Page 41 of Daddy's Girl

I know what he means without him having to explain. I've felt his body jerk beside me in bed, heard the rough gasps when the nightmares come. The way he thrashes until I curl against him, until my weight anchors him back to reality.

"The dreams," I say softly. "The ones that wake you up."

He nods, something vulnerable crossing his face. "PTSD, if you want to give it a name. I saw some shit I will never talk about, baby, so don’t ask. But since you came, I don't get them as much anymore."

“I hope someday there are no more.”

His eyes meet mine, raw with honesty. "I earned my quiet, baby. Just not the way I thought I would."

I step through the dust on the floor just like that first day. The air smells like sawdust and lemon oil.

"And now?"

He doesn't look at me right away.

"Now I want to make things that last. Things someone keeps. Because they matter. Not because they're owed." His eyes lift to mine, unexpectedly vulnerable. "Things for you. For our kids."

The casual way he says it—our kids—like it's inevitable, like it's already written in stone, makes my belly tighten with want.

"Jack," I whisper, my hand on his arm. "I want that too, but what if I want other things?"

His eyes darken, molten blue. "What do you want, baby? Anything, remember, you tell me everything."

He sets down his sandpaper. Walks to me, slow and solid, until I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. His massive frame blocks the light from the door, casting me in his shadow.

"What do you want, baby girl? Beyond this. Beyond me."

I open my mouth. Close it. No one's ever really asked me that before.

"I told you I was studying geology before my dad got sick," I finally say, the words coming easier than expected. "Only a couple classes at the community college. Had to drop out to take care of him." I run my fingers along the grain of the wooden chair. "I love learning about the formations, mineral compositions. The way mountains are born and die."

I look up to find Jack looking at me like I’m telling him all the secrets of the world.

"These mountains," I gesture beyond the workshop walls, "they're perfect for field research. The rock formations here are some of the oldest in the country." A smile tugs at my lips. "I want to finish my degree. Maybe work with the university's research team. There's a field station about forty minutes from here. But, I want to be a mom, too."

The certainty in my voice surprises me. I hadn't realized how much I still wanted this, how the dream had just been sleeping while I survived.

"You can do both. I’ll make sure. I’ll be Mr. Mom. I’ve already watched a YouTube video on the best way to change a diaper. I’m even taking notes. Oh, and this, did you see this?" Jack asks, surprising me with the change of subject. He reaches behind some tools, pulls out a folded newspaper. "They found the oldest known rock in America up in the U.P. last week."

My heart nearly stops. "What? Where?"

"Northern Michigan," he says, handing me the paper. The headline jumps out at me: 'Ancient Gneiss in Upper Peninsula Named Oldest Rock in United States.' "Scientists dated the zircon in it. Beat out rocks in Minnesota and Wisconsin that everyone thought were older."

My fingers trace the grainy photo of the banded metamorphic rock, excitement building in my chest. Gneiss—pronounced "nice"—with its distinctive mineral bands, formed under intense pressure and heat. This was exactly my field of interest before Dad got sick.

"You know what gneiss is?" I ask, looking up at him.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Only that the reporter called it 'the nation's oldest nice rock' before correcting himself. Thought of you when I heard it on the radio."

He's been paying attention. To what I love. To what matters to me.

"I want to make something that lasts," I say softly, looking up from the paper. "Maps of what's beneath us. Knowledge that matters. Something that's mine."

His thumb brushes beneath my chin.

"Then that's what you'll do." His voice wraps around me, firm and safe. "You stay here, or you don't. You paint, or write, or plant a goddamn orchard—I'll build the shed, I'll fund the dream. Just tell me what it is, and it's done."

"You believe in me that much?"

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