Page 126 of Pucked Up Plans
With each step toward the door, the tension in the room increases, a weight crushing on my chest. Even though she’s leaving, this is far from over. Until we have an answer. And depending on what the answer is will determine if this is the end or the beginning.
Please let it be the end,I beg.
Raquel turns at the closed door. “I’m sorry I came crashing in like this. I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
My question catches her off guard, even though she’s the one who gave me the opening.
“Oh. Well…I…um, I couldn’t remember what you said your name was. Where you were from. But then a friend remembered you played hockey for Aspenridge, and we tracked you down.”
“How convenient.”
She smiles, like I’ve said something amazing. “It was.”
I open the door, ready to shove her through it, but she doesn’t move. “This baby will be lucky to have you as a father.”
“How could you possibly know?”
She flusters, a dark red staining her cheeks. It makes her exposed rather than how Tate looks sweet.
Tate.
My irritation at the situation at the highest, I shake my head. “Don’t bother answering. I’ll text you.” Hopefully, she forgets she doesn’t have my number, exactly how I want this. Sure, she could show up here at any time, but at least she can’t bother me with unnecessary phone calls and texts all hours of the day, which is far easier than making the drive from Riverbend.
I coax her out the door, slamming it behind her. She may keep talking, but I’ve heard enough from her for tonight. For a lifetime, in fact.
With one goal in mind, I head to the kitchen for my phone. It buzzes in my hand as I pick it up. To my dismay, it’s not Tate’s name displayed on the screen.
Ma
Can we come out now?
Despite my sour mood, a smile spreads on my lips.
She’s gone. All safe. I owe you one
She doesn’t respond, but the sound of footsteps reaches my ears, right before the assertive voice of Millie.
“Boy, you owe me way more than ‘one.’ I’ll decide later how you’ll pay up.” She’s only teasing, but it does little to sway my mood.
What does it is my daughter. With her blanket in her hands, she stands in front of me, her identical blue eyes to mine, assessing me.
“Tate seemed sad, Dad.”
She can always bring me to my knees. This time, her use of “Dad.”
“Yeah, Squirt. She was. But I’m hoping not for long.”
Please don’t let it be for long. Please, by some miracle of miracles, don’t let it be my kid.
“Remember, she loves flowers. Maybe we should go to the store tomorrow and pick some out for her. You know her favorite kind, right?”
“Flowers,” I whisper, both to acknowledge her suggestion and to answer her question. Although I’m thinking she won’t accept any tomorrow. And it may be a while before she ever will.
Ifever again.
That thought makes me cringe, the lead ball in my stomach cracking, its contents leaking into every crevice.
