"How did this happen?" the ER doctor asks, taking a peek at my palm.

"I was chopping scallions, then I dropped the knife, and instinctively grabbed it so it wouldn't fall," I recite for the umpteenth time. I'm sure I sound as monotone as I think I do. "Happens to the best of us."

"It was an accident," Jack adds. He stands in the corner of the room, arms crossed, and swings back and forth in his heels. "We were talking."

"And you saw this happen?" the doctor questions, carefully disinfecting the bloody cut across my palm. The badge pinned to her scrubs reads DR. ABBOTT.

I wince, digging the nails of my free hand into my thigh. "It's his fault, really."

"It's not my fault," Jack argues. He's about to stomp his feet like a child. "We were just talking. I didn't attack you with a knife."

"You decided to tell me you're going to be a father again while I was using a huge knife. How did you expect me to react?"

"Not like that!"

"You had to tell me then—"

"You were the one who told me to spit it out—"

"Yes, and now I have to get stitches on my fucking hand—"

"That might not be necessary," Doctor Abbott points out, but her voice gets drowned out mid-Chasey argument.

"—but I'm really glad I'm having a sibling to look after once you inevitably walk out on them and Whitney. What a weird kink. Tell us—how many women have you knocked up and then proceeded to abandon after the kid was born?" We glare at each other from opposite sides of the observation room. "You're a grown man. Own up to your decisions."

"I am. I wanted to show you that this will be different. The circumstances are different."

"And you'll love this kid properly. Not like me, of course." His face hardens. When he clenches his jaw, chin raised, the similarities between us hit me like a freight train. "Please keep reminding me that I wasn't enough. I hope you have a wonderful life with your lovely wife and your new kid. For their sake, I hope you won't get bored again. Maybe they'll get the full 'I'm loved by Jack Chasey' experience."

"I'm sure this can be unpacked later, but let's focus on your wound now, Marianne," Doctor Abbott chimes in, desperate to regain control of the situation. Jack retreats, making himself small against the wall, and I sink deeper into my recliner. "I'm cleaning it up to see if you'll need stitches. There's a lot of blood, but it was good you came here so quickly."

Jack drove like a maniac. I insisted that we could call an ambulance, but he refused. We almost looked like a father-daughter duo, but the only thing we know how to do is argue.

There's not much to do. We have more things in common than we'd like to admit, and my mom's absence weighs heavily on us. I feel it in the silence; she'd be the middleman, the one pushing us together in spite of our magnetic fields.

I don't doubt that there's a side of him that cares about me. Even if it's just a basic instinct, of not wanting someone to bleed out in front of him and send him to jail for neglect. Even if it's because he's remorseful and his guilt was unsustainable.

There's something here. I'm terrified it might be mutual. I don't know what to make of it or where to go from here.

I needed stitches.

It's a nuisance to have my dominant hand stitched up, especially when I have so much to do around the house, but I'll only have them on for ten days. It could be worse. Kinney even jokes it'll give me an excuse to rest when I text her about it.

The worst part about this is that Jack insists on giving me a ride home. He doesn't have to, but he wants to; besides, we can talk there. There's no one around, and we can yell at each other in the safety of his Beetle.

Because of course he owns a Beetle.

He's eerily quiet on the walk to the car, tucking his chin against his chest when the wind hisses around us. He offers to open the door, but quickly figures out I can handle it. I have two hands.

Halfway through the drive, he clears his throat. "So."

"So," I echo. He didn't bother turning on the radio. Maybe he's scared one of his songs will play. I avoid them like the plague, but he doesn't look like the type to do the same. "Nice talk. We can go back to not talking."

"This isn't the way, Marianne."

"Mari."

He sighs, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. "Mari." He glances at me from the corner of his eye. His age is showing—the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes are deeper than I remember seeing in photographs, even untouched ones. "Look, we'll have to talk about this, eventually."

I sigh, leaning the back of my head against the seat. "We don't. It's your life. I don't have to be a part of it, and you don't have to be a part of mine. You're a name on my birth certificate; I'm a wrinkle in your redemption arc."

"I know you don't care, but it breaks my heart to hear you say stuff like that."

"I don't care." A migraine is forming behind my eyes, worsened by the lack of sleep and the unnecessary stress this man puts me under. "Nothing I want to ask you is something you'll answer, so let's not waste each other's time with meaningless chatter."

"I think we're past that—the whole assuming I won't answer something. How do you know I won't answer if you won't ask?"

"I tried. I wrote you emails. I even sent fan letters. Do you know how humiliating that is? Having to try to get in touch with you like some stranger? I had to act like a groupie, but I bet you liked that. Like mother, like daughter." He flinches, like he has the right to feel any sort of way about my mom. "I pretended I had some parasocial attachment to you, fed your ego, and got nothing in return. No calls. You'd only text on my birthday and Christmas. The bare minimum. So don't try to tell me that I didn't try. I ran after you, pressed my mom for answers. Tell me how Whitney got through to you; was she another groupie? Did she slither into your life and promised you she was not like other fans?"

"Don't talk about her like that."

"My mom was a groupie. Remember that? That's how you met. Forgive me for being worried you'll do the same thing to another girl. She doesn't look too pregnant, and weddings take forever to plan, so it's not a chicken and egg situation. Good on you for being decent and proposing before getting her pregnant."

His fingers tighten the grip on the steering wheel. "No. That's not—I proposed first. We found out about the pregnancy before you came back. I didn't—I mean, with all that has happened since then, there was never a perfect moment to tell you. I wanted to tell you in person before you found out through someone else."

"Right." My voice comes out weak. Clogged. My throat burns. "I'm glad everything's working out perfectly for you. You got everything you wanted."

"Not everything." I risk glancing at him. Part of me hopes he's looking at me, but his stare remains fixed on the road ahead. "I don't want to have this conversation while I'm driving. One thing at a time."

"Now who's avoiding it?" I mutter through gritted teeth.

I hate that he has a point. This is not a conversation we should have in a car, and I don't want things to get heated enough to make him crash. He's not old, but this might be the first time in his life that he's taking a break and settling down; God knows what he has put his body through.

I don't want to give him a heart attack.

I also don't want to keep avoiding this conversation. I said it myself—I've spent years chasing answers to questions I never thought I'd get to ask. I've come too far to quit.

I can be patient. I'll have to be, even if waiting one more minute for answers I deserve feels like boiling alive. People joke about certain things being their personal version of hell, and this is mine.

Inside the house, everything is as we've left it—knife on the kitchen floor, blood on the counter, my mom's cardigan thrown over the back of a chair. Jack rushes past me to clean up, and I bite my tongue before I can joke about him using this as songwriting material.

Blood on the kitchen floor / I stare and wait by the door

Good thing I never got into writing fiction.

In this light, the passage of time truly hits me—the graying hairs on his head and beard, the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. He's aging, but not like my mom did. There's no quick decline. He has so many good years ahead of him, and she won't ever get the same grace.

"Jack," I call, before I lose my courage. He looks back over his shoulder, rinsing a bloody cloth in the sink. "You don't have to answer now, but let me get one thing off my chest before I explode. There's enough blood on your hands."

"I'd like to answer." He spins around on his heel. "Go ahead."

"You don't have to be my dad. We don't have to be in each other's lives after the wedding. I just need to know—why did you leave? Why was it so easy for you to walk away?" I gulp. When he squares his shoulders, jaw locked tight, I see myself in him. Does he see the same? "Did you ever regret it?"

"I—"

I raise my hand. "I know this is horrible to say or think, but every update I get about your life feels like a shot to the heart. You're going to be a father again, and I can't help but think that this is a kid you want." My voice gives out. "You'll know how to be a father to them. You'll love them. And part of me wonders why that couldn't have been me too."

His eyes soften. He doesn't do it often—I've only seen him take off his armor around Whitney—but I keep mine up. I've barricaded myself.

"The short version is that I wasn't ready," he confesses. "I was young."

"So was my mom. Look at Leo; he's around the same age you were, and he's doing just fine with Vee."

"Different times. Different people. Different lives." Deep down, I know he's right. Leo told me so himself—Camila is never around, making a name for herself in Hollywood—but I also think there's some degree of responsibility. Or lack thereof. "I couldn't—music was my life. My life was on the road. I tried to come back whenever I could, especially between tour legs or in between album cycles, but I was overworked. Stopping and settling down with you and your mom might have been the right move for my health, but I was at my happiest when I was touring. My label wouldn't let me stop even if—" Even if he wanted to. "It wasn't easy. It wasn't an overnight decision. I didn't leave as soon as I found out about the pregnancy; I wouldn't leave your mom like that. I was so in love with her I felt it in my bones.

"We wanted to make it work, but we were so young, so lost. Everything pushed us closer to the breaking point. If you ask me if I regret choosing my career, I don't. At the time, I went back and forth in my mind, hating myself for walking out on my family." My chest cracks in two. "Then I realized that, by going back on the road, I was providing for you. Your mom was too proud to accept help at first, but I told her I wanted to be there for you somehow. Even an ocean away. I kept sending money, kept asking to visit. She always said no. She wanted to protect you. I understand that now.

"There are many things I would've done differently, but I'm not the same person I was over twenty years ago. You don't need to call me Dad or want us to go on father-daughter trips or anything, but I've watched your life in pictures. Your mom let me keep up with your life from a distance. Always at arm's length, but it had to be enough.

"I've loved you since before you were born, kid." His eyes are filled to the brim with tears. "You don't have to forgive me, but I need you to know that I never stopped thinking about you. I'll love this baby, but I'll love you forever too. Until my heart stops, and even beyond that."

That's all it is—the undoing of Jack Chasey.

I'm weak at heart. God knows what happened to my resolve.

I step closer, hesitant, and half expect him to run. It's what he does, but it's also what I do. Instead, he moves towards me, mimicking my body language.

My heart is a crumpled mess, but he picks up the pieces. He accepts the hug—brief, careful—and I accept the truce. His hand rests between my shoulder blades, tucking my head under his chin. It's the only memory I've ever had of fitting against him like this.

He's not forgiven. I'm not stupid. But I can start to see things in a new light.

I'm small again. I'm someone's little girl.

word count:

chapter: 2336 (docs) / 2353 (scrivener) / 2274 (wattpad)

total: 30954 (docs) / 31161 (scrivener) / 30083 (wattpad)

note: all is not forgiven. marianne hasn't forgiven jack, and one conversation doesn't erase everything he's done. choosing to keep him in her life isn't a decision she'll make (or not make) lightly, but there's not enough room in this novella to properly explore the nuances. just trust me on this one, and trust me i'll handle things with care.