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“I, uh…” I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. “Wow.”
“I know I’m asking for a lot,” he says. “I’m asking for some trust, just a little bit, and I don’t blame you if you won’t give it to me, but I just… I’m asking. Can I take her?”
I open my mouth, still having no idea what to say, when movement catches my eye seconds before a voice cuts in. “Am I interrupting?”
Eight-thirty on the dot, I’m guessing. Drew. I don’t turn, don’t look at him right away, but Jonathan does. His back straightens, shoulders squaring, every inch of him rigid. I watch as his face clouds with confusion, hoping there’s no recognition, but it’s instant.
Confusion gives way to a raw sort of anger, the kind that has simmered for ages. He glares at Drew like he wants to tear his heart out, rip it from his chest and shove it down his throat.
Jonathan’s voice is as scathing as his gaze when he says, “Hastings.”
“Cunningham,” Drew says, unfazed.
“What the hell are you doing? Why are you here?”
Drew points at me. “Picking her up.”
I see it, as Jonathan connects the dots, realizing he’s the plan I have tonight. Andrew Hastings. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard somebody call him by his last name alone.
Jonathan turns to me, his expression hard as he tries to hold back his anger, but he’s struggling.
“Him?” Jonathan asks. “This is who you’re dating? This is the guy you’re going out with?”
I start to answer, but he doesn’t let me.
“Unbelievable.” Jonathan shakes his head. “How could you?”
Those words send my defenses up. “Excuse me?”
“He’s a part of your life? Madison’s life? Jesus Christ, you let him around her? What the hell are you thinking?”
“Don’t,” I say, holding my hands up to stop him before he says anything else. “Don’t even go there right now.”
“You should listen to the lady,” Drew chimes in, “and mind your business.”
“This is my fucking business,” Jonathan says, taking a step toward Drew, everything about him suddenly full of aggression. “We’re talking about my daughter here. Mine. And I don’t know what kind of shit you pulled to force your way into their lives, but you can’t have her mother, either. You can’t have either one of them. You can’t steal my fucking life!”
“Stop it,” I growl, stepping between them.
Jonathan shakes his head, furious, left hand clenched into a fist. I don’t think he’s going to swing, since his right hand is in a cast, but I can tell he wants to.
And it doesn’t help matters a bit when Drew laughs. Amusement coats his voice when he says, “Can’t steal what was up for grabs.”
That sets Jonathan off. He comes at Drew, but I’m in the way. I shove him, hard, making him back up. “Just… leave, Jonathan. Leave!”
He looks at me, his expression hard as he says, “I can’t believe you.”
Turning, he walks away, leaving me standing here, fuming.
Unbelievable.
He can’t believe me? Me? After everything he’s done? He wants to act as if I’m the one in the wrong?
“I see he showed his face again,” Drew says. “How long has he been here?”
“Uh, two weeks, maybe,” I mumble, watching as Jonathan disappears into the night.
“You haven’t mentioned it.”
“Didn’t want to talk about it,” I say. “Still don’t.”
“Fair enough.” Drew grasps my shoulder, squeezing it gently. “How about we get out of here, forget this happened?”
“Sounds good,” I mumble, giving him a smile, but I know that’s a lost cause. Forgetting this is out of the question. I can feel my blood simmering. I want to follow that man right into the darkness and give him a piece of my mind.
Chapter 14
JONATHAN
One step forward, fifty steps back.
That’s how it feels, like getting knocked on my ass the second I find the strength to stand up.
My phone lays beside where I sit, on top of the old wooden picnic table, under the veil of darkness that earlier settled over the park. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. No, worse than that—I’m weak. My contacts are open on the phone, the screen lit up, but I don’t have it in me to press any buttons.
The glass bottle feels heavy in my hands. A fifth of whiskey. I don’t recognize the brand. I grabbed the first thing I came upon in the corner store on my way here, something cheap and rough.
I can almost feel the burn.
I stare at it.
And stare at it.
And fucking stare at it.
The bottle’s still sealed.
Would be so easy to crack it open and take a drink, dull the pain—the anger, the anguish.
Grasping the lid, I unscrew it, breaking the seal and getting a whiff of the strong, stringent liquor, when my phone vibrates against the picnic table. Jack’s name flashes on the screen. Sighing, I ignore it, but he calls back.
