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That was her choice, and hers alone.
Call me a daddy’s girl, but it’s always been just us.
I’m used to that.
And until this nasty third wheel rolled into our lives, I was used to Dad not hurting. Not bleeding a little more of his shredded heart out every time I see him.
I know I’m still the only thing he can count on.
That always went both ways.
We were happy.
One small, imperfect, happy family.
Until Evie.
Until Chris.
Now, she’s strangling him one day at a time like the boa constrictor she is, and I’m lying to my own father for the last man in the world I should be falling for.
Why is this my life?
I shouldn’t have downed that third glass of wine, trying to take the edge off.
But I push down the lump in my throat, fighting to keep it together, hating that I’m blotting at my eyes with my napkin every time Dad has his back turned.
He gives me the familiar, wounded look he always does when he knows I’m hurting.
It’s extra brutal when I know he’s the one who’s bleeding rivers inside.
He’s just too proud to show any tears.
However weak he is about calling her out, he keeps his own agony behind barbed wire. Funerals were the only times I ever saw him cry, minus one of the worst days of the recession, when he had to sign off on a couple thousand layoffs.
“Delia, we’ll get through this,” he promises, his lip pulled stiff.
“There’s nothing togetthrough, Dad. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s her baggage, and she just...she has a whole freaking house full. What I don’t get is how you keep fighting for it.”
I don’t mean to sound so harsh.
The hurt lines on his face deepen.
God. I can’t even bring myself to take him by the shoulders, shake him, tell him to divorce this loose cannon before it goes off in his face.
But it’s Dad’s decision.
It’s also pretty dishonest to want her gone when I have a very handsome, painfully emotional conflict of interest.
“You know what’s worse than a middle-aged airline exec whose name gets dragged through the mud every time the company stumbles?” His lips turn up when he asks like it’s some strange riddle.
I look at him, shaking my head.
He smiles “A middle-aged executive with mud on his face andtwodivorces behind him.”
“Oh, Dad. I just want you to be happy,” I say softly. I mean it. “Seriously. You’ve done so much for me. I wouldn’t be half the person I am without you, and the way you bend over backwards for her ungrateful ass—you deserve more. So much better.”
He gives me a big smile and walks over, folding his arms around me.
