Page 106 of In It to Win It

“Nope. Not falling in love, not getting married, not having kids.”

He frowns. “You love kids.”

“Yeah, I do.” I pause. “But I work with them every day. I won’t miss not having my own.”

Dad shoots me a curious glance, like he’s not sure if I’m joking or serious. “Where’d this come from?”

I lift one shoulder, not looking up.

“Have you talked to your mom?”

He knows that I found out about Mom and Shirley, and that I was having a hard time with it.

“Yes. Just the other day. I went over to give her a Christmas present and we talked. Things are okay. It’s going to take me some time to . . . process things. I still feel like she’s to blame for this.”

“I don’t want you to blame anyone,” he says quietly, staring straight ahead, his jaw set. “There’s no one reason our marriage ended. There’s no one reason people get married. No one reason we stayed together thirty-two years. Relationships aren’t just one thing; they’re a million things, a million moments, some little, some huge. And there’s no one reason a marriage ends. So don’t look for someone or something to blame.”

My heart constricts. I don’t want to make this all emotional and weird, though. “Okay,” I manage to say. “I . . . She says she really loved you.”

He swallows. “Yeah. And I believe her.”

“Did you doubt it, though? You must have questioned it . . .”

He clears his throat. “Honestly, I didn’t. Your mom and I had a lot of wonderful years together. I believe she loved me.”

Wow. Dad is so strong. So . . . decent. He’s a good man. “Are you really doing okay?”

“I really am. Don’t worry about me, Tater Tot.”

I huff out a small laugh.

“It’s hard, not gonna lie,” he says. “But sometimes doing what you have to do to be happy is hard. It takes a lot of strength, but that’s what tough times teach us . . . how strong we are. I’m going to be just fine.”

“Okay, good.”

“It’s not because of us that you think you’ll never get married, is it?”

I sip coffee from the travel mug I’m holding. “If you two couldn’t make it, who can?”

“Don’t think like that. Lots of people make it. And you have so much love in you.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I’m choking up again.

He’s right. I’ve always felt that way. I love dogs. I love kids. I love life. I love . . .love.

I’ve been telling myself I don’t care about love, but it’s not true. I still want it.

I think . . . I want it with JP.

Especially after last night. We talked about my visit with my mom, and he was so supportive and understanding. We opened our gifts and he couldn’t have given me anything better. I touch the golden sunflower nestled between my breasts and almost tear up all over again.

And he made me see stars . . . no, not just stars. He made me see the sun, the moon, the planets . . . with his usual generosity, he gave me everything, and I tried to give it all back to him.

Dad and I talk more as we drive, the Pacific glinting blue and silver on our right as we cruise along the highway that hugs the coast. We talk about his business, the house he’s going to make an offer on, funny stories from the kids I work with. And when we grow quiet, I think more about what he said earlier. About the moments. A million little moments.

The look on JP’s face when he opened my gift to him. His nervousness when I opened mine. Those were moments . . . small but weighty. Fleeting but momentous.

Relationships are hard. I guess. It’s been a while since I had one, and I don’t know if my two college boyfriends even count as that. What I feel with JP seems . . . different. Bigger. Important. It feels like . . . everything I ever wanted or needed or even imagined having.

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