Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
He pushes up, walking over and squatting down in front of me so we’re eye to eye. He reaches out, taking my chin in his hand. “I’m sorry, kid,” he murmurs. “For what it’s worth, I truly was trying to protect you.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But I’m old enough to handle this now.”
“Know you are.”
I hug him.
Then, I get up and leave, out into the compound, back to where Travis waits by the bonfire. I feel better, even though the hurt still lingers. I understand why he chose not to tell me yet, I really do, I am just tired of the whole world spinning in lies. I need honesty, and even though I have fixed things with Dad, I feel like a storm is coming. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Amber.
Who the hell is Amber?
A wind picks up in the yard, and I watch the smoke from the fire twist and disappear into the sky. When Travis sees me, he stands, walking over and curling his hand behind my neck. “You good now, baby?”
“Yeah,” I say, staring into his eyes. “For now.”
I wonder when the next storm will hit.
I DON’T SLEEP THAT night.
Not at all.
We come home from the bonfire and my brain is racing. So many thoughts of Chief, my mom, Jasmine, all of it. I stare at the wall for so long, praying it will help me drift off, but it doesn’t. Travis is asleep next to me, stretched out, his breath deep and slow. I have this feeling in my chest, this nagging sensation that my world is about to unfold. It lingers like a bad cold, and no matter how much I try and talk my way out of it, it just won’t leave.
When the morning light comes, I climb out of bed, giving up.
After I shower, I shuffle around the kitchen while the coffee brews. I make toast and eggs, butter melting over the crust, but nothing tastes like anything. I take a few sips of coffee, then dump the rest and reload the dishwasher. Travis comes in about an hour later, wearing nothing but his jeans, chest and arms bare, hair sticking up from sleep and making him look scarily adorable.
He sees me sitting cross-legged on the couch and grins, that half-crooked, gloriously reckless smile. “Morning, angel,” he murmurs, coming over and kissing me, long and deep.
He tastes of toothpaste and Travis, delightful.
“I gotta go in and give Chief a hand today. You good?”
“I’m good,” I smile.
The silence after he goes is so complete, it’s like the house is holding its breath, waiting for my next disaster.
God, I need to shake this feeling.
I clean until sweat trickles down my forehead and soaks my shirt, desperately trying to turn my brain off. I can’t get that feeling to leave, and it’s eating away at me. Around noon, the postman comes by, bringing a letter to the front door. I have to sign for it, even though it’s addressed to Travis. Once the postman leaves, I close the door and stare down at the large envelope in my hand.
DEPARTMENT OF CHILDREN AND FAMILY SERVICES.
For a minute my body goes rigid. All the hair on my arms stands up. Why in the world does Travis have a letter from DCFS? I know I shouldn’t, I know it is wrong, but I can’t stop myself. I bring my fingernail to the edge and open it. My heart is racing and my palms are sweating, as if I know what I’m going to find inside, even if I don’t want to admit it.
Inside is a bunch of papers stapled together, but it’s the first one that catches my eye. It’s a visitation schedule, and a sheet titled “AMBER PHOENIX.” The name punches me in the gut. Everything inside me stops as I stare at the bold print. Her birthdate, the address of her foster family, and the visitation schedule with her father, Travis Phoenix.
I am going to vomit.
My lips go dry.
He never told me. Not once. All the times we’ve been together, all the nights lying in bed confessing dumb things like childhood fears and bucket-list wishes, not once did Travis tell me he had a daughter. Not only that, but his daughter is nearly four years old. Which means he knew about her when he left. He knew.
I’m still sitting there when his truck rumbles up an hour later. I hear his boots, the door swinging open. He’s humming under his breath, like there isn’t a little girl sitting in a foster system. I hate him in that moment. I love him and hate him and want to rip the house apart.
He steps inside. Sees me with the envelope.
His face changes.
He must see the expression on my face, or maybe the tears streaking my cheeks. The smile drops off, replaced by a kind of blank, heavy stillness. He doesn’t even close the door behind him.