The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(120)

“Everything, Miller, that you’ve ever wanted to say to him.”

“That’s too much.” I shook my head, the armor I’d forged in the fire of abandonment reforming around me. “No, forget it. He doesn’t get to do this. This is not how it happens.”

“Miller,” she said, pleading. “You need this. You need his help.”

“Not like this.”

“Miller…”

“I’m checking the hell out of here. I’ll get through this the same way I have for the last seven years. Without his fucking help.”

“And I’m supposed to be okay with this?” Violet said, her voice rising, tears standing out in her eyes. “You’re sick, Miller. And your dad is trying to do what parents are supposed to do. Make it better.”

I closed my eyes, willing her words not to seep in between the cracks in my wall. But I was so tired of fighting. Tired of carrying the pain around with me.

It’s making me sick.

Violet took my hand again, her voice softer, soothing. The voice she would use with her own patients a decade from now.

“You have the right to be angry and hurt, but it’s eating you up inside. Stop holding yourself back from him. Holding back to keep from being hurt never did either of us any good.” She held the back of my hand to her lips. “Talk to him. Not for his sake, for yours. Give yourself some peace.”

I stared at the ceiling, then at Violet’s beautiful face. The anguish in her eyes, the same as it had been seven years ago. The same as it had been every time I pushed her away and hated myself for it later.

But God, how could I look my mom in the eye?

I shook my head. “I can’t do it. Even if I wanted to…” I cleared my throat. “I can’t do that to my mom. It’d be a betrayal.”

“I already know,” Mom said, stepping into the room. “About Ray? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He’s been calling me too.” She smiled kindly at Violet “Can you give us a minute, sweetheart?”

“Of course.” She gave my hand a final squeeze and went out.

“You talked to him?” I asked Mom. “When?”

“Last week. He was asking about you. Worried.”

“And you’re okay, talking to him after so long? After what he did?”

“Not at first. But when you threw Chet out of the house in Santa Cruz, it was like coming out of a trance. I’d let that man hurt you and that was unforgiveable. But you forgave me.”

I swallowed hard. “It’s not the same thing.”

“I wasn’t there for you when I should’ve been,” Mom said. “Chet was gone and it was a second chance. I vowed that I was done letting men dictate my life. When your dad called last week, I was afraid to pick up. But my God, I’m tired of being afraid. So I answered. And I’m so glad I did. We’ll never be friends, but I don’t have to carry him around with me anymore. I let him go.”

“Is that why he’s here now?”

“He’s here for you. No other reason.” She took my hand. “If you want to say no to him, that’s up to you. But don’t do it for my sake. I’m your mother. The only thing a mother wants is for her child to be healthy and happy.” She smoothed a stray lock of hair off my brow. “It’s not too much to hope you could be both.”





The next morning, I dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I’d agreed to meet with my dad but not in my goddamn hospital room with me looking pathetic and weak. Someone he felt sorry for. But a glance in the mirror showed I did look pathetic and weak. Pale and drawn and at least ten pounds lighter than when I checked in.

The hospital had a garden on the grounds with winding paths and a Celtic labyrinth painted on the cement. Under a bright sun, I walked the labyrinth, head down, hands in my pockets, following the path that curved in on itself, round and round.

“Miller.”

The voice froze me in place. I hadn’t heard it in seven years. Hadn’t heard my name in that voice in seven years. Slowly, I turned. My own eyes stared back at me.

My dad stood next to a bench that fronted the labyrinth, hands in the pockets of his jeans too. I had a vision of myself in twenty years. His skin darker, from working outside maybe, but the resemblance was so stark, it was hard to look at him.

A thousand emotions battered my heart. A thousand thoughts swirled in my mind, none louder than this was the man who’d abandoned Mom and me and left us homeless. And yet, I nearly let myself soften to him.

“You look good,” he said.

“No, I don’t.”

“Okay, maybe not like you usually do. But you look good to me. Seeing you right now…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been calling.”

“I know.”

“I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk. I don’t know where to start.”

“Neither do I,” I admitted.

He sat down on the bench, rested his elbows on his long legs. Exactly the same way I did.

“I read the magazine article,” he said. “How long have you had it?”

“Diabetes? Since I was thirteen. That’s something, as my father, you probably should have been aware of.”

“I know. I’m not here to ask for forgiveness. Or to take a piece of your fortune.”