Chapter 8
EIGHT
JARED
It’s been three days since Delaney left.
The house feels too quiet. Too still. Hannah’s been filling the space with music—singing little snippets of songs, humming while she colors. Normally, I’d think it’s cute.
But it only reminds me of Delaney. Of her laugh. Her voice. The way she looked at Hannah like she was something precious.
It’s funny how fast a woman who was never supposed to be in my life became such a big part of it.
I’ve been off. I know I have.
I’ve been distracted. Short-tempered. Last night, I even snapped at a rookie and told him to “lay off” when he asked me what was up.
Tonight, I burn dinner.
I curse under my breath and slam the pan into the sink. The noise echoes, louder than I meant.
Hannah flinches.
“Sorry,” I wince, because I never want my daughter to recoil from me. “Dad’s a little off today. We’ll figure something else out.”
She sets down the crayon in her hand and watches me for a long moment.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asks quietly.
My heart cracks clean down the middle.
“No,” I kneel beside her chair. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why are you mad?”
“I’m not mad. I’m… sad, I think.”
Her little brow furrows. “Is it because Delaney’s gone?”
I close my eyes.
“Yeah,” I whisper. Because while I might try to fake a gold fish’s lifespan, I’d never outright lie to her.
She climbs into my lap, looping her arms around my neck. “I miss her too.”
I tighten my hold on her. “I know. I know you do.”
Which tells me everything I need to know. It’s too late for Hannah and I to get out of this without broken hearts.
Because every day that goes by, they break a little more.
After a frozen pizza for dinner and Hannah’s bedtime, I try calling Delaney.
It goes straight to voicemail.
I try again the next day. And the day after that.
Eventually, I get the message: This number is no longer accepting calls or texts from this contact.
She blocked me.
I search for her on the app. Her profile is gone.
“There’s gotta be another way to find her,” I mumble.
I have friends who can pull a criminal background check at the last minute. Surely they can get me in touch with her.
Except, that would be a huge betrayal of her trust.
The ultimate betrayal.
I know the sound she makes when she laughs at one of Hannah’s jokes.
I know how she likes her coffee.
I know what she looks like when she’s trying not to cry.
And I know the way her voice softens when she talks about her mom.
But I don’t know how to find her without being a creep.
How the hell did I let this happen?
I scroll through our old messages. How they start as toe-curling and end up heart-warming during her days of nannying.
No strings.
That was the whole point.
So why does it feel like I cut the most important thread of my life?
And why couldn’t I have realized it before I pushed her away?
Heart aching, I check on a slumbering Hannah. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a book peeking out from under her bed.
I lean down to pick it up. A bright pink folded paper falls out of it.
Frowning, I open it.
OPEN MIC NIGHT – SINGER/SONGWRITERS WELCOME – WEDNESDAY @ 7PM
That’s tonight.
I stare at it. The edges are crumpled like it’s been folded and unfolded a dozen times. Maybe it’s just something Hannah picked up. Maybe it’s nothing.
But maybe it’s something.
Maybe it’s a clue that Delaney left behind.
There’s only one way to find out.
I call the nanny and ask if she can come back.
Then I change my shirt three times before leaving the house.
I park across the street from the café and sit there for a minute, staring at the glowing windows. There’s a chalkboard sign out front. Music floats out every time the door opens. I can feel the beat of my pulse in my throat.
I’m scared.
Not of seeing her.
I’m scared of not seeing her. Ever again.
There’s only one way to find out if she’s in there. Picking up a bouquet of flowers that I bought on the way, I go inside.
The place is packed. I somehow squeeze my way into a seat near the center of the room.
My knee bounces, my hands twitch, as people talk excitedly around me. I scan the room for a flash of brown hair, for that smile that undoes me every time.
The current performer finishes a song and steps off the low wooden stage.
The host walks up. “Next we’ve got… Delaney.”
My breath catches.
The curtain rustles.
A soft light glows.
And there she is.
Guitar in hand. Eyes wide for just a second as she steps into the spotlight.
My heart lifts.
That’s her.
That’s my girl.