It hit me that after today, I might never experience that smell again. Christ. This was so much worse than I’d ever imagined life could get . . . felt like my guts were being ripped out, every second with her precious and perfect and speeding faster than should be possible.
“Puck, can you give us a minute?” I asked him. He nodded, ambling toward the vending machines. Melanie sat down across the table. I’d been hoping she’d sit next to me, but no luck.
“I already apologized in my letters,” I started. She held up a hand.
“This is hard enough without listening to your justifications,” she said, her voice carefully blank. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m going to be a good daddy.”
“You can’t be,” she replied harshly. “You’re not there and you won’t be for another year and a half.”
Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to stay calm.
“I realize that,” I said slowly. “But once I get back, that’s going to change.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, I mean it. I’m going to be there for both of you. I promise.”
She looked at me steadily, then glanced around the room. Other families sat at tables, other fathers holding their kids, playing games with them or coloring. Reading stories together.
“How many of them have made those same promises?” she asked, her voice sad. Fuck.
“Words can’t fix this—I get that. But once I’m out, you’ll see for yourself. I’m going to take care of you and Izzy.”
She looked away for long minutes. The baby gurgled again, then stretched her little body, kicking out with her legs. Then Izzy smiled at me and the whole world disappeared.
Yeah, sounds stupid, but it’s the fuckin’ truth.
“I’ll take care of you,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss her soft cheek. “I promise. Your mama doesn’t believe me yet, but I’ll show her. I’ll show both of you. Daddy’s here, baby girl.”
“For now,” Melanie muttered. I didn’t say anything—after all, what the hell could I say?
She was right.
MELANIE
Izzy started crying when we finally pulled away from the prison. The visit had been four hours long, but it felt like forty minutes. That’s how fast it was over. I couldn’t blame her for it either—I felt like crying, too.
“She doing okay?” Puck asked, one big hand draped over the top of the steering wheel.
“Fine,” I said. “Although she’ll probably want to eat soon.”
“I’m hungry, too. We can pull off and grab something on the way back to the hotel. Unless you want to do something while we’re down here? Got some time to kill this afternoon.”
“What, like go sightseeing?”
“If you want.”
I considered the idea, but the thought of doing touristy things with Painter’s best friend and a newborn didn’t exactly strike me as fun. “No, let’s just go to the hotel. Izzy could use a nap and I’d like some space.”
“You got it.”
He turned on the radio and we settled in for the drive. The look on Painter’s face as we left haunted me. I wanted to hate him for what he’d done, but the pain he’d suffered when he handed Izzy back to me was real.
He loved her.
I wasn’t sure that he would—he didn’t want kids. He’d chosen prison over our daughter. Not that he’d sat down and checked a box marked “prison” instead of “fatherhood” on a test, but he’d known damned well that his parole officer was out for blood when he left the state.
But he truly loved Izzy. I’d seen it.
“I’m going to start sending him pictures,” I told Puck abruptly. He shot me a quick glance, then nodded.
“He’d probably like that.”
And that was it.
I liked Puck, I decided. He was big and scary, with a nasty scar across his face and all the social skills of an ax murderer, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
“Thanks. Thanks for bringing us down here.”
He glanced toward me again.
“Anytime, Mel. Anytime.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
COEUR D’ALENE
IZZY’S SECOND BIRTHDAY PARTY
MELANIE
“Cake?” Izzy asked, her voice hopeful. I looked at the pyramid of brightly frosted pink cupcakes with little princess cutouts on them and sighed.
London and Jessica seemed determined to bury me in a mountain of pink, something my daughter was all too happy to encourage. Not only were the cupcakes pink, the plastic tablecloth, the cups, the plates, the napkins, and the balloons were all pink, too. Specifically, the kind of neon pink that almost makes your eyes bleed, with princesses and unicorns, because God is cruel.
Even worse was the disturbingly poofy dress Painter had given her. Okay, so even I had to admit it was cute, a little tutu thing with a bright tulle skirt attached to a lightweight cotton one-piece. It even had “Princess” written across the front in silver sparkles. Would’ve been cuter if it hadn’t been so damned pink, though. Sometimes it felt like an Easter bunny had barfed all over my life, because everything was pastel and pretty.
Thus are the joys of having a daughter.
In the distance I heard the roar of Harley engines and looked up to see Painter and Reese Hayes pulling around the corner to the parking lot. The sound was enough to break through Izzy’s cupcake-induced trance, something I wouldn’t have bet was even possible.
“Daddy!” she shrieked, taking off across the lawn toward them. It was a gorgeous day for a birthday party in the park—would’ve been perfect if he weren’t coming. But I also knew how much he was looking forward to sharing a birthday with her.