Page 64 of Finally Found You

Kenzy holds my gaze for a moment, her eyes reflecting a swirl of emotions. After a small sigh, she says, “You’re right. We’ll see what happens.”

As we walk to the elevator, I wonder if splitting holidays with her cousin will be a good idea or if I’m making yet another mistake. Being a father isn’t a journey for the fainthearted, particularly when you’re trying to earn your place without indulging in overcompensation. It’s a delicate balance, like a tightrope walking above an abyss of potential errors.

Just a month ago, she uttered the word “dad,” and it felt like I had summited the highest peak, breathing in the rarefied air of a hard-won victory. But it’s not enough yet. There’s a lot more I have to do, and I only have three years before she leaves for college and begins her own life.

Maybe I have to change my perspective. It’s all about perception. Kenzy is fifteen, and I have plenty of time to be with her. I have to remember to enjoy every second instead of focusing on the future.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Lysander

As the day’s work fades into the ink-black night, my brothers—sans Caspian—and I gather around the fire pit. The soft crackle of the fire is the only sound that breaks the serenity of the evening, its dancing flames throwing our faces into a mosaic of light and shadow. In our hands, we cradle glasses filled with the fruits of Dad’s labor—a 1989 chardonnay, the first one from one of the barrels he left to age. Tonight, we raise our glasses to the harvest, one of our best years yet.

It’s as if we finally let the past to rest, brought the person who burned the vineyard and caused our father’s death to justice, and now it’s time to finally breathe.

“So are you moving to Paradise Bay after the renovations of the house are finished?” Aslan breaks the silence, the glow of the fire reflecting in his curious eyes.

“I don’t think so,” I respond, the words escaping on a sigh as I take a swig of the wine. “Kenzy and I agreed to discuss it next June after the school year is over. If we decide to move, we’ll buy a smaller house. This is too big for us.”

“You could marry and have more children,” Gatsby suggests with a smirk, as though the solution is that simple. “This time, you could make the babies naturally, not via a stolen condom.”

“Shut up,” I retort, a low growl resonating in my chest.

“Will you ever tell Kenzy how she was made?” Huxley ventures, his tone tentative.

“When a mommy loves money very much and steals a used condom—”

“Shut the fuck up.” I glare at Gatsby.

Huxley stares at me, still waiting for an answer.

“Nope,” I answer immediately. “There are things I’d rather keep from her.”

“Like that her cousin is the love of your life, and you’re heartbroken because you two will never be together?” Aslan chimes in, his words striking a chord that sends a pang reverberating through my chest.

“Yeah, like that one,” I admit softly, tapping my chest as though I could physically push the pain away.

“Are Cami and Kenzy still not speaking to each other?” Gatsby inquires, a furrow etching itself between his brows.

I shake my head, watching the fire as it consumes the logs hungrily, mirroring the way my past seems to consume my present. “They started talking again a month ago. Kenz is going to visit her this Monday and staying all week for fall break.”

“She’s flying to Colorado?” Gatsby queries, leaning forward in interest.

“Nope, Camilla moved to Seattle with her friend JJ.”

“She’s going alone?” Heath’s voice carries a note of concern.

“Benedict and Bernie are visiting Derek and his family, so he’s taking her with him,” I reply, my gaze reluctantly pulled back to the mesmerizing dance of the flames. Each flicker seems to stir a ghost of a memory, its warmth reaching out to touch my soul.

“You should go with her. Try to fix things with Camilla,” Aslan’s suggestion cuts through the air like a cold blade, chilling the warmth the fire has built.

“There’s nothing to fix,” I retort a bitter reminder that lingers on my tongue. “We just can’t be together. Kenzy requested it and I’m going to respect her wish.”

“Have I mentioned this is Tara all over again?” Gatsby interjects, his words striking a chord within me. “Well, no, this is a lot worse. You gave up the love of your life because you can’t have an adult conversation with your daughter.”

“I have to respect her boundaries,” I defend myself, but the words sound like a poor excuse.

“You have to stop sacrificing your heart for everyone. If your daughter cared a smidge for you, she would want you to be happy,” Aslan argues. “She hasn’t noticed that you’re just a shell of the old Lysander. You’re fucking hurting—and so do we because we’re connected.”

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