Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(41)
But when I get to my desk, I know she hasn’t. Because there’s another torn page from her journal on my desk. I can’t help but laugh when I pick it up and read the yellow Post-it note on top. It says, “Thanks for last night. You owed me one anyway.”
Confused, I remove the sticky piece of paper and read on.
Dear Diary,
Today I broke my thumb on some vacation bitch’s face. West had to drive me to the hospital because Mom and Dad were both working.
You’d think he’d be worried about me, but nope. He told me he was disappointed I didn’t know how to make a proper fist. He told me I should have pulled her hair instead. I foresee some very questionable fighting lessons in my future based on the way he ranted about how the thumb never goes inside the fist.
How was I supposed to know? I’ve never hit someone. Happy, good girl Rosie doesn’t hit people. Truthfully, I’ve never felt inclined before today.
I’m sad because I’m sure my upcoming volleyball season is fucked.
But I’m not sad I punched her.
I lied and told everyone she insulted Tabitha’s family by making comments about Erika. I only said that because I knew no one would talk about it. That tale is one of those small-town stories that only gets whispered about behind closed doors.
The truth is, she said Ford could be hot if he lost the glasses and found a personality.
She must be stupid because Ford looks just fine, and his personality is good too. She’s probably just embarrassed because he said something funny and she needed her airhead friend to draw a cartoon to explain it to her.
Plus, I’m allowed to rag on him. But I don’t like it when other people do.
Heard she’s fine. Which means I’ll punch her again next time I see her. But with my thumb on the outside.
I must read it three times. It makes less sense every time. Based on the date, Rosie was seventeen and I was nineteen going on twenty when she wrote this. This was our prime bickering era. Her parents worked a lot, and West always included her. She tagged along everywhere with us. I’d have been the same with Willa had we been closer in age, but the five years between us changed that dynamic. And she was often off competing at horse shows in the summer while I bummed around in Rose Hill.
Bummed around in Rose Hill and tried my damnedest to keep from falling in love with Rosalie Belmont.
I’m still trying.
Which is why I shove any feelings about this journal entry down deep—where they belong—and toss the page into the top drawer of my desk.
I walked in here, bound and determined to give her the space and respect she needs to work through this bumpy phase of her life. To support her in any way I can. And to smile when she spreads her wings and takes off again.
Because I’m a grown-ass man. A dad. I can be mature.
Which is why I slump down in my chair and make the phone call I’ve been putting off for far too long now.
A single swipe and my phone rings. Once. Twice.
“Ford!” My mom’s smoky voice fills my ear and I smile.
“Hi, Mom.”
“How’s my boy?”
“Well, as it turns out, I have a daughter.”
I decided earlier that ripping the Band-Aid off would be the best approach.
“And such a knack for delivering big news,” she says.
I knew my mom would be the one to talk to. Where Dad would blow up and calm down eventually, Mom is the steady Eddie. That’s always been our dynamic. Plus, the older I get, the less I want them meddling in my business. I know they mean well, but it irks me all the same.
“Figured it was best to just come out with it.”
“I imagine if you’d done that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” She laughs, amused by her own wisecrack. Something I’ve grown accustomed to with a sex therapist as a mother.
“I donated sperm when I was nineteen.”
“You always have been charitable under that crabby exterior.”
“Mom.”
“I’m sorry. No one prepared me for this conversation. And that’s really saying something considering the things I hear on a daily basis. Care to elaborate on why you were donating sperm? Based on the number of times I found you doing your own laundry with a bright red face, I assumed you were mostly making your donations at home.”
“Fuck my life.” I scrub a hand over my face, wishing the floorboards would give out and drop me down into a dark hole. “I needed money to buy my ticket to the Rage Against the Machine concert. Dad wouldn’t spot me any cash.”
Mom sighs heavily. “Well, you sure showed him.”
My cheek twitches. That’s the exact same thing Cora said.
“Right. Well, anyway, she’s living with me right now. And will be around for the foreseeable future. So if we could not talk about her like she’s a burden, I’d appreciate it.”
That brings on some silence. Like the reality of it is really sinking in.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Have… have you crossed your t’s and dotted your i’s?”
I know this is her gentle way of asking if I’m being responsible from a legal perspective. I’ve got a lot of assets to consider now, as my lawyer reminded me repeatedly.
“I have. Her name is Cora. And, well, she wants to meet you. And Dad.”