Page 32 of The Good Girl Effect
I search for a distraction. Work is my distraction from my grief, and my grief is a distraction from my work—a vicious cycle.
Neither is what I should really be focusing on.
“Knock, knock,” a soft, familiar voice calls from the doorway. I peer up from my phone to see Phoenix leaning against the frame with her arms crossed and that familiar, concerned look etched into her features.
“Hey.” I set my phone down and wait for her to continue, although I’m pretty sure I know what she wants to ask.
“How are things?”
I knew it.
“Fine,” I murmur without meeting her eyes.
Phoenix is the type of friend who can see that I’m drowning but doesn’t know how to pull me out of the water. Instead, she dives in and swims next to me. She’s been by my side, shoveling work and distraction my way since Em got sick because she knows it’s the only way to get me through.
Right or wrong, I love her for it.
“How’s the new nanny working out?” She steps into the office and sits in one of the chairs facing my desk.
My molars clench at the mention of the nanny. “Bea loves her,” I say, sounding more displeased about that than I should.
“That’s good,” she replies before clearing her throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Phoenix chewing on the inside of her lip, and it’s blatantly obvious just how worried she is.
After Em died, I begged Phoenix to take my daughter. And for a short time, she did. For me.
It was a cruel request, and I’m not proud of it. To ask my best friend to help me and hurt me at the same time. To take the person I love most in this world because I couldn’t be the father Bea needs.
I nearly died right along with Em when my daughter wasn’t in my house for six whole months.
But I didn’t die. Instead, I buried myself in something new. Something to distract me. Something that gives me control and forces me to focus.
I found a love for bondage that made everything hurt just a little less.
I thought I was better. That is until Bea returned home, and I realized that I still didn’t have what it takes to be a father to her.
“I’m glad it’s working out,” she says softly. “But you know if it doesn’t…she can always come back and stay with me.”
I hear my daughter’s voice in my head, and sorrow builds painfully in my throat. The adorable way she greeted me as I left the apartment. The hope and love in her eyes.
She just wants her father.
I won’t give her up again.
“Thanks, Nix,” I say, my voice thick and raspy with emotion. “But it’s getting better.”
She forces a smile. “Good. You know I’m always here for you.”
“Thank you,” I say on an exhale.
“Now, go home. There’s nothing you can do to fix this mess tonight,” she adds, gesturing to the financial reports on my desk.
“I will,” I mutter lowly.
With that, she leaves my office, and I’m left with nothing but shame and regret.
I usually take a car back from the club, especially at nearly four in the morning.
But I need a moment to think, and the quiet, early mornings in the hilly district of Montmartre are the perfect place to do it.
