years in junior high are too traumatizing for me to reflect on sometimes, and it was when I was a senior high school that my therapist suggested antidepressants.
My mental health was getting too bad to keep up with my grades and extracurriculars, and everything took a turn for the worse.
I thought I had it under control, but I didn’t. Turns out, I still don’t.