Page 122 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"We did it!" I correct her.

When we break apart, I turn tentatively toward Rusty. He opens his arms, and I throw myself into them. He holds me tight, but it's too tight. Not in a physically painful way, but an emotionally painful one.

It feels like a goodbye hug.

But it can't be a goodbye hug. I won't let it be.

"I have to go back to work," he says in my ear. "But we need to talk tonight."

"Yes," I say, my spine turning to steel. “We do.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ASH

Igo home and take a nap.

I wake up from it hard.

Naps and I are not friends under any circumstances, and these are not just any circumstances. The victory can't compete with the crushing defeat of losing Rusty before I ever really had him. I don’t blame myself—I refuse to—but I let myself cry. My eyes sting, my lungs burn, my throat is raw. The sadness in my heart is a weight so heavy, I struggle to move from my bed.

And when I’ve cried myself out, I pull up social media to numb my brain. I scroll through posts from people I knew in high school, acquaintances from college and old jobs. My brothers share pictures of their kids or lame dad jokes. Then I see a post from Greg that makes the weight in my heart press on my lungs.

It's a picture of Greg and my brothers—his biological sons—when the boys were young. And the caption says, "My kids are the greatest blessing in the world. Praying for many more years with these rascals."

He called them "my kids." Full stop. Not "my boys," the way he usually does … the way he always does, come to think of it.

No, even my existence is absent from the caption. His caption doesn't leave room for "Daddy's girl," as he calls me.

I didn't realize until right now that I've been waiting for this moment since I was nine, when he married my mom. Greg was so loving and warm, even when Frank had me convinced that Greg was the problem keeping my mom and him apart. It took me a couple of years to realize that Greg was actually pretty incredible and another couple of years after that to realize my dad was a narcissistic liar. But even when I was young and dumb, Greg always treated me with the same love he showed his boys.

Or at least, I thought he did.

But the other shoe has finally dropped and his true feelings have come out. "My kids," the picture says. "These rascals," it says. That clearly implies that the people shown in the picture are his only kids.

I'm not one of them.

To plunge the dagger deeper, I pull up Frank's profile. Nothing comes up. Oh my gosh, did Frank block me? The father who already rejected me a million times has somehow done it again?

No, that's not right. I blocked him. I could unblock him, though. He used to make at least some effort with me. He wouldn't come to a birthday or go out of his way, but he would randomly drop by with a stupidly lavish gift that made me feel special … although it was more like a bribe than a gesture of fatherly love. By the time I reached high school, though, his manipulations had become too transparent to deny. When I stopped being his "ally" against my mom, he turned on me completely. He stopped buying me anything or communicating with me except on public posts designed to make him look like a good father instead of a derelict one.

I don't want to unblock Frank, though.

I want Greg to love me.

Why can’t I inspire real, enduring love in even the good men in my life? The best men in my life. Greg is the only father I have, yet he sees me as a second class citizen in my own family.

I hurt, inside and out. My frown is so deep, cheek muscles I didn't know existed ache. My forehead hurts from it being screwed up into a sad knot. I'm a snotty, sniveling mess who wants to swim in my own sea of pain.

And like any 27 year-old woman drowning in self-pity, I FaceTime my mom.

Unfortunately, it's Greg who answers. "AJ!" he says with a big smile. "Why are the lights off? Are you okay?"

"Just a headache," I say. With only the light coming in from my mostly closed window and the reflection of my phone screen, my puffy, red-rimmed eyes are shadowed. "Where's Mom?"

"Deboning a chicken, so I thought I’d answer for her. How did the meeting go today? Did the town see my baby girl's genius?"

I fake a smile, even though he'll barely be able to see it. Him calling me his 'baby girl' after that post causes an extra stab of pain. It's like he's carrying on for me, faking so I don't feel the hurt of being second tier in his heart.

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