More Than I Could (35)

A wooden rocking chair sits in the corner, and a large dressing table with an oval mirror rounds out the furniture. The only other item of interest is an accordion door in the corner segregating the tiniest closet known to man and the rest of the room.

Chase places my bags on the floor next to the chair.

“This is the cutest little guest room,” I say, checking out a picture of a baby Kennedy on the table.

“No one ever uses it. Mom put fresh sheets and pillows on it this week, so you should be good to go.”

“I’ll be fine. I don’t need much to make me happy.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. The springs squeak with his weight. “Thank you for doing this.”

I stand across from him with my back to the mirror. The room is so tight that only a few feet separates us.

He folds his hands together, elbows resting on his knees, and leans forward. His eyes are bright and clear, and unlike every other time we’ve been this close, he doesn’t want to hide from me.

“Can I ask you a question?” I lace my fingers together in front of me. “If you don’t want me to, just say so.”

He shrugs. “Depends on what it is.”

“Where is Kennedy’s mom?”

He hangs his head for a long minute, and I’m not sure he will answer. I hold my breath, second-guessing my decision to prod into this area of his life, and start to change the subject. But before I can take back my question, he speaks.

“Monica, that was her name …” He looks up at me. “She’s gone.”

“Oh.”

“She died when Kennedy was four,” he says.

“Oh.”

His tone is void of feelings, but his eyes tell a different story. There’s pain there—sadness. There’s a pit of emotion that I’m unsure how to handle.

Suddenly, I want to wrap my arms around Chase Marshall and hug him. Only hug him, for once. I don’t know his relationship with her—were they married? Dating? How did she die?—but I can tell her passing affected him deeply.

“Chase, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. How would you have known?”

I blow out a shaky breath. “I …”

I stumble with words. They all feel wrong and heavy—inappropriate. I hate that I don’t know what to say to him and even more that I put him in a position to discuss all of this.

“It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Good, because I don’t know what to say. I feel like I just stuck my foot in my mouth.”

He runs a hand down his face and groans. “Monica and I weren’t a thing. We never were.”

Oh. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I know. I don’t. But if I don’t tell you, it’ll hang between us and make things weird.”

“Okay …”

He takes a long, deep breath. “I was working in Michigan after a storm. We were there for about a month trying to get shit back together. Then one night, I met Monica at a little pizza restaurant, and we started talking.”

“I’m a grown-up, you know.”

He furrows a brow.

“I get you did more than talking. You have a kid,” I say, teasing him in hopes it’ll lighten him up.

He shakes his head … and grins.

“So you’re talking to her,” I say, motioning for him to continue. “I’ve already gotten you this far. There’s no turning back now.”

He holds his hands out. “There’s not a lot more to say. I came back home after the job. We talked a couple of times, but she never told me she was pregnant or wanted anything more with me. I had no idea, or else I would’ve been there.”

“Why didn’t she tell you?”

“I have no idea.” He sighs, meandering through the room. “I was here living my best life, and she was …” He laughs sadly. “I don’t even know where the hell she was or what was happening to her. I’ll never know.”

None of this has anything to do with me, and a part of me thinks I should stay out of it and stop asking him questions. But when he stops moving and looks at me, there’s an expectant look in his eye as if he wants me to ask. Like he wants to talk about it. Like no one has ever asked him this story and how he feels about being left out of his daughter’s life—for years.

I sit on the edge of the bed. “How did you find Kennedy?”

“Child Protective Services called me one Tuesday afternoon. I hung up the first time, figuring it was Luke being a prick. But, no, I had a four-year-old child I’d never met sitting in an office in Ann Arbor.”

“Wow. I’m … speechless.”

He snorts. “Well, I wasn’t.”

I smile at him.

“Monica was killed in a carjacking, and Kennedy was strapped in a car seat in the back.” A flash of anger bolts through his features. “They found her crying in the parking lot of a gas station that night.”

“Oh, Chase.”

He nods, agreeing with the sentiment. “I’m just happy they found me, you know?”

“How did they find you? I mean, if she hadn’t contacted you before, how did anyone know you existed or how to find you?”