Thrown Down (Made in Jersey #2)(24)

When they walked into the living room, Marcy was throwing herself into a stack of pillows with such dedication, River knew if she forbade the activity, her daughter would only reassert herself with twice the fervor. “Marcy May.”

Of course, the child ignored her. River turned to throw a good-natured eye-roll in Vaughn’s direction, but froze upon witnessing his reaction to Marcy. At first glance, he appeared…blank. He wasn’t moving at all. Maybe not even breathing. The stillness in the room must have caught Marcy’s attention, because she rolled over, a pillow hugged to her chest, and stared back at Vaughn through a messy veil of straw-colored hair. “I want chicken nuggets.”

“Where do you…do you have them here? Are they inside or outside?” Vaughn visibly shook himself. “I mean, do we have to go get them or—”

River quieted Vaughn by squeezing his arm. “I have them here.” She swallowed a gasp when his hand covered hers, gripping tight. So tight. “Are you okay?” He didn’t answer, so she transferred her efforts to her—their—daughter. “Come over here and say hello, Marcy.”

“No.”

“I brought something,” Vaughn said abruptly, before lowering his voice. “I wasn’t sure how you felt about gifts or—”

“It’s okay.” Alarm prickled River at realizing how deep her trust in him still ran. “Whatever you brought is okay.”

He appeared dubious, but he reached into his jacket pocket, removing what looked like a photograph. He took a step in Marcy’s direction, then stopped short. “Is it…can I?”

Oh God, River was breathing through a cocktail straw. Never in her life had she seen this man so unsure, so out of his depth. And she knew what he needed to come back down to earth. A vision of her and Vaughn intruded—one from a long ago day, after he was released from jail. He’d lain flat on his back, staring at the ceiling while River ran soothing palms up and down his naked chest, whispering nonsense into his ear until he’d come back to her. Looked at her and seen her, not the girl who’d sobbed on the sidewalk as he’d pounded another man with his fists.

When River realized she’d been staring into space rather than giving Vaughn his desperately needed answer, she gave a quick nod. “Yes.”

He ran scrutinizing eyes over River before advancing further into the living room, hesitating, then crouching down beside a miraculously quiet Marcy. “This is a picture of your mom when she was younger.” He set it down on the rug, in Marcy’s line of vision, and in true toddler fashion, she snatched the photograph right up, frowning down at it. “You can borrow it for a while, if you want.”

His accent was getting thicker, as it always did when his emotions were running high. When she was younga…you can barra it. Those dropped consonants never failed to trigger a response deep within her, tug at the connection between them that had apparently never weakened. It relocated her across the room to join Marcy…and Marcy’s father…on the floor. “Can I see it?”

Marcy handed over the snapshot—mostly. She insisted on keeping one corner pinched between her tiny fingers. River’s laugh broke off when she finally glimpsed the photograph, though. It was taken outside Hook High, the ancient, brick structure looming in the background. River sat on the front bumper of Vaughn’s truck, his leather jacket slung around her shoulders, such a contrast to the modest, white eyelet dress she wore. Vaughn was in the picture, too, elbow propped on the truck’s hood, looking down at River with a ferocious frown while, in an alarming contrast, she beamed back up at him with unabashed worship.

“I must have been blind,” she murmured.

“What was that?”

She brushed off Vaughn’s sharp question and handed the picture back to Marcy. “Say thank you for the present.”

Marcy side-eyed Vaughn, but a smile teased the ends of her lips. “Thank you.”

River retreated to the kitchen to put the daisies in water and stir the spaghetti sauce—where she could still watch the first meeting between father and daughter without participating—because after having her past na?veté presented to her in vivid color, she needed a moment to regroup. Had she imagined the supposed love between her and Vaughn back then? Conjured it up out of sheer force of will?

“Mommy is pretty,” Marcy said, still looking at the photograph, poking it with a finger. “She’s smiling like that.”

River could feel Vaughn watching her, so she ducked into the refrigerator, grabbing the hunk of Parmesan cheese she’d picked up that afternoon. Vaughn’s voice drifted into the kitchen. “Does your mom smile a lot, Marcy?”

Heart beginning a dull pound, she closed the refrigerator door to find Marcy holding up the picture, comparing it side by side with River where she stood in the kitchen. Marcy and Vaughn were lying on their stomachs in identical positions, their foreheads wrinkling in the same place, their resemblance apparent for the first time. “She smiles…for me.”

Vaughn must have read between the lines of Marcy’s answer, same as she had. River put on a happy face for her daughter—the one thing that brought her joy—but smiles for anything personal, save her chats with Jasmine, were few and far between. And based on Vaughn’s frown, he didn’t like knowing it.

“Mom said you’ll stay only a little while.”