by E. K. Blair
I nod and he holds my hand as we walk back over to the couch where Declan is still sitting. My father keeps my hand in his and Declan wraps his arm around my waist as I face my dad.
“They told you why I went to prison, right?”
“Gun trafficking.”
He nods. “Seven years into my sentence, the feds came to meet with me. It seems that one of the guns was used to assassinate four government officials from the United States Gun Trafficking Task Force while they were in Argentina to bust one of their bigger drug cartels,” he explains. “All the guns that went through me were inspected to ensure the serial numbers had been properly shaved off, but when you’re working with the street runners, mistakes are bound to happen. Anyway, the feds offered me a plea deal. I hand over the names in exchange for an immediate release. I knew the risk, but I would’ve walked through a firing squad to get you back,” he says fervently, and I strengthen my hold on his hand.
“So what happened?”
“Turns out, it was a ruse,” he reveals. “Once I handed over the names, that was it, I was given two options: go immediately into witness protection, or go back to my cell. If I went back to my cell, I would’ve been dead in a matter of days; I was a nark and some of those guys I was in there with were in some way affiliated with the names I had just given the feds.” He takes my other hand in his and looks at me intently. “They used you to get to me, princess. I knew from that moment that I’d never see you again, and it felt like I was being murdered anyway, because my life didn’t exist without you in it.”
“And your gravesite?”
“Since the threat level on my life was so great, the feds thought it best to stage my death. I begged them to let me take you into the program with me, but they refused. My hands were tied. A part of me thought it would be better for you that way though. I figured it would give you closure instead of me simply disappearing with no trace.” He takes a moment to collect himself before saying, “And here you are. All grown up and so gorgeous.”
I continue to shed heartache as memories from the day I was told he died fall from my eyes and down my face. I remember lying in bed with Pike. He held me for hours as I sobbed.
“They assured me you were in a good home and that you even had a foster brother.”
Declan’s hand suddenly constricts on my leg; he thinks I’m going to tell my dad about my suffering. A part of me wants to because it was a lie—I wasn’t in a good home—and the resentment of what could’ve been festers in me. I want to tell him about the torture I endured so I can slap him in the face with it. I’m furious that I was cheated from the good life he assumed I had.
But I’m not going to tell him—I can’t. I have to lie, because telling him the truth would serve no purpose. The past is done, and it can’t be changed, it would only hurt him to know, and in the end, I just want his love.
“They told me you were happy and thriving.”
I muster up a smile. “Yes, I was happy.”
“And your foster parents . . . they were good to you?”
“Mmm hmm,” I respond and nod. “I was well taken care of.”
The lie is a rusted spike through my veins; it’s nearly debilitating to see the relief in his eyes.
“Are you all still close?”
“No. They actually died,” I tell him. “And so did my brother.” And the tears that puddle in my eyes from the mere mention of Pike are taken by my dad as sorrow for my whole foster family. They aren’t—they’re solely for Pike. What he doesn’t know and will never know is that all three of them died because of me—by my hands.
“I’m so sorry. Do you have other family?”
“Only Declan,” I tell him.
“Are you two married?”
“No,” Declan answers. “We live together though.”
“Close?”
“Declan’s home is in Scotland, but we recently moved to London.”
“Wow. That sounds amazing,” he says with a sullen expression. “Can I ask how you found me?”
“I saw your face on the news,” I tell him. “Someone Declan and I know was able to get ahold of the passenger manifest. It took a while for me to discover that Asher Corre was you—was me.”
“Rose Archer,” he murmurs. “Like I said, you’ve always been with me.”
My chin quivers, and I have to ask, “Those are your biological kids, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
I look away from my dad. It hurts too much to think they are getting everything I was deprived of.
“I met Gillian shortly after I entered the program. I was so low from losing you, and she helped me stand back up.”
“She knows about me?”
“I had to lie to her. She knows I had a daughter named Elizabeth, but I had to tell her that you . . .” His words stall, and I pick them up, positive of what they are and resume for him, “You told her I died, didn’t you?”
He nods. “I would’ve never done so, but the tattoo . . . it’s what I was instructed by the government to tell people if anyone were to ask.”
“You love her?”
“I do.”
“And you gave your son your name—your real name.”
“I did.”
“And your . . . your dau—” I stammer through mounting anguish. “Your daughter . . . you lo—”
“She didn’t replace you,” he insists.
“But you love her?”
“I do. But don’t you dare think for a second that it’s the same love I have for you. It isn’t. I will never love anyone the way I love you.”
“You call her princess,” I state. “I heard you call her princess.”
“You heard me?”
“I was parked across the street from your house last night,” I confess. “You were late getting home.”
“Sweetheart—” he starts and then stops when I drop my head and start crying.
He wraps his hand behind my head, and I lean against him while Declan rests his reassuring hands on my shoulders. My father’s lips press against the top of my head, the same way Declan often does, and I squeeze my dad’s hands.
How can I finally be with him and at the same time feel so lost? Feel so excluded?
I want to scream out how unfair this is the way a child would, but I hold it inside.
“You won’t be able to tell them about me, will you?”
“No.”
I look back up at him, and with a defeated shrug of my shoulders, I ask, “So what now?”
He presses my hands to his chest, affirming, “You are my daughter. Nothing will ever change that. You are the beat of my heart. It’s always been you.”
Lifting up on my knees, I sling my arms around his neck and latch on to him as he holds me close.
“I love you so much, Dad.”
“I love you too, baby girl,” he responds. “I love you too.”
We embrace each other for as long as it takes for me to cry out all the tears my body has to give, and he never loosens his hold on me. He remains constant, never attempting to pull away from me, all the while repeating how much he loves me, how much he’s missed me, and how much he’s dreamt about me.
And when nothing else remains except swollen eyes and stinging cheeks, I let go of his neck.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks.
“I’m scared to let you go,” I tell him. “What if you don’t come back?”
“I’ll come back. I put my life on that promise, okay?”
“Okay,” I respond, but the fear remains. Terrified that this could possibly be the last time I see him, I grab him and kiss his cheek.
I know all too well how much life can change in an instant.
“I’ll be here at nine a.m.”
He stands and pulls me up with him, giving me another strong hug. This time, he kisses my forehead and then my cheek and then my forehead again.
“No more tears,” he says as he walks to the door with me tucked under his arm.
“Promise me you’re coming back.”
He lifts my chin, saying, “I promise,” and then plants a kiss on top of my head again.
“Declan,” my dad acknowledges, “take care of her tonight, will you?”
“Every day of my life, sir.”
My father hands me off to Declan, and I trade the warmth of my father for the warmth of my love. I can’t stomach the thought of watching him walk out the door, so I bury my head against Declan’s chest until I hear the click of the door closing.
WHEN YOU MAKE a wish on a star and it delivers, serving its purpose, then what happens? Does it die? Does it go on to serve someone else’s wish? Maybe it rejoices, exploding into a million shimmering, dusting sparkles that flicker down through the stratosphere. It could be that those very particles are what create hope in this world. And maybe that’s why I always carried a little piece of that star with me. As much as I wanted to give up on hope, as much as I thought the notion of it was a crock of shit, a miniscule piece of it always lingered in me.
It’s a rainy morning as I move about, again full of jittery nerves, and get ready to see my dad—my wish upon a star. Declan has ordered up a tray of food, but I’m too wound up to eat. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also scared that he wouldn’t show up. I’m all too familiar with Murphy’s Law. That law has plagued my life continuously, so why wouldn’t it do the same now? Nothing in this world is resistant to change. It can happen in a split second, with no warning at all.
But my mood shifts as soon as I hear the knock on the door.
I look over to Declan, and he wraps up the business call he’s on.
This time, I don’t feel like passing out. Instead, there’s an air of effervescence when I open the door and see my dad standing there with a bouquet of pink daisies. I smile with a wisp of a laugh when he steps inside and closes the door.
“I hope you still like daisies,” he says when he hands them to me, and I’m in his arms the next second, responding, “They’re my favorite.”
Neither of us rushes the embrace. We settle in it and allow ourselves to bask in the comfort we were both robbed of for over twenty years. I inhale, taking in his scent, which reminds me of the past. How is it that I can still remember the way he smelled all those years ago? But I do remember, and it’s the same now as it was then. My eyes fall shut as I revel in the moment, a moment that most would fleet through. Yet, when someone has been so deprived, they understand the importance a single touch can hold.
“I couldn’t sleep at all last night,” he tells me, still holding me in his strong arms, allowing me to decide when to let go, but I’m not ready just yet.
“Me neither.”
After another minute or so, I finally loosen my arms and pull back.
His eyes roam my face for a moment before he finally says, “I just can’t get over how much you’ve grown and how much time has actually passed.”
“Are you saying I look old?” I quip, making him laugh, and it’s such a beautiful sound.
“Old? Are you kidding. Have you seen this gray mop on me?”
I smile big. “You wear silver well.”
“Distinguished?”
“Very distinguished.”
“Good morning, sir,” Declan greets as he approaches us.
“Declan,” he responds, shaking Declan’s outstretched hand. “Please, call me Asher.”
I flick my head to my dad, and he catches my shift immediately, apologizing, “I’m sorry. Habit after nearly fifteen years.” He then looks to Declan again and corrects to appease me. “Call me Steve.”
“I ordered up some breakfast,” Declan says and leads my dad to the dining table that seats eight.
“This room is impressive,” he notes as we take our seats next to each other.
I lay the daisies on the table in front of me, suddenly feeling nervous. My dad senses my unease right away, takes my hand in his, and smiles at me. “I’m nervous too.”
“You are?”
“Yes,” he says through an awkward laugh.
“Steve, would you like some coffee?”
“Sounds great, Declan. Thank you.”
Declan pours a mug of coffee for my dad, a tea cup of hot water for me, and then takes a seat across the table from us.
I pluck a buttery croissant from the platter in front of us and then dunk a bag of tea into my cup. The silence between us is thick, and when I look up, my dad is staring at me over the rim of his mug, which makes me pause.
“What?”
With a grin on his face, he shakes his head and answers, “The last time I saw you, you were sipping make-believe tea, and now here you are, all grown up, drinking the real thing.”
I smile through the heartbreaking memories of that day. “And I remember you licking imaginary frosting from your imaginary cupcake. You didn’t even use a napkin.”
“You remember that?”
I nod as the ache inflames. “I remember every detail from that day.”
My eyes brim with tears, and I fight hard to keep them from falling.
“I’m so sorry that had to happen in front of you. It killed me to know that was your last image of me.”
“You’re here now.” I need to steer away from what will ultimately break me if I think about it too much. “And oddly enough,” I add with a smirk, “this kind of reminds me of that last tea party. I mean, I don’t have a sparkly princess dress on, but I’ve got my pink daisies, tea, snacks, and you.”
“True,” he says. “But back then, I was your prince. And it seems that position is no longer available.”
I turn to Declan who comically lifts his coffee cup in accomplished pride and exaggerated dignity, and I laugh.
“He’s seems like a suitable replacement, right?” my dad jokes.
“He fits the role perfectly.”
“Since that’s the case, an interrogation is in order, don’t you think?” my dad says.
“I’m up for the challenge, Steve.”
I take a sip of my tea, thoroughly enjoying the fact that the three of us can make light of the situation at hand, and at the same time, knowing I can share this huge piece of my past with Declan.
“So, I did indeed look you up on the Internet. You’re quite accomplished for being in your early thirties.”
“I’m a hard worker.”
“What took you from Scotland to Chicago?”
“My father had done a few developments in the States before I graduated with my master’s degree. I had always been interested in the business, so I moved here and worked with him for a little while before going out on my own. I found a great location in Chicago and decided to go for it.”
“Lotus, right?”
“That’s right,” Declan says.
“It’s an exquisite hotel,” I note to my dad.
“But now you’re in London?”
Declan takes a sip of his coffee before answering. “Yes. The build won’t begin for another year or so. I just bought the property and am currently working with the architects on the scope and concept for what I’m wanting out of the building.”
“You enjoy what you do?”
“I love it. I’m a hands-on man and the job lends itself to fulfill that capability. It’s also a great feeling to see the process from beginning to end.”
“I can only imagine the pride you must feel to see your ideas come to life,” he says before asking, “Tell me, how did the two of you meet?”
“I met him at the grand opening gala,” I tell him.
Seeming satisfied after grilling Declan, he then turns to me. “What about you? What is it that you do? Did you go to college?”
I’ve already lied to him and allowed him to believe I had a good childhood and lived in a loving foster home, which he naïvely took for truth, but I need him to believe it. I refuse to punish him with my reality, since he’s not to blame for his absence in my life. We were both robbed from each other and lied to, but I keep the lies alive and tell him some half-truths.<
br />
“My foster parents died before I was old enough to attend college. I lived with my brother for most of my life because of the financial situation we both found ourselves in. I did take a few classes here and there, but ultimately never got the chance to seriously pursue anything that would lead to a career.”
“Well, you must have done something right to be in the midst of people who were attending this gala. Doesn’t seem like something anyone off the streets could just attend; the hotel seems quite exclusive and private,” my dad says.
“I had a few friends in that circle,” I lie—sort of.
“So, how long ago was that?”
“A little over four months,” Declan responds.
“That’s quick.”
“Maybe for some,” Declan tells him. “But look at her—I’d be a fool not to snatch her up.”
“You make it sound almost like a hostage situation,” I tease.
“It’s love, darling,” he says and then adds, feigning an evil grin, “It takes everyone hostage.”
We continue to talk, and my dad and I do our best not to dwell on all that was stolen from us and enjoy that we have each other now. I suggest getting out and going for a walk, and he informs me that, even after all these years, he is still at risk and has random surveillance as a safeguard—a service provided by witness protection for those whom the government sees fit.
“Even after all these years?” I ask him.
“People in the circle I was working in don’t take what I did lightly. Lives were lost after I gave the feds what they wanted. I turned my back on them, and now I’m marked in vendetta for life. Those affected will seek out their revenge until one of us is dead.”
I don’t doubt him, because I’m one of them. I will forever carry the torch of vengeance for those who wronged me and stole from me. Even though I have my father right here in flesh and bone, I’ll still seek revenge from those who took him from me in the first place.
His phone rings, and when he pulls it from his pocket, he looks up at me with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”
At the same time, Declan also receives a call and excuses himself to the bedroom. My father walks to the other room when he accepts the call, but it isn’t far enough to keep me from hearing parts of his conversation.