Page 59 of Silver Brewer

The patter of little feet resonates down the hall, coming toward this room, and Giant stands, reaching for his pants on the chair and tugging them on. He looks around the room for something and then takes three steps to his highboy dresser. Briskly opening the drawer, he pulls too hard, and it jams. He slips a hand into the slim opening, tugs out a T-shirt, and roughly pulls it over his head. Another call comes closer.

“Papa.”

My heart drops to my stomach, which roils and coils, and not just from the excessive amount of beer I drank last night.

Giant steps for his bedroom door, not even acknowledging me, and wraps a hand around the handle.

“Papa?” I question, bile climbing up my throat. As in Dad? Giant’s hand pauses on the doorknob, but his back remains to me.

“Grandpa,” he clarifies, without looking back. His forehead hits the wood barrier to the hall for a mere second before he opens the door only a crack. “I’ll get rid of them. Just. Stay. Here.” His words are almost angry as if gruff Giant has returned. He slips through the opening he made and shuts the door behind him.

The second the door closes, I rush for his bathroom, emptying the contents of my stomach. Stay. What kind of command is that? Am I dog?

When I stand from the toilet and look in the mirror, my face is ashen. My lips dull. My eyes too bright.

Papa. Grandpa.

He has fucking children. He has grandchildren.

I lunge for the toilet again, but nothing other than liquid comes out. On shaking legs, I stand, splash water on my face, and then brush my teeth.

Stay here. I’ll get rid of them.

Oh, no. Not this again. I will not be invisible.

I’m forty and about to do the ultimate walk of shame—meet the children after fucking their father senseless. I fix my hair into a tight bun and slowly cross his bedroom for my bag. I pull on clean clothes. Jeans and a long-sleeve shirt are the best items I have left. I wore a dress last night to the Oktoberfest, but it smells like beer and…it’s down by the hot tub where I left it.

I pinch my cheeks for color and pull on my proverbial big girl panties.

“Well, here goes everything,” I whisper as I tug open the door a little too harshly and step into the hall. The noise of little girl voices and an older female fills the great room. A second strong feminine voice joins the first.

As I step to the edge of the room, I stop when two sets of eyes meet mine.

“Dad?” the one questions while the other just stares at me.

Giant turns with a girl roughly three years old in his arms. Another little one sits on a stool at the kitchen island.

“Hello,” I say, my voice cracking.

He has children. He has grandchildren.

Giant looks from me to the girls and back. The little one in his arms wiggles to be released to a second stool. I feel as if I’m walking through deep water as I cross the living room, approaching the gaping mouth, wide-eyed women who appear to be in their mid-to-late twenties.

I extend a shaking hand, hoping they can’t see how much I tremble. “I’m Olivet Pierson. Letty.” I choke on my own name. Not a Livvy or a Vette or an Olive. Just Letty. Invisible.

One young woman circles the island, extending her hand for mine. Her hair is a light amber color, but her eyes match her father. “Ellie. Ellie McCabe. These are my daughters, Kali.” She points at a light brunette with eyes matching most Harrington offspring. “And Essie.” The second brunette has brilliant green eyes and mischief in her little smile. She lowers her face away from my prying gaze. “And this is my sister, Sarah.” Ellie points at the other woman.

Awkward silence falls around us as Giant still doesn’t speak. He isn’t looking at me, and I refuse to look over at him.

“We’re here for breakfast,” Ellie explains.

“Well, then,” I say to the little girls. “What are we having?”

“Waffles,” they cheer in unison. “With ears,” the younger one—Essie—adds. I look up at her mother in question.

“Mickey Mouse ones. My dad…” Her eyes shift to Giant. “He makes them when we come for breakfast.”

My heart is ripped into tiny little shreds, and while I should pack my bags and storm out of this house, never to look back, my pride wouldn’t allow that scene. Instead, I’ll suffer through this breakfast, humiliated and awkward, and make my presence known while feeling empty in my chest.