Page 60

“It’s me.” The voice comes as I unlock the door.

My father charges into the room in a blur of limbs and tackle-hugs me. For the second time today, I’m in someone’s arms.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. You’re okay. Thank god you’re okay.” He holds me at arm's length as if to check I’m in one piece, then pulls me back into a hug again.

I freeze. I don’t understand what’s happening. I extricate myself. “What are you doing here?”

“I drove. I got in the car as soon as I saw it on the news.”

He lives over an hour away. He must have raced all the way here.

I’m so confused. “How did you find my room?”

“I went to the admissions office, showed them my driver’s license. My name is on your birth certificate. Threatened the poor kid working there if he didn’t tell me your dorm room number.”

He hugs me again with the ferocity of a mother bear. “I thought I had lost you. I just found you, and I thought I had lost you.” His voice breaks with a sob.

“I don’t understand.” Why does he care?

He pulls away, his hands on my shoulders. “You’re my daughter. I love you. Of course I had to come and see you with my own eyes.”

It’s too much. “But … you don’t know me.”

“It doesn’t matter, Becca. It doesn’t matter I didn’t know you existed for the first seven years of your life. It doesn’t matter we only met a couple of months ago. I loved you from the moment I knew you existed, even if I was never a part of your life. I loved you from far away.” His eyelashes are wet, tears track down his face.

I don’t know what to say. I never heard those words before. I craved them. I wished for them, even begged for them, but no one ever said they loved me before. My chest fills with flutters I can’t quite identify and something cracks inside of me. A layer sheds away, and turns to ashes, burned by the warmth spreading through me. My father loves me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

My bed creaksas I settle in and drag my laptop next to me. No more avoiding talking to the therapist. Our last conversation still fresh in my mind. Now he knows about my past. Part of it, at least.

For the first time since I started talking to him his name on the screen is grayed out. He’s not there. I need to talk to him. I need to hear his voice. And he’s not there. Heat flares in my chest and spreads to the rest of my body. My hands clench. I want to grab the laptop and toss it against the wall.

Why isn’t he there?

Why am I so angry?

When did I become so dependent on him?

I hate feeling this way. Like he left me. I know he didn’t. I know he has a life outside these calls. He’s not a friend or family. He’s not even an acquaintance, and yet I feel betrayed.

I need him, and he’s not there.

Like my mother.

Like my father.

I stare at the screen so long my vision blurs. I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing. Breathing and counting until emptiness replaces the surge of anger.

I open my eyes and blink against the bright glare of the laptop. Blink again.

His name is in bold now. He’s back! My shoulders drop with relief. My hand moves to the mouse, but I hesitate. I can’t allow myself to rely on him. To have this kind of reaction when he’s absent. That’s not normal. But then again, nothing in my life is.

I put my earbuds in and click the icon to call him. I won’t talk about my mini tantrum.

The connection rings once. “Hello. I’m glad you called.”

His soothing voice relaxes me.