Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(116)

A single tear slides down Annabelle’s flawless cheek.

“He didn’t know much about kidnapping except that, with his record, there was a good chance that he’d do time if he was convicted. So, he panicked and did the only thing he could think of—he left me in the diner.”

I must have read that part of the letter fifty times, seeing the night not through the eyes of a confused five-year-old girl left alone but through the eyes of a heartbroken, frightened twenty-eight-year-old father, terrified of spending years behind bars. When I saw his truck pull away, I thought he had left. But he hadn’t. He had parked in a dark corner at the far end of the lot, shutting off his lights. And he had waited. For two hours, he sat and watched—gripping the steering wheel tightly, feeling like someone had reached in and torn his insides out—to make sure no one tried to take me. When the police car finally pulled in and the officer sat down with me, he left.

And he regretted it every day after.

When my grandparents came by to visit me a week after the incident, as requested by their son, we were gone, with no forwarding address.

“Why?” It’s ironic: for sixteen years, that same question sat on my tongue, only it was intended for Hank MacKay. Now, the real answer belongs to my mother. “Why would you use me to hurt him like that? Why would you not let me have a father who loved me in my life?”

Annabelle’s silky blond hair sways as she shakes her head, her voice hoarse and barely audible. “Because he wanted to take you—something we created together—to her. I knew you’d like her more.”

“But you’ve never even wanted to be a mother, Annabelle!” I’m struggling to control my voice now.

“That’s not true. I just . . . I didn’t know how to be your mother. You are so much like him, Reese.” Her voice wavers as she squeezes her eyes shut. “You’re all Hank. You’re obsessed with rock music and motorcycles. I could never keep you in a dress for more than five minutes. Everything about you is your father and every time I looked at you growing up, it reminded me of him. And it killed me.” She hugs her chest as if suddenly cold. “I thought you’d be too young to remember, that you’d forget about him. Or maybe you’d begin to resent him too.” She brushes another stray tear away. “But you didn’t. You just seemed to resent me more.”

I watch this woman quietly, seeing her in a new light for the very first time in my life. A sad, desperate light. “And did you forget about that hurt when you cheated on Jack? When you left Barry for Ian?” There’s no malice in my voice. I already know the answer to that, but seeing her bow her head is confirmation.

Annabelle hasn’t let herself fully love anyone since Hank MacKay. Jack . . . Barry . . . even Ian. They’re all substitutes for him—successful husbands who can fill all the other voids in her life except the one that matters. The one in her heart.

I release the breath I’ve been holding, and suddenly things seem lighter. I came here tonight to put it all out in the open. Not because I thought it would change our relationship. Annabelle and I will never be close. But, thanks to this, I can begin to understand why. It’s nothing I did. It’s nothing I can change. What I can change is making sure I never end up as bitter a woman as her.

When I read that first letter, the one with the “return to sender” stamp on it and the only one that recounted the ways my parents hurt each other terribly, I panicked, my own doom flashing before me.

But since then, I’ve realized that I’m not really just like her. I’m a lot like her. If I had gone back to Jared’s condo with him, had finished what I had started, had hurt him, hurt Caroline . . . then I wouldn’t be able to claim any difference between us at all.

But somewhere along the way, I let myself care again. Maybe even love again. Unintentionally, unexpectedly, I fell for Ben.

And now, I just want to go be with him.

“Here.” I hold out an envelope.

She eyes it warily. “What is it?”

“Maybe some closure for you.” Aside from the initial letter, most of the rest were more like journal entries, about things in Hank MacKay’s life that made him happy—his son with MaryAnn, the modest home they shared, the trucks he restored and sold to supplement their income—and the things that made him regretful. Cheating on Annabelle, having married her when he was young and stupid but knew he was still in love with someone else. But mostly, for ever leaving me.

The last letter was from MaryAnn, and talked about how Hank had contacted a lawyer to better understand the risks associated with the outstanding warrant out for him. While the lawyer thought he could get the kidnapping charges dropped, the child abandonment case would stick. Hank was considering turning himself in, hoping that it might lead to finding me again.

Among those letters, though, there was a heartfelt apology to Annabelle. Whether it’s enough to melt the protective layer of ice remains to be seen. I leave Annabelle with it, the only thing that may ever open her eyes.

And I go in search for what opened mine.

I find him in the grand foyer with a satay skewer in his hand and circled by three young women in Cinderella ball gowns. The oldest one can’t possibly even be legal, and yet they’re all very familiar with the batted-lash approach.

I sidle up to his side and loop my arm through his. “Ready to go, or do you need some more time with your jailbait?”