Page 77 of Wild Hearts

I called her since I was in the basement and Dakota couldn't hear our conversation.

"Hey," Addison said softly, and I wished she were here with me now. If I had someone to talk to, it would help. But unfortunately, it was just me and Dakota, and she wasn't talking. "How are you?"

I appreciated that she asked about me. "I don't like this."

"It's hard to be there for kids and not demand that they talk to us, huh?" Addison said.

"I feel like I'm doing something wrong."

"If she wants to talk, she'll come to you."

"What if she needs more from me, but she doesn't ask for it?" My mind was going to scary places, like suicide. Didn't I need to be insisting she keep her door open and let me know what she was thinking?

"She's going through the usual stages of grief. She will be sad more often than not at times. It doesn't mean that she feels hopeless. Keep reminding her that it will get better. That this is normal."

That eased my panic. I was worried I was missing the signs of something more concerning. "Okay."

"I bet you've already reached out to her therapist and yours."

"I did."

"She wasn't overly concerned, was she?"

I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me. "She said this was normal. Same thing you've said."

"It's hard to stand by and do nothing, but you are doing something. If she wants to talk to you, she knows she can. Now, go make her a good dinner. Maybe she'll say something then to ease your mind."

"Thanks, Addison."

"You're welcome."

"I wish you could be here." It was too soon to be saying things like that. But I needed her. She'd always eased the ache inside me, and I was impatient to take us to the next level.

"I think it's important for you to be her go-to right now. You're her father."

"Yeah, you're right."

We got off the phone, and I took a quick shower before telling Dakota I was going to cook dinner.

I was surprised when she asked if she could help. "Come down when you're ready."

I figured she might want to wash her face or clean up. I'd give her that time while I prepped dinner. My nerves kicked up when I heard her door open and the sound of her feet on the wooden stairs.

Her eyes were red rimmed. "What are you making?"

"Chicken and rice."

"Can you wrap it like those burritos like you did that one time? I was hoping you could show me how you did that."

"You want cilantro in your rice?" I'd noticed she was more adventurous than I figured she'd be for her age.

"Sure."

We got to work. She cooked the rice, and I cut the chicken, seasoned it, and put it in the oven. Afterward, we wrapped the rice and chicken in a burrito then heated it in a pan on the stove. I sliced tomatoes and avocados on the side.

The entire time, she was quiet, so I put on some background music. It was hard to be patient, but I was trying.

When we sat down to eat, she asked for Sprite, and for once, I said yes. I kept it for special occasions but didn't like her drinking soda all the time. It seemed to be a rule that was similar to her mother's, so easy to follow.

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