Screw it.
I twist the lock out of place, grab the handle, and yank it open.
Standing on the porch… is Harrison, soaked through. His coat hangs off his frame, wet, water sliding off his lashes as he looks at me.
My first reflex is fear. Hours ago, I broke into his house. I trespassed, snooped, rifled through his private life like a burglar.
But a confusing wave of repose washes over me as I remember who he really is. Not a creeping neighbor, not a killer.
My father.
Before either of us says a word, I lose myself in a newfound sea of tears.
“What are you doing here?” I shout over the crashing weather.
The patio awning offers a pathetic respite from the rain, as droplets still find a way of reaching his body, pelting his long black coat.
I don’t ask him in, not yet.
“Do you know who I am?” he calmly shouts.
My chest heaves like I’ve just run a marathon. My tears warm my cheeks in the biting cold.
“Emmett called me,” he continues. “He told me you know. I… I drove straight here from my office.”
How noble. A man who only acts when his truth is exposed. When he’s cornered.
I roll my eyes, blink the tears away, hugging my chest as wind rolls into the door like it’s a tunnel.
Harrison seems lost for words. His mouth opens and closes repeatedly as he squints, looking around as though the answer is written in the air somewhere. “I’ve driven here four times this past week. Each time, I haven’t made it far enough to knock.”
I let him squirm, let him continue searching for the right words—the words he should have uttered a lifetime ago.
He presses on. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to talk to you. Even though all I’ve wanted to do—for years—is talk to you. And your sister.” His voice is shaking, teeth chattering. “My name is Harrison… I’m your dad.”
My weeping has steadied, turning into a left eye twitch and a mouth quiver. “Come in.”
I close the door behind him, in disbelief that he’s shown up like this. I face him in the entryway, uninterested in settling in with him.
“My mother died three weeks ago,” I say angrily, crossing my arms. “I had to find out who you were by accident, while boxing up her life.” My voice cracks. “You’ve lived right there”—I stab a finger at the window, at the vague silhouette of his black house through the haze—“for decades. You knew us. You knewher. Yet you didn’t try to be a real partner. A real man. A real dad.”
He stands there, shame crossing him like it did Emmett.
“And yet,” I continue. “You were close to Madison Tory. Right? Some girl barely older than us. You could give her your attention, your guidance. But you couldn’t give it to your actual daughters?”
He presses his lips together, drenched hair dripping on his collar. “Your mother didn’t want me in your lives. And I…” His voice falters, ignoring my point. “I was afraid. I was selfish, and I was terrified I’d ruin you. I didn’t know how to be a father. I didn’t know if Iwantedto be one.”
I laugh. A sharp, disbelieving sound. “Maybe you should have thought about that before getting with my mother. Just like you should have thought about moving. Because how did you think that carrying on with your life—right in front of us—was better thantrying?”
I may know his name, his place of employment, his home address, but I do notknowthis man. Sharing his DNA doesn’t make him my family. It doesn’t create an automatic bond, like he may wish.
“I left because I was… an idiot. I thought I’d come back when I was ready. I was young—I didn’t know what I was doing. I was worried it was going to affect my life and freedom and career. But by the time I looked up… you weren’t little girls anymore.” His voice lowers, broken. “Then it felt too late.”
My eyes widen, shocked he said any of that aloud.
“That came out wrong,” he defends. “I… felt this unbearablepressure and I didn’t know what to do with it. So I left. I can’t take it back… but I’m open to changing that now.”
I scoff. “You’reopento it?”
