Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 88208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
But now the Hanna thing is even more complicated. And I didn’t think that was possible.
All it took was one impulsive moment. And now I’m facing at least another eighteen plus years of raising a child with someone who lives halfway across the country. I don’t even know what that’s going to look like.
“What the fuck am I going to do?” I scrub a hand over my face and take my coffee with me into the living room, pausing at the wall of photos that Queenie thinks is a ridiculous homage to bad fashion over the past two and a half decades.
It chronicles my daughter’s life, from newborn to college graduate to the wedding photo I hung last week. I shifted all of the photos around to make that one the focus. My baby girl all grown up and starting her life with her partner.
I don’t even have one picture of Queenie with her mother. Not because I didn’t take any. I did. But Kimmie never smiled when she held our baby girl. She would give me a look and tell me to put the camera away and do something useful.
Even after Kimmie left, I still tried to keep her in our lives, for Queenie’s sake. I would take Queenie to see her mother and tried my best to be civil and cordial, but it was never about time with her daughter. It was always about us. How I failed our relationship because I put Queenie ahead of everything—my career, relationships, friendships, a social life.
I don’t know the first thing about having a partner. I have no idea what it’s like to raise a child with someone else who is as equally invested, maybe even more so based on our conversation last night. And it scares the hell out of me.
There’s so much to think about. To worry about. I’ll be seventy when this kid is the same age as Queenie. She’ll be more parent appropriate than I will be by then. When I drop the kid off at school, people will think I’m their grandfather.
But as I stand here, bleary-eyed and uncertain, I realize one very important thing. I may have been ready to move on with my life, but I made a choice, exactly like I did back when I was nineteen. And choices have consequences. Just because I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this, doesn’t mean I should be a selfish asshole about it.
Which is exactly how I acted last night with Hanna.
I can’t imagine how she must feel right now. How nervous she must be. How alone she must feel. I don’t want this to be an echo of her teens, when she found out she was pregnant the first time. Or an echo of mine, where I pushed my own agenda and forgot to take into account that it’s more than just being a good dad, it’s about being a reliable partner, however that looks. I don’t want to have the same regrets with Hanna as I did with Kimmie.
“Ah, shit.” I press the heel of my hand to my eye and rub. “Way to be an asshat.” I think I handled this news better the first time around.
I head down the hall to the bathroom. I need a shower to clear my head. And then I need to talk to Hanna, and hopefully be less of an idiot than I was last night.
_______________
I ARRIVE AT Queenie and Kingston’s house at six-thirty. Based on Ryan’s social media, they closed down the bar at two in the morning. I doubt they’ll be up anytime soon.
I let myself in with the entry code—dad privileges—and reset the alarm. I make my way to the bedroom Hanna is staying in, grateful it’s on the main floor and King and Queenie are upstairs, so my being here won’t wake them.
I knock on her door and am unsurprised when I don’t get a response right away. Before I think about what I’m doing, I send her a text and hear the phone’s muffled chime from inside the room. There’s a song attached to my messages.
I’m about to leave my post and make myself comfortable in the living room, and maybe grab a nap, but the sound of feet padding across the floor makes me pause.
The door opens and Hanna blinks at me blearily. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not even seven.” She scrubs her face with her hand and smacks her lips.
“I know. I couldn’t sleep. I shouldn’t have woken you. I wanted to apologize for the way I acted last night. I was an asshole.”
Her eyes fall closed and she nods, whether in agreement or acknowledgement, I’m unsure. She’s wearing an oversized night shirt that reads I like sleep more than people. Her long hair is pulled up into a ponytail that’s half falling out of the tie.