Page 104 of Have To Be Mine

I pulled out my phone and looked at the last text I’d sent her. Three days ago. Just a simple “thinking about you.” No response.

Maybe she needed more time. Maybe she needed space to work through whatever was holding her back. I could give her that. I could wait because I knew something she didn’t seem to know yet. We were meant for each other.

What we had in Greece wasn’t just a vacation fling or a temporary fantasy. It was real. The realest thing I’d ever experienced. She would figure that out too. I just had to wait her out.

And if that didn’t work, I would find a way to make it happen.

34

KRISTA

Istood on my father’s doorstep in Florida, tugging at the hem of the sundress I’d bought three days ago. The fabric was light and airy, a soft yellow that reminded me of the Greek sun. It had felt right in the store. It had felt like maybe I could be that woman again. I loved how pretty I felt in that dress. Could I replicate that feeling or was that only because of Dash? Was it only because he looked at me like I was the only woman on the planet?

Standing in the oppressive Florida humidity, I just felt ridiculous. My dad was going to laugh me right out of Florida. I looked like a girl. Obviously, I was, but I didn’t know how to look like one and I had a feeling I looked like a kid playing dress-up in her mother’s closet.

The door swung open and my father’s face lit up. “Krista! You’re early!” His smile faded as he took in my appearance. “Well, look at you. You’re all dressed up.”

He was being nice but I hated that he noticed and commented. It was a basic look but not for me. This wasn’t me. This was a costume I was trying on, and everyone could see right through it. I wanted to change—fast.

“It’s just a dress,” I mumbled. “It’s hot. Dresses are practical in the heat.”

“I didn’t mean anything bad about it.”

“I know what you meant.” I pushed past him into the air-conditioned house, immediately regretting the tone. This wasn’t his fault. None of this was his fault.

He closed the door and watched me. He was waiting for me to explain why I bit his head off.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

I was so embarrassed. “Thanks.”

“You look just like your mother.”

The words stopped me cold. I stared at him. My mouth was actually hanging open. He was smiling, but his eyes were wet. He had never said that. I used to stare at myself in the mirror and look for her features. Sometimes I allowed myself to believe they were there and then I quickly dismissed the thought because my mother was beautiful. I wasn’t.

“She had a yellow dress,” he continued, moving to the couch and sinking down. “Almost exactly that shade. She wore it to a barbecue the summer before she got sick. I remember thinking she looked like sunshine.”

I sat down beside him, the anger draining out of me. I was intrigued. I wanted to know all the details. Stories about my mother were rare and I clung to them like a life preserver tossed into the ocean. “I don’t remember that dress.”

“You were young. Maybe ten?” He rubbed his hand over his face. “She was always trying to get you to wear dresses. You’d fight her on it every time.”

“I was a tomboy.”

“You were my little soldier.” He smiled. “Following me around, wanting to do everything I did. She used to worry about it sometimes but then said it was a phase. Once you hit puberty you would blossom into a beautiful woman. And that didn’t happen because I held you back. I’m sorry.”

The guilt in his voice was palpable.

“Dad, you gave me everything.”

“I gave you what I knew how to give. Structure. Discipline. A path forward.” He looked at me. “But I didn’t know how to talk to you about boys. Or feelings. Or any of the things your mother would have handled. Makeup and hairstyles. Dresses.”

I felt tears burning behind my eyes. “I didn’t need that stuff.”

“Didn’t you?”

I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t. Because he was right. I’d spent years pretending I didn’t need softness or vulnerability or any of the things that made me feel feminine and exposed. I’d built my entire life around being tough enough that I didn’t need anyone.

“I think I turned out okay,” I said.