Eventually, the test proved she really was mine. So eventually I was able to put all of my time, effort, and resources into helping her pull through. I was calling all the shots where the baby was concerned, and I let the other guy focus on ensuring her mother was put to rest peacefully and properly. The young woman’s family was difficult to deal with, and they were not very interested in how the baby was faring, so I was honestly grateful I didn’t have to play the grieving significant other when I was still processing my emotions about the situation. I couldn’t force myself to attend her funeral, but I had visited her grave and made a million promises to her that I would give our child the best life possible, even if I had no idea what I was doing. I refused to think about anything that happened before the little girl became the center of my entire world. Being mad and resentful about how she got here wasn’t going to do me any good. I needed to focus on the fact she was here and do what was best for her from that point on.
Useless.
I was absolutely worthless for months while my baby fought for her life. If my dad and mom and my aunt and uncle hadn’t taken turns coming down to Georgia from Denver, I wouldn’t have eaten, bathed, or stepped outside of the NICU for close to two months. My family rallied around me and took care of me while I barely held it together for the tiny life hanging on by the thinnest of threads.
The only thing I could do, the one thing that I knew was right and made me feel like less of an insignificant, meaningless lump of flesh, was decide to go back to Denver and be near my family as soon as the baby was well enough to travel. When I could finally take her home, I didn’t want her going to a place that was empty and void of anything that made it feel like a real home. I wanted her surrounded by love and people who would do anything for her, the same way I was when my dad and mom saved me from being lost to the overcrowded and understaffed child welfare system. I knew exactly what it was like to be a child who felt unwanted, and I refused to let my little girl experience anything like that, even if she was way too young to remember.
It took a little over two months for the baby to finally be healthy and strong enough to leave the NICU. It took another month to square things away with my former military career. I’d always been interested in design and infrastructure. I didn’t want to build things the way my dad did, but I did want to put the plans together for things that helped people in some of the worst places have an easier life. I’d asked to be part of the Army Corps of Engineers when I signed my second contract with the Army. I was lucky that it was a career choice that would carry over well into my impending civilian life. I signed all the paperwork and looked into my options once I was fully out. I named the baby Hollyn as an homage to my birth mother. She died when I was very young, but I still had a lot of love and unresolved feelings where she was concerned. My real mother—who raised me from the time I was five, saved me from foster care, and eventually married my father—and my aunt Echo, who also had to fight to keep me in her life, came and watched Hollyn when I couldn’t be home. They tried to teach me the basics of caring for an infant, but neither woman had raised a newborn baby of their own, so we were all kind of stumbling around in the dark the first few weeks.
I had to learn how to use a car seat and did all my research on baby-safe products. I researched the best diaper brands and clothes. I signed up for a parenting class so I could make sure I was feeding her correctly, and I learned as much about colic, cradle cap, and the endless list of other ailments that were common to preemies. It was a crash course in parenting, and I was honestly overwhelmed and underprepared when it was finally time to pack up my few belongings and take Hollyn home to Colorado. My Aunt Echo and Uncle Nicholas (who always told me, with no real explanation, “just call me Benny, kid,”) helped me make the long trip. While we were on the road, my mom and dad worked their butts off to set up one of the many houses my dad bought, gutted, and renovated into a masterpiece for my daughter and me so we had a place to live when we arrived. It was a full family effort to get me home. I’d never felt more loved or supported.
It was also slightly hilarious to watch my Uncle Benny handle a tiny newborn. I swore the guy used to be in the mob, or something just as sinister, back in the day. He was a big, slick guy who always looked like he could break your neck with his bare hands. He had a wicked scar that slashed across his entire throat. Whatever happened to him in the past made his voice rough and raspy. He always dressed in designer clothes and drove some of the flashiest cars I’d ever seen. When I was growing up, I clearly remembered long stretches of time where he seemed to disappear, and my aunt would always say he was away on business. When I got older, I realized there were many shady, questionable things about their life, but my aunt was happy, and my uncle clearly thought she hung the moon. He treated her and me like we were the most important people in his life, so I learned to look the other way and not ask too many questions where his business was concerned. He was as much of a novice around babies as I was, but he jumped in with both feet to help care for Hollyn on the trip home. The baby took to him right away, and he joked it was because she already had expensive taste—he was rarely without multiple jewel-encrusted rings or a watch that cost more than I’d made the first few years I’d become a soldier.
The closer we got to Denver, the easier it was to breathe, even with an occasionally cranky baby in the backseat. For the first time in a very long time, the weight I carried from always feeling like I came up short started to feel less heavy. For once, I knew all the way down to my weary soul I was doing the right thing and could move forward without regret. I wasn’t second-guessing myself or beating myself up over endless indecision. One of the things being a soldier taught me was to trust my intuition and doubt myself less. Now that I was a father, I hoped the hard-earned confidence would carry over so I didn’t hurt my child while I tortured myself over making the right calls. I’d done that to someone else I cared deeply about in the past, and I never wanted to end up at those crossroads again.
When our small caravan pulled in front of the house that was only a couple of blocks away from my parents, I was left breathless, and I felt my heart stop once again.
This time in a good way.
The entire place was decorated with balloons and flowers. All pink and girly. Perfect for a welcome-home party for a little girl. There was a banner with Hollyn’s name and cute little circus animals taking up a good chunk of the front yard. And it wasn’t just my parents waiting for our arrival.
They had called in the troops to welcome me and my baby back home.
Family and friends I’d known since I was a little kid were gathered around, all ready and waiting to meet the tiny miracle I brought back with me. I was so overwhelmed with emotion, and a flood of relief, that my hands started shaking and my shoulders slumped forward. My forehead dropped to hit the steering wheel in front of me. I heard the back door open and the baby fuss as my mom reached in to take her out of the car seat she’d been strapped in for hours. I tried to tell her thank you. I tried to let her know how much I appreciated everything she’d done for me and how grateful I was that I ended up being hers, that she had picked me when it seemed like no one in the world wanted me.
But I couldn’t get the words out.
Instead, I let out a shaky breath and closed my eyes as I felt the burn of tears against the back of my eyelids.
I couldn’t remember giving myself permission to cry since the moment I found out I might be a father. I refused to feel sorry for myself or let myself be the victim when I wasn’t the one in the ground or fighting for my life. I told myself over and over again I had to be strong for Hollyn, so that’s what I did.
I didn’t cry when I found out I was being cheated on. I didn’t cry when I found out I might be a dad, or when the baby was finally declared mine. I didn’t cry when Hollyn’s mother died, or any of the days Hollyn was in critical condition in the NICU. I didn’t cry the first time I was allowed to hold her, or the day I was finally allowed to bring her home
. I didn’t cry the nights she was awake and wailing at the top of her lungs. I didn’t cry when I couldn’t figure out what she wanted, or when I doubted I would ever be able to give her what she needed.
But this—seeing so many excited faces, so many warm smiles, so much joy for the arrival of this little girl—broke me. It was the joy, the happiness, the delight in having that little life home that wormed past my defenses and sucker-punched my heart.
I let all the tears fall.
I let my shoulders shake as soul-deep sobs shook my entire body.
I let all the grief and sorrow that was swimming under the surface for so long rise up and rush out with the hot tears that were scalding my cheeks.
Vaguely I heard the passenger door to my truck open, and a moment later, I felt a massive, warm hand land on the back of my still shorn head. I would know my dad’s touch anywhere. It was always the steadiest, most solid thing in my life. It never wavered. Never stopped being reassuring. It never ceased to comfort and console me. My dad was the epitome of a gentle giant. Everything about him was bigger than average, including his capacity to love.
“Welcome home, kid.” His voice was gruff and thick with emotion. “Feels like I’ve been waiting for this moment since you walked out the door. Your mom and I are sure glad to have you back.”
I sucked in a hard breath and lifted the back of my hand to drag it across my wet cheeks. I rolled my head to the side so I could look at my old man and whispered, “It’s good to be home.”
My dad and I shared several features. We both had dark brown hair, but his was on the longer side with a wave, where mine had been cut short to my head for many, many years. We shared bright green eyes, and we were both tall, though I’d never quite caught up to his towering height or his massive build. I also never managed to grow a beard the way he did. His was a permanent feature on his face, and I wasn’t sure I would recognize him without it.
“You can do this, Hyde. You’re going to be everything that little girl needs. Your mom and I have full faith in you, and we’re right around the corner if you need anything. You are not alone in this. You’ve never been alone.” He moved his hand to the back of my neck and gave the tense muscles there a squeeze. It was a motion he’d used to relax me ever since I was a little kid.
When he first brought me home from foster care after my Aunt Echo went out of her way to track him down and let him know he had a child my mother never told him about, it took a bit for both of us to adjust to each other. I lived in fear that he’d send me back to foster care, or that strangers would come and take me away for a long time. I was far from the average five-year-old, and it took a lot of work on both our parts for us to finally feel like a family. Him holding me by the back of the neck and wordlessly letting me know he had my back was always the quickest way to set right the things that were in turmoil in my world.
“I’m so scared, Dad. I can’t fuck this up.” I released a long, slow breath and did my best to pull myself together.
He squeezed my neck again before he dropped his hold on me. “You’re gonna fuck it up. But you’re also gonna hit it out of the park on occasion. That’s what happens when you’re a parent. There’s a learning curve, but you’ve always been quick. You’ll learn to ride the ups and downs like a pro, the same way I did with you.”
I took a minute to pull myself together both mentally and physically, finally reaching across the cab to give my old man a tight hug.
“It feels good to be back.” It really did.
After an appropriate amount of back pounding, he released me, and I noticed his eyes were also glassy, and his face was flushed with emotion. It looked like I wasn’t the only one having difficulty getting a handle on their emotions.
“Come on. Let’s introduce everyone to your baby girl. They’re all jealous that your mom and I are the first ones to be grandparents.” He chuckled. “Not that any of them are rushing their kids into parenthood just yet. They’re all still too young, except for you and…” He trailed off a bit and looked away awkwardly.
“Me and Remy.” I said the name he didn’t want to mention. “We’re the two oldest of the bunch.” And probably the two most screwed up. I lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Is she here?”
I’d wondered during the long, lonely hours sitting next to my baby in an incubator, silently praying that she’d be okay, if Remy knew I’d met a girl and became a father. I wasn’t sure why she was in my head in the worst moments of my life, but she always had been.
My father shook his head. “No. Her folks and brother are here, but they said she couldn’t make it.” My dad and Remy’s dad had long worked closely together on different business ventures. Our moms were also pretty friendly, so our families were close all our lives. “It’s probably for the best. You need to get yourself and Hollyn settled in and situated before facing old ghosts. And Remy might need some time to sit with the idea that you’re a father. You both have different priorities now than when you were kids. She just came back home as well. Rome told me she’s working hard to find her footing and finally settle down in one place. I think it’s a good idea to keep some space between the two of you.”
As easy going as my dad was, he’d never quite gotten over the fact that my leaving Colorado and enlisting was directly tied to Remy nearly taking her own life. I tried to explain many times that I was already planning on going into the military for my own reasons, but he wasn’t swayed. At the end of the day, both sets of parents would prefer that their grown children just stay the hell away from each other.
I couldn’t promise that.
Even if I tried to keep my distance, there was no telling if Remy would keep hers. We were both pretty bad at being able to do what might be the best thing for ourselves.
I climbed out of the truck and stretched out my back. I swore softly when it popped and cracked in a hundred different ways of protest. I heard my mom call my name and turned my head to look in her direction, but was immediately distracted when a sleek, flashy street bike suddenly roared up the quiet side street, screeching to halt barely a foot away from the toes of my boots.
Rome Archer liked Harleys that were loud and built to be intimidating. His kids liked machines that went fast and looked dangerous. I remembered clearly how worried I was when Remy demanded Zowen teach her how to ride his beat-up old dirt bike he got when he was barely thirteen. She wasn’t about to let her brother have all the fun, even though she didn’t have half the sense of self-preservation he did. I was sure the street bike today belonged to Zowen. But there was zero doubt in my mind that the delicate-looking rider was Remy. My guess was proven correct when the visor of the all-black helmet lifted, and I was pinned in place by a pair of eyes that couldn’t decide if they wanted to be blue or brown. The padding on the inside of the helmet obscured most of her features, but I could tell she wasn’t smiling or particularly glad to see me. None of our reunions since the night I left had been easy or fun, and it didn’t look like this one was going to be either. She was not overflowing with welcome or well wishes.
She turned the bike off and adjusted her stance so she could pull down the lower half of the helmet to speak.
“The prodigal son has returned.”
We stared at each other for a long, tense moment while I wrapped my head around what I could possibly say. All I could come up with was, “And so has the prodigal daughter.”
Her eyebrows twitched a bit before she reached behind her and pulled something very pink and very fluffy out of the black leather backpack she had strapped on. “I wasn’t going to come and ruin your welcome home, but I didn’t want to be the only asshole who didn’t congratulate you on your new baby, and give my condolences on your loss.” She shoved the stuffed animal in my direction and finally broke into a lopsided grin. “I hated soft, pink toys when I was little. I preferred your trucks and building blocks. When she gets a little older, if she wants to play with things that have wheels, let me know and I’ll bring her a toy truck instead.” Remy shi
fted her slight weight and reached for the ignition while pushing her helmet back into place. And just like that, I knew she was going to disappear just as quickly as she arrived.
I deserved her hit and run style of greeting. After all, I’d given her the same type of farewell after years and years of friendship.
I reached out before I could think better of it and caught the bottom of her helmet. The soft skin along the curve of her jaw brushed against the back of my fingers, and her unusual hazel eyes burned into me with annoyance.
“You don’t have to go, Remy. You can come up to the house and meet her. Everyone else is here. It’ll be fine.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her I wanted her to stay, and to let her know her condolences were wasted because I had yet to deal with the fact I lost my child’s mother, but I couldn’t get the words out. My dad’s warning was still ringing loud and clear in my head.
Remy lifted her much smaller hand and pulled mine away. She put her fingers on the lifted visor and told me, “Today is a celebration. When you and I are around each other...” she shook her helmeted head at me. “When you and I are near one another, no one wants to have a good time. It’s not a good idea, so I’m going to go.”
She wasn’t wrong. When we were in the same place at the same time, everyone always watched us like they were waiting for a bomb to go off or the world to end. Everyone who loved the two of us knew we’d nearly destroyed each other when we were young, and no one wanted a repeat of that.
Still, I couldn’t stop asking her, “Since when do you care if something is a good idea or not?”
Usually, the worse the idea was, the more appealing it tended to be to her. I always envied her fearlessness and willingness to take risks.
Prodigal Son: A Sexy Single Dad Romance: Book 2 in the Marked Men 2nd Generation Series (The Forever Marked Series) Page 4