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Therapy helped. Self-help books worked for a little while. But then there were days I’d think of him and the scar would rip open and my heart would be left bleeding for days like it was bleeding now.
There was no choice. I needed to do this. I needed to try one last time. It was my wedding for fuck’s sake.
While I’d not been the most cliché bride, I had been an agreeable one, making sure that Hale and the Davenports got everything they requested. Marrying Hale was enough for me to put myself through all the drama and excruciating attention, but if I could make one teeny, tiny wish, this was it.
I wanted my dad to walk me down the aisle.
For all the birthdays missed, all the father-daughter dances I attended with Uncle Rob, all the extra tickets to plays and softball games that went into the recycling, for the empty seats at both my graduations, this was the one thing I believed he owed me, so I was going to invite him to my wedding and I didn’t want anyone to tell me not to.
I knew the likelihood of a response was slim to none, but I had to try. I braced for the self-deprecating spiral that would follow. I could already hear Elle’s lecture. Although, since the damage from the accident, she might not remember how many times we traveled down this road, so maybe this time she’d say something different than, Ray, why do you let him hurt you like this?
Yes, I was hiding to avoid being talked out of something that would ultimately cause me pain. But also because I preferred to face my shame privately. Rejection was hard, but it was downright humiliating when others witnessed it.
Hale would comfort me when the time came, but I hated drawing his attention to that icky part of my past. There were two, possibly three, men who should love a woman unconditionally—her father, her husband, and, if she was lucky, her son. There was a very illogical but real part of my psyche that feared if Hale thought too hard about the first guy leaving me, he might cut and run too. I never wanted him to think I might be defective.
Chewing my lip, my gaze darted to the hall as I sat on the bed of the empty guest room, assuring I wouldn’t be disturbed. I opened a new message.
Dad
I waited for the words to come but they were tied up in some kind of knot. My skin tingled and a woozy sensation sloshed through me.
Should I call him Dad? Did he go by Raymond or Ray?
I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. “It doesn’t fucking matter,” I hissed, then started typing.
Dad, It’s Rayne. I’m writing to let you know that I’m getting married. My wedding is this April. I’d like nothing more than for you to be there. Do you think you could do this one favor for me? You wouldn’t have to worry about travel expenses or anything else. If you’re willing to do this, I’ll take care of everything. I know we lost touch over the years, but you’re still my dad and I can’t imagine this day without you there. Please answer this message and please say yes. It’s the only thing I’ll ever ask of you. Love your daughter, Rayne
Send.
“Oh God.” I rushed from the guest room to the bathroom where my body drastically punished me for compartmentalizing years of stress and self-loathing. I had to exercise the demons and it was not pretty.
When I finally exited the bathroom I came face to face with Hale. He drew back and frowned in concern. “Are you sick?”
“My stomach was bothering me. I should be fine now.”
He tsked and gave me space. “Do you think you caught a bug?”
“No. Just my usual stomach issues.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I doubted other couples discussed poo as much as Hale and I, but these were the joys of loving someone with IBS.
“Maybe it’s something else…”
I frowned, then understanding dawned. “I’m not pregnant, Hale.”
He smirked. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing if you were.”
I shoved him out of my way. “It would.” Opening the nightstand drawer, I pulled out a candy bar. “We have enough on our plate with Elara and the wedding and school and travel.”
“Should you be eating that—” When I paused and sent him a death look he held up his hands in a sign of peace. “I’m only saying that it might not be the best for an upset stomach.”
I decapitated the chocolate bunny. “This is exactly what I should be eating right now.”
For the rest of the day, I ignored my social media, then I moved the app into one of those little boxes on the last screen of my phone’s display so I wouldn’t obsess. I set a reminder on my calendar to check the message in two days and made a promise to myself not to look a minute before. But I had always been the sort of person to peek at Christmas presents so I broke that promise about five minutes after making it.
Viewing his unread message over and over again was the equivalent of being pecked to death by chickens. It was a slow death, but eventually, the misery would end.
