19. Garrett
GARRETT
Athena straps Peony into the child car seat I installed yesterday in the Explorer. “Isn’t this exciting? We’re gonna live with your daddy. And you get your own bedroom, which your daddy decorated. Just.” Athena pokes her in the stomach. Peony giggles. “For.” Another poke. More giggling. “You.”
Peony beams at Athena, her bright smile mirroring the one I’d witnessed so many times on her mother. My heart squeezes, but not as hard as it once would have. It’s the reaction felt for a lost friend instead of for a lost love.
Athena kisses her forehead. Peony holds up Poppy, and Athena pretends to kiss the stuffed panda’s head. “Ready for this new adventure?”
Peony throws her arms up, jerking Poppy above her head and almost whacking Athena in the face. “Yes!” Not once does her gaze fall on me. As far as she’s concerned, I’m not here.
I place the last of their things from the hotel room in the trunk and close it.
In the short time they’ve stayed here, they’ve accumulated quite a few belongings—a lot of which I bought for Peony.
Emily, Zara, Simone, and Avery also contributed to Athena’s wardrobe, which she didn’t protest over, unlike when I offered to buy her some clothes.
I drive us to my neighborhood. It’s midafternoon and the sun is shining, as if welcoming Peony home.
One more week and the paternity results will prove what I already know.
The test arrived yesterday morning, and I fired it back to the testing facility soon after, with the swabs containing Peony’s and my DNA.
Both Peony and Athena are quiet, looking out the windows of the Explorer as we pass the neighborhood houses. Elementary-school-aged kids run and skip and chase each other on the sidewalk.
Peony’s holding her stuffed panda tightly, her eyes wide with wonder. “Doggie.” She points at a small dog walking alongside its owner on the sidewalk.
I return my attention to the road. “You like dogs?”
A silence heavy with indifference meets my question, drowns out the children’s song playing through the speakers.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror is met with a wobbly-lip expression. A wobbly-lip expression I can’t help but feel is the result of me asking Peony the question. Of me acknowledging her presence.
Of her having to acknowledge mine.
“She…she doesn’t have much experience with dogs,” Athena says after a long beat, “other than in her favorite picture book.”
“One of your uncles has a little dog like that.” My gaze flicks briefly to Peony.
She continues looking out the window. “His name is Butterscotch. And his girlfriend has a golden retriever named Bailey. She’s training to be a psychiatric service dog for Jess, so you won’t get to stroke Bailey unless she’s off duty.
And Uncle Lucas and Auntie Simone have a large golden Labradoodle.
” I have no idea if Peony understands anything I’m saying.
I’m just scrambling for common ground between us.
No matter how tiny.
“You don’t like dogs?” Athena asks.
I turn my head, catching the same assessing expression on her face I’ve witnessed a few times in the past six days. “No, I like ’em.”
“But you don’t have one.”
“My schedule doesn’t allow for one. Between being a full-time author and being away on Wilderness Warriors excursions, I don’t have time for pets.” Not even a pet goldfish .
“That’s sad.” Athena’s tone is soft, almost a whisper. “What is Wilderness Warriors?”
“My brothers and I created an outdoor recreational program for military veterans. Of all abilities and disabilities. Right now they’re weekend trips, like hiking, canoeing, camping, climbing. But we’re planning to start doing week-long programs next year.”
We’ll be hiring summer staff to help with that. Lucas, Troy, Kellan, and I have full-time careers we love. But Warriors is a way for us to give back to those who served our country, fighting for the freedoms we hold dear.
“What about you. Do you like dogs?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever had one.” Her voice is dreamy, almost…nostalgic? “Kenda wanted a dog.”
“She did? I find that hard to believe given her career goal. She just wanted to move from one journalism assignment to the next.”
“Priorities change. Especially when you become a parent.” Athena glances over her shoulder to where Peony is sitting behind me.
I can’t tell if she’s hinting my priorities will need to change now that I have a daughter. Or if she’s talking about Kenda and how her priorities veered off their original path.
At least in my case, I’m not moving from one place to the next with no permanent address. I can give Peony stability, a chance to make long-term friends.
I turn onto my driveway and park in the garage. Athena helps Peony out of her car seat while I remove the bags from the trunk.
We enter the silent house through the laundry room. A silence I prefer when I’m writing. A silence that will be a thing of the past with a toddler now living here. I can’t expect her to be quiet while I write—nor do I intend to demand she keeps the noise down while I’m getting words on the page.
I’m not that man. I’m not the military man who needs to be in control and for everything to be orderly.
A few of my routines will need to change.
I won’t be able to write in the garden anymore, like I enjoy doing when the weather is warmer.
Or rather, I won’t be able to write in the backyard when Peony is playing there.
She’ll be a distraction I don’t need, especially now, when my book is due to my editor in three months, two weeks, and two days.
When I’m lost in my story world, the words flowing like nobody’s business, the last thing I need or want is a distraction yanking me out of the story.
Although the last time I was lost in the story was almost a week ago. I barely remember what that’s like.
Athena takes the hand of my new pint-sized distraction, and they tentatively walk into the hallway as if unsure what to do next.
I put the first of their bags in the laundry room and lead them to the guest bedroom. I point to the open door. “This is your room, Athena.”
We step into a room that looks nothing like it did a week ago. The walls have been repainted a soft blush beige. Off-white bedding has replaced the old navy sheets and comforter.
“Wow.” Athena runs her hand along the lace edging of the bedding. “It’s nothing like I was expecting.”
“You can thank Zara. She figured you’d prefer this over the previous man-cave look.”
Athena picks up Peony and carries her to the window. The blinds are open, providing a great view of the garden. “Jesus,” she blurts, a Texan drawl that wasn’t there before now reshaping her vowels.
Her face flushes, and she clears her throat. “I mean, it’s like an enchanted garden.” The Texan drawl is gone from her tone. “Do you think there are fairies and woodland creatures out there?” She tickles Peony, who giggles.
Athena slowly walks around the room, checking out the previously sparsely decorated space. Zara added a few extra feminine touches throughout the bookshelf. Mostly small bouquets of silk flowers and wicker baskets.
“It’s as beautiful as morning dew sparkling on a spiderweb.
” Athena smiles, and it’s brighter than anything I’ve witnessed from her yet.
It takes years off her age. Like she’s momentarily free of everything that’s been weighing her down.
Her employer’s death and the apartment fire and taking care of Peony while they traveled across the country to get here.
“I’ve never stayed in a room like it before. ”
“Just wait till you see Peony’s room. ”
The furniture arrived this morning, and I spent the next few hours setting up the room…with Zara’s guidance. She FaceTimed me from work.
I open the door and let them go in ahead of me.
Uncertainty laps over me like a rogue wave at the possibility Peony might not like the room. My gaze jerks to the ceiling in a silent prayer to Clarke. A prayer that I can be the type of father he was to his little girl…until I failed to save him.
A prayer I won’t fail my daughter.
I walk into the bedroom in time to see Athena’s wide-eyed expression as she takes in the pale-green walls. Framed woodland-critter posters hang on the wall above Peony’s new bed.
Peony toddles to the low bookshelf and grabs the wooden shape-sorting toy. She drops her butt onto the new rug and starts playing, oblivious to Athena’s reaction to the room.
I kneel next to the toddler bed, protecting her personal space.
My movement snares Peony’s attention from the toy, and her curiosity-widened eyes watch me. But it’s the other emotion, the one hovering in her features like a storm cloud passing in front of the sun, that has a dejected huff coasting my lips.
In her mind, I’m the boogeyman, scheming to haunt her dreams.
Give it time.
The voice in my head isn’t my own. It’s Zara. The woman who has an endless supply of patience. Who volunteered in a program during college that helped young kids in crisis.
“I know you’re used to sleeping in a crib,” I say to Peony, “but I thought maybe you would like to start sleeping in a big girl’s bed.”
Peony’s bottom lip wobbles and tears fill her eyes.
And it’s like a grenade once the pin has been yanked. Panic tightens the vise around my chest, and my heart rate kicks up. I can almost hear the robotic voice in my head, counting down the seconds until her meltdown begins.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight .
The ticking of another clock echoes in the back of my mind, reminding me I’m wasting time I don’t have while I try to get her to accept me as part of her life.
Panic at the prospect of Peony having a meltdown is greeted by self-doubt. It slithers in, wraps me in a knot, squeezes my chest tighter and tighter. What if she hasn’t accepted me because deep down she knows I’m not her father?
No, no. It’s not that. She is my daughter. I’m positive of it. She would just prefer I wasn’t.