Jesus, I was dog fucking tired. My body felt like it had been run over by a Mack truck and needed a good week of sleep. So damned tired…
When the sound of a dull thud pulled me from slumber, my eyes popped wide open. Sweat beaded my temples, my groin tight with the need to release. My phone was on the floor beside the bed, my shaft between my palm, heavy and upright. Threads of semen spurted across my bare abdomen, one thing heavy on my mind, twisting my insides in tight knots. Ava Montgomery.
Her beautiful eyes. That delectable row of freckles underneath her ear. The waves of unruly hair that fell nearly to her breasts. I wanted to taste every inch, explore every last realm of her body until her scent was ingrained into my skin.
I wanted to watch her come.
Cry, shudder, plead.
And surrender unconditionally.
Chapter Nine
Tage
Just days ago, I was nothing but an empty hollow shell of a man. There hadn’t been a single person that I’d wanted to know the real me. Who I was on the inside. My likes or dislikes. I wasn’t raised to feel that closeness. My world was my work, my future, and survival. But today, this woman was in my head. My blood. My soul. She was a glowing beacon of light, one who could brighten the darkest of hours.
The mother of my daughter.
Mitt hjarta.
She was also a distraction, turmoil, and confusion. She eluded every notion and awareness of the man I was and always thought I would be. My emotions were a hundred kinds of fucked up, my head a blur of questions and trepidation. Did I want to punish her? Fuck, yes. Did I want to use a strap on the most sensitive part of her inner thighs until she begged me to stop? Shred all her reserves and unmask her in ways she found unimaginable and appalling? Abso-fucking-lutely. Did I want to pull her against my chest and thank her for keeping the child I’d grieved over for eight long years? My God, I did. More than anything.
My heart raced as I stood on her front porch, that goddamned floor mat unmoved, the words Home is Where the Heart Is raising acid up my throat. Just sitting there like it had eyes. Like it could read my thoughts. Home was intended to be a place to share meals and stories of the day. A place full of safety and unconditional love. Where memories were made and laughter never ended.
I have GI Joe soldiers. Lots of them. Issy bought them for me with her own allowance money. They’re my favorite. I like setting some of them on the floor at the end of my bed and placing the others on top. The soldiers on the bed always attack the men on the floor. They win every single time. After my battles, I always put the soldiers underneath my bed. Issy told me they were safest there. But when I come back in my room after dinner, they’re gone. Every last one of them. My favorite toys are all gone. I know what happened to them. My daddy. He took them.
I snapped out of my daze and away from the eerie welcome mat, taking three deep steadying breaths and trying to calm myself. Seconds from one of the most important moments in my life, I needed to be in control to make this right. If I wasn’t, she would pick up on it. Kids always did, or so I’d heard. I swiped a forearm over the cold sweat covering my brow, and my chest tightened again. Another wave of nerves twisted my insides into excruciating knots.
For fuck’s sake, I owned a business. Made decisions every day. Solved problems. Control had never been an issue. I could do this. I would do this.
I stared down at the boombox in my hand. Hell, I’d planned on buying a doll or something along that line, but the girl in the toy aisle convinced me most kids would prefer this over dolls or board games. Christ, I didn’t know what she would like. I didn’t know jack shit about kids’ entertainment these days, especially girls. Where I had been fine fifteen minutes ago, I suddenly felt like I was mere seconds from losing my complete shit.
Motherfuck! What a mess.
Right as I reached out to ring the doorbell, commotion on the other side stopped me in my tracks. When the door swung open, a young girl with a messy head of dark curls wearing an old tattered dance skirt and ballet shoes grinned up at me with a mouth full of shiny white teeth.
My God, she looked just like me.
Temptation to reach out to her, to simply touch her and hold her, filled me with a colossal vulnerability, along with a ferocious need to protect her, shelter her, keep her from harm, and defend her from all this cruel world had to offer. I gazed into her Nordic blue eyes—sweet Jesus, they were a carbon copy of mine.
“Melli, what have I told you about company? Ask Mr. Morgan to come in.”
A thick knot filled my throat as I got my first good look at the daughter I never knew existed.
No! Why? How did this happen?
My emotions were suddenly jagged, my insides tensing and tightening. My heart raced a marathon—a pain behind it, as a cloudy mist filled my eyes. I turned briefly toward Ava, searching her expression for a whole different line of questions than those I’d rehearsed less than ten minutes ago. My head was a blur. I couldn’t comprehend what I was feeling at the moment, whether it was anger, relief, or happiness.
Nothing would ever be the same. That was all I knew for certain.
With an arm wrapped around her mother’s leg, Melli peered at me curiously, then giggled wildly. “How come your name is Tage? That’s a funny name. And look, Mommy. He has a freckle on the side of his nose just like mine.”
As she gazed up at me with eyes that were a reflection of my own, my knees went weak, a soul-crushing lump clogging my throat as I tried smiling without falling to pieces. For the first time in my adult life, I was doing something I’d never experienced. I was choking back emotion.
“Melli,” Ava said softly, motioning me inside with a shade of pink rising up her neck. “That’s no way to greet company. Ask Tage to sit down.”
Melli looked down, suddenly shy, the tip of her fingernail sliding between her lips. I handed the JBL boombox to Ava, uttering off a quick, “The saleslady said she wouldn’t want dolls,” then directed my attention to the beautiful creature who looked like she was seconds from crying.
I never want you crying, sweetheart. Only smiles and rainbows for my beautiful girl.
I didn’t know my daughter. Yet, every breath in my body ached to hold her, whisk her away from this ugly world, take care of her, and protect her. Before I realized it, I was kneeling at her feet and resting my hands on her shoulders. “Melli, the name Tage comes from my Swedish background. It means day,” I said with a slight tremble in my voice.
“Day?” Melli squinted her eyes and reached for my hand, threading her tiny little fingers between mine like I was no stranger.
Overcome by another surge of emotion thicker than the last, for a long moment I was unable to speak as I gripped the palm of her small hand in mine, letting her lead the two of us toward the living area. Once we reached the sofa, I took a seat and pulled her onto my lap, her hand still between mine, a gesture that may be small to some, but stirred something deep down inside my chest. Less than five minutes had passed since I’d been here, and already she made me want to be a better person. Selfless and loving. Always there when she needed calming. When she skinned a knee. When she had trouble with homework. I wanted to bring her ice cream and cookies for no apparent reason. Show her how to throw a football. Fly a kite.
She made me want to be everything my own father hadn’t been.
“See? My mother is full Swedish. Back when she was a young girl not much older than you, the Prime Minister was named Tage Erlander. My mother’s ancestors carried the Erlander name as well, so she thought it would be cool to name me Tage. But I have to agree with you. It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”
Crystal-blue, inquisitive eyes stared up at me. Her eyes barely look any different from any other child. My God, she’s beautiful. Silent, she seemed uncertain how to respond, yet anxious to hear more.
“It’s okay to laugh at my name, sweetheart. I do it all the time.” With a slight quiver still overtaking my voice, I crossed my eyes and made a goofy face. “And I don’
t give too many people permission to joke about it, but you’re allowed, Melli.” I looked at Ava for a quick second, her eyes red and glassy. “And I guess we’ll let your mom in on the joke, too. It’s only fair, I suppose. What do you think?” Before I could figure out my next words, she was nodding and jumping off my lap with a big grin covering her face. It was the most beautiful sight in the world.
“Okay,” she said softly, twirling a finger through the mess of hair hanging over her shoulders. “Awesomesauce.”
A deep clap of laughter fell from my lips, that same thickness building behind my chest again. I’d never shed a tear. Not as a teenager. Not even during my worst days in Afghanistan. But right now, I was seconds from losing every bit of composure I had as I watched this beautiful daughter of mine, and her mother, as they looked at the boombox, giggling, smiling, scanning channels on the radio, messing with the bass control. Seconds later, Melli was twirling around on the floor with a captivating smile covering her face that was so infectious that even a hard-hearted man like me felt like melting. Even if she was listening to the one kind of music I personally couldn’t stomach: rap.
One day, I’d introduce her to some real music.
Ava reached to change the station, shooting me a quick apologetic look. “She’s crazy about all kinds of music,” she said softly. “She’s going to love this damn thing.”
Melli stopped dead in her tracks, her dainty little hands settling against her hips.
“Bad word, Mommy.”
Ava glanced at me, shrugging, as I fought laughter watching this little beauty of a girl that already meant the world to me, reprimand her mother. Ava leaned over and trailed soft kisses over Melli’s head. “Sure is, sweetie. My bad.”
According to the young saleslady, the boombox was the perfect gift. Kids Melli’s age preferred them five to one over board games and dolls, she’d claimed. Damned if I hadn’t hit the jackpot by asking if little girls still played with dolls. Seemed our daughter had inherited both my and her mother’s love of music.
“No! Leave it, Mom! It’s Post Malone! He’s spiffylicious!” My daughter was singing at the top of her lungs, her small feet in pink ballerina shoes, her hair falling over her shoulders, while her picture-perfect face beamed with delirious happiness as bass-filled rap blasted from the radio. Ava looked at me, shrugging.
“Spiffylicious?” she whispered. I shrugged back, and out of nowhere we were suddenly both smiling, choking back roaring, gut-filled laughter.
Conflicting feelings welled through me. My pulse was racing, my throat closing up. Not from disappointment over my daughter’s rare condition. Not from anger or sadness. Not from pity or all the time I had missed. But from the massive, devout, unyielding love I felt toward this little girl. My daughter. My heart.
I stood up and excused myself, walking toward Ava’s bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom where, for the first time in twenty-seven years, I lost my complete self-control and sobbed into my hands until I had no tears left.
****
Ava
“She’s asleep. All the excitement wore her completely out.”
Tage paced the floor, both hands tugging at the sides of his hair. His jaw was tight, his body tense. He looked like a train wreck about to happen. Like a man who was inherently overwrought. Glassy and red, his eyes made my heart hurt. I should have warned him. It was unfair that I hadn’t. Seeing him this way sent a spiral of heartache through me, and a piercing urge to soothe him.
“Tage.” I gestured him to take a seat. “Can I get you a drink? I have crappy red wine and coconut-flavored vodka. That’s about it for alcohol I’m afraid.”
“I’ll pass on both.” With his tone brittle and his chest heaving, he cut his gaze, trying to conceal what I knew he was fighting. Then, he pivoted on one heel, arching his neck and staring up at the ceiling. “Jesus fucking Christ, Ava. I—I don’t know what to say. I have so many damn questions.”
Questions. I completely understood that word. I’d had dozens, if not hundreds. Yet, no one had ever seemed to be able to answer them the way I needed. I didn’t drink as a teen. Didn’t do drugs. I’d led a healthy lifestyle. I was active, energetic. With a sudden inclination to pace the floors right alongside him, followed by an abounding desire to weep in his arms, for a quick second I clamped my hand over the quivering of my lips, telling myself to calm down and be strong. Inside, I was dying to reach out and pull him against me for a long-needed hug. I knew just exactly how he was feeling right now. The anger … the guilt … all the uncertainty. But it wasn’t the time for that.
It may never be.
I sat down on the edge of the sofa, and he settled beside me. He stared at his feet, visibly shaken and breathing hard, his leg quivering, hands pressing against his temples. I rubbed the top of his thigh, wanting to calm him. Searching for the right words to lessen the sting inside him.
“Can I just say a few things first?” The emotion blurring his eyes made my own fill with tears.
“Go ahead,” he responded, breathless, the muscle in his leg tensing.
I swallowed hard and looked away for a few seconds, my heart tightening for what must be going through his mind. I wanted him to understand. I needed him to realize that yes, Melli had a condition, that certain things were a little tougher for her, but that she was loved, always and unconditionally. That as long as I was breathing, she would be given every opportunity to have a beautiful life. One as normal as humanly possible. I cleared my throat and turned back toward him, squeezing his thigh.
“Don’t compare Melli to children of her age, Tage. Instead,” I added, “think of what she’s able to accomplish. What she has accomplished. My God, she’s more intelligent on many levels than most typical second-graders. She’s very smart. Very artistic. And she dances just beautifully. And one thing I’ve learned throughout all this, is that milestones with our daughter could still sometimes take longer than other girls her age, and probably will. But the important thing is that they will happen. And when they do, the rejoicing will mean so much more.”
For long minutes, we stayed right where we were. Silent. Unmoving. Emotional. Tage was a man used to control, being in charge, and my heart ached watching this whirlwind of sentiment this evening had given rise to. Nothing could change the situation. All the power and money in the world couldn’t heal a child with Down syndrome.
With his expression a painted veil of emotions, he turned to face me. “Fuck,” he uttered roughly. “I need to see her again. And you … I need you, too. But I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. I’m nothing like the men you’ve been with.” His jaw hardened. “I don’t see how it could ever work between us, Ava.”
He was pulling away from me, withdrawing more by the minute. Elation from earlier had returned to despair and sorrow, the smile on his face nothing but a sullen expression of gloom. I removed my hand from his leg and pushed away from him, feeling like a stranger. All hope from just minutes ago was gone, and nothing but a pipe dream. I stood, hugging my mid-section while he stared at the wall, his thoughts a million long miles away.
Maybe this could never work. Maybe it was too late. Maybe Tage wouldn’t be a part of Melli’s life after all. Disoriented and dejected, my insides were squeezing, my heart in pieces as I abruptly opened the front door and politely asked him to leave, wondering what the hell had gone wrong, and exactly what had changed his mind.
Chapter Ten
Ava
My own father hurt me more than anyone ever had, or could. I couldn’t make sense of any of this, not just because he kept my daughter from knowing one of her parents, but simply the reasoning behind it. Was his hatred for Tage that deep? Was his embarrassment over his teenage daughter becoming pregnant before marriage that grave?
“Why, Daddy? How could you do this?” I pulled my legs underneath me, chilled.
Mounting tension radiated through the phone. Nerves thundered through my body. The two glasses of Chardonnay I’d swallowed to get my nerve up
for this conversation weren’t really helping, only giving me a slight headache.
When he finally responded, emotion filled my eyes at the hard coldness between the two of us, and the bottled anger that reeled inside me. It felt like I’d been punched hard in the throat.
“Oh, Ava,” he began. “When I found out that boy had gotten you pregnant, I wanted to choke the damn life from him. You’re my baby girl. I couldn’t stomach the thought of you being hurt. I just couldn’t, sweetheart. And your mother … my God, she was dying. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I felt hopeless and angry. Jesus, I was angry, Ava. She didn’t need any more stress, and it was breaking her heart knowing she would never get the chance to know her grandchild. The little privileged bastard had no right getting you pregnant. No right, Ava.”
My stomach dropped, stunned by his words.
I’d grown up believing Michael Kavanagh was a good man, a loving man. I’d never known him to hold grudges or place blame. But now everything I’d ever believed was a false assumption. My dad had pretended to be something he wasn’t. He lied, extorted money, and stayed silent for all these years. He had made a soul-stirring, mistake—one I wasn’t sure was forgivable.
This changed everything I had ever thought of my father.
My parents met in high school and dated until they graduated. Little less than a year later, they were married and my mom was pregnant with me. They had shared a passionate love affair until my mother’s last breath, and I understood being hurt over losing a wife at a way too young age from a vile disease that couldn’t be healed. I completely perceived the grief, the sorrow, the anger, because I’d dealt with them, too. I had been angry at my mom for dying, angry at the doctors who were unable to save her. I was angry at friends, God, and life itself. I’d been an unwed, pregnant teenager who wondered why me? Why my mother?
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