Page 62 of The Truth of Us

“Of course.”

“And fascinated.” He said in a voice he only used for her.

This part ‌always made my chest ache. Not because of the romance, because my father still sounded surprised by it. As if, after all these years, Sophie Lane walking into his life still felt like an impossible gift.

“She didn’t care about my name,” he said. “Or my family. Or what I was supposed to become. She cared about whether I meant what I said.” He paused. Then softly, “She was the first person who ever made me feel like Alexander instead of a Montgomery.”

My throat tightened. Because I knew what that meant now, maybe I always had. But after Elliot, after living as Harper Lane for years and realizing how much easier it was to be wanted when people did not know the rest of you, I understood it differently.

“What happened after?” I asked, even though I knew.

“She refused to speak to me.”

I smiled.

“For how long?”

“Three months,” he scoffed.

“Mom said two.”

“Your mother enjoyed revising history to make herself appear more reasonable,” he laughed.

“She was more reasonable.” I said, my eyes drifting to a picture over the mantle.

“She was not,” he rebutted.

“She was definitely more reasonable than you.”

He sighed dramatically. “Betrayed in my home, by my daughter.”

I reached out and grabbed the glass of wine he had poured for me and then tucked myself back in beside him.

He continued. “I sent flowers. She sent them back. I sent books for her literacy program. She accepted those, then sent me a note explaining that charitable donations did not make me less annoying.”

I grinned; that sounded like her., like the woman whose laugh I was losing pieces of every year and trying desperately to hold on to.

“She finally agreed to coffee because I showed up at the community center with boxes of books and stayed for six hours helping sort them.”

“You did manual labor?” I gasped and then sipped ‌the wine.

“I was in love.”

“You didn’t know that yet.”

His tone shifted. “No. I knew.”

I lifted my head and looked at my father. Because this was the part. The part I asked for when I was little because it made love seem easy. The part I asked for as a teenager because it made love seem possible. The part I needed now because I was terrified it had only ever existed for them.

“When?” I whispered.

His gaze remained on the fire, but his voice softened.

“The first time I imagined my future, and she was standing in every version of it.”

My chest hurt. Because I had thought Elliot looked at me like that, but fear had gotten to him before I could. My father’s hand found mine and squeezed gently.

“I went home that night and told your grandfather I was withdrawing from the campaign exploratory committee.”