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I promised Jada we’d still be amicable. For Mia, we’d remain amicable. But the moment I was no longer around to stave off her toxic behaviors, when Jada no longer had someone in her daily life to tell her that impulsivity wasn’t always a good thing, she began circling the drain.
She lost her place with the company.
She lost her income, her marriage, her way of life.
She lost the unconditional support and finances from her family. And later, she damn near lost her sanity to drugs and men and disgusting behavior.
But the one thing she never lost was her love for me.
Or, well, I suppose we should call a spade a spade and label itcodependence.
“Where were you?” She lays back in her bed, groaning and rubbing her eyes free of makeup and mess. “Charlie, where were you?”
“Working.” Stepping into the room, I cross to the bed and sit on the edge, and like I always do, I place my palm on her forehead and calm her grasping hands.No fever. No illness.“What the hell are you doing?”
“I missed you.” She wraps her hands around my wrist and holds on tight. “You didn’t come home last night.”
“I don’t live here, Jada.” Gently tugging my hand from her grasp, I escape her clutches and push up to cross to the window.
I shove the heavy drapes aside and allow a little of the late afternoon light to spill in, and though I’m reasonably sure sunlight doesn’t make women melt, the way Jada moans and coils in on herself attempts to convince me otherwise.
“Why are you like this?” I open the window to allow fresh air into the room. “Jada?” Turning to her, I scowl and study the pathetic shell of what was once a woman the whole country coveted.
She was the star of the show. The money-maker and the charisma behind the production. Now, she’s a junkie at best, and swears everything would be better again if I just forgave all and came home.
I’m to forgo my mental health and happiness to become her rehab center.
Hence, the judgment I receive when people find out about my situation.
“Charlie…” she whimpers. “I just want—”
“Daddy?”
Instantly, the ball of lead in my stomach lightens, and the heaviness strangling my heart eases.
Spinning, I drop to one knee and catch my daughter as she runs head-first into my arms and crashes against my chest with anoomph.
Pushing up to stand and crushing my baby close, I walk out of the bedroom, if only to save my daughter from seeing her mother the way she is.
“How are you?” I blindly wander the hallway and pull back to press a kiss to her dirty cheek. Another to the tip of her nose. Her hair is matted, much like her mother’s, but where Jada is glassy-eyed and desperate, Mia is just a little dirty from playing.
Moving into the kitchen, then across the living room to the door, I stop and turn back to shout, “I’m taking Mia to the park for a bit. We’ll be back soon.”
“To the park!” Mia spasms in my arms and giggles with glee as I swing the door open. “I love the park!”
“I know you do.” I bury my mouth against the side of her neck and blow raspberries against her skin. “Are you hungry, Moo? Do you wanna stop and get something to eat before we go to the park?”
She gasps in anoh, oh, ohway. “Hotdog on a stick?” She plasters her sticky hands to my face so hard, it’s almost a slap. “Can I have a hotdog on a stick?”
“You mean a corndog?” I hug her close and skip down the stairs. Past the noisy neighbors and the blaring televisions. “Sure, we can get you one of those. What else did you eat today?”
“I had cereal,” she exclaims excitedly. “And I sneaked apple juice.”
“Yousnuck.”
I study her beautiful face, her angelic features, and eyes the same honey color as mine. Her hair is a milk-chocolate brown, and her nose is a hundred percent from my side of the family.
My daughter is three years old, but she’s mature beyond her years.
