Fine.
I was a coward.
I loved my dad. He was a good dad. Maybe not as warm and fatherly as Maddie’s was, but a billion times better than Wren’s father—and I used that label loosely.
Afterall, my dad was still in my life. He came to almost all my important events. He was there when I needed him. He took an interest in my future success. Sometimes, he took too much of an interest, but that was better than being MIA.
That being said, he wasn’t the easiest person to talk to.
He always reminded me of the stereotypical dad in an old sitcom. Not the bumbling idiot type who weaponized his incompetence—Dad was way better than that. He was like the ones who popped on screen during the breakfast scene, only to grab dry toast from the expansive spread of food before rushing to the office. The dads who were slightly out of touch with what was happening around them.
Dad was often preoccupied with work. He was ambitious, always wanting to be the best, and he added a loving amount of pressure on me to do the same. He was also more than a little narcissistic.
Not in a cruel way. Projecting the image of perfection was vital for his career, and again, he wanted the same from me. It came easier to him than it did to me. He always knew what to say. How to dress. Who to schmooze.
Dad was… smooth.
He would’ve made a great Hollywood agent, but he put all that charm toward roping in patients instead.
Asking my mom was also out. I was positive she didn’t know about my dad’s side hustle as Dr. Escobar. She also didn’t know about or have access to his work documents to gather any sort of intel. Unless it involved fundraising dinners or networking events, my mom steered clear of his practice. Medical stuff wasnother thing. Just the sight of a needle on TV was enough to make her woozy.
The oozing blood that’d ruined my sneakers would have her on the verge of passing out.
That left one person.
I dropped my head back and let out a frustrated noise. I was going for an animalistic—and cathartic—bear growl.
Mixed with my tears and panting, it came out more like a kitten who’d gotten sprayed with water.
Whatever.
Pushing up to my feet, I brushed the dirt from my ass before pulling my cell from my pocket to check the time. It was barely after nine.
No matter how desperate Josh claimed to be to keep me, he wouldn’t answer the phone so early. If anything, he would get pissed at me for waking him.
I needed him happy with me.
Well, I needed another idea that didn’t hinge on talking to my drug-dealing ex. Short of that, though, I needed him happy.
I started moving again, my mind whirling the whole time—making the already grueling hike more akin to anguish.
When I finally reached the top—or at least as far as the narrow path was worn out—the usual feeling of stubborn victory didn’t fill me.
Dread.
Dread filled me.
“I can do this. I can do anything.”
I thought about waiting until I was back down in my car. Or for another day when I was more in control of my emotions.
Or another decade.
But once I set my mind on something, I became impatient—a personality flaw that didn’t always work in my favor.
I checked my phone again. It was still early but not rage-inducingly so. It would have to do because I couldn’t wait any longer.
Maybe he’ll be too tired to filter his answers, and I’ll get the truth for once.
