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I close my eyes and let his love surround me. “Hey, Daddy.”
“You look worse for wear, baby girl,” he says, pulling back to inspect my face once again.
My lower lip trembles. The pity in his eyes is crippling. “I know.”
My father gives Davis a tight nod. “Thank you for bringing her home.”
Planted in a corner of the room like some brooding bodyguard, Davis’s hands fist on his hips. “Nothing’s too much, Stede. Not for you. Or your daughters.”
Davis’s kindness to my father only has my heart beating faster. But just as quickly, realization anchors it. Davis only rode to my rescue as a favor. To Davis, I’m a problem. A pregnant, messy problem who’s running back to Resurrection with a baby and a bug-out bag.
My father shuffles to the couch and pats the spot beside him. “Sit here, Dakota, and tell me your troubles.”
Troubles. That’s a nice way to put it.
I’m opening my mouth to say just that when I notice something new. There’s a strange-looking machine next to the couch. Casserole dishes stacked on the chipped countertop. Fallon’s bags are in the corner of the room, but I know she has a lavender cottage a few miles down. I Google mapped it when I heard she got her own place. Sent her a potted viola that I’m sure saw the inside of a trash can.
“Dad?” I ask, my voice weak. “Why is Fallon living here?”
Before anyone can answer, my father erupts in a cough. Fallon’s at his side in an instant, fussing, a handkerchief in her hand.
“What the hell is going on?” I choke out.
Davis’s jaw clenches, but he remains stoically silent.
A tense silence blankets the room, and a sick feeling settles in my stomach.
“He has lung cancer,” Fallon blurts. She grips my father’s hand and helps him settle on the couch.
“What?” I blink, a foggy haze settling over me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t tell us either,” Fallon retorts, cheeks flushed. Her eyes brush accusingly over my busted lip. “Looks like we’re even.”
Davis looks down on my sister with a scowl. “Fallon, for fuck’s sake.”
“That isn’t fair,” I snap at her, frustrated. I look at my father. “For how long?”
“About a year now.” My father waves his hand. “We didn’t want to bother you. Not when you were getting your bakery off the ground.”
The tightness in my chest constricts, the ache in my left arm intensifying. “That would have been the least of my worries. You should have told me.”
“It’s stage two,” Fallon shoots back, handing our father a glass of water. “We have it under control.”
I watch their routine, feeling guilty. Left out. It hurts so badly they kept it from me, but it hurts worse because I know I’ve been MIA. Fallon’s been here, I haven’t.
Shame burns a hole in my stomach.
My father pats the seat beside him. “Come sit by your old man. I want to know what’s going on with you, daydreamer.”
Daydreamer.
My father’s nickname for me. I always had my head in the clouds, dreaming of the what-could-be. Fallon was the troublemaker. The one most like my father. I remember even as a child, Fallon was always chasing that adrenaline rush.
My little sister was born fearless.
And me, I was born to run.
After a brief glance at Davis, I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. His steady gaze eases some of my nerves.
