“I’m sorry, Mom. I will try to do better about calling.” I soften my voice, knowing we’re getting nowhere. I decide to get the answers I need. “So what information did you get from the lawyer?”

“I got a letter stating you’re named in his will and you need to call them. I don’t know much more than he died last week. Alone.” She lets out a puff of air and quickly sucks in another breath as if she’s upset. “I’m so sorry, baby girl.” She starts sobbing.

“I don’t understand why you’re crying,” I say in an even tone, feeling betrayed by her reaction. “Why are you upset? He left us and never looked back. He didn’t love us, Mom. At least now I know he won’t come around because he’s dead and not just because he doesn’t want to.”

She cries harder. I’m shaking, trying to wrap my mind around this.

“Catherine, I loved him! I had a child with him.”

I understand loving a man who doesn’t love you back—hell, I know it all too well. I can’t fully understand since I never had a child with Neil—thank God for that. But for once I want her to put me before my father. Sure, at some point he was a good dad, but I barely remember that because the bad memories far outweigh any good ones. There’s a small part of me that understands that once you love someone there is a piece of your heart that is always theirs. But doesn’t the hurt and pain that he put us through for twenty years negate that love? Don’t the months where we ate macaroni and cheese every night because it’s all she could afford due to his disappearance and lack of child support dampen that? My head and heart can’t find common ground with her reaction. I’m angry over his death more than anything. I will never get answers. I won’t know why he did these things. Did he feel remorse? Did he think about me and wonder who I became?

My blood boils as my chest tightens. “Yes, and then he left!” I remind her as the anger takes hold of me.

“He was a good father—”

All the air is pushed out of my lungs as if I’ve been punched in the gut. Of all the things she could say—to side with him is more hurtful than anything. “Are you kidding me?” I shriek. This is insane.

“Catherine Grace Pope, you do not get to yell at me! I don’t give a shit how old you are.”

“Mom—”

“Don’t you Mom me. He was my husband. Yes, he left, but I made vows with him. I loved him—very much. I know you don’t feel the same. I’ve never asked you to. But don’t you dare try to make me feel bad for being sad that someone I shared a part of myself with is dead.” She starts to hiccup-cry again. I know better than to try to speak. My hands tremble with rage as angry tears flow down my face. She composes herself and starts again. “He loved you. Maybe he didn’t know what to do or how to be a father after he left, but he did love you.”

Apparently she forgot all the nights I cried myself to sleep begging for him to come home. The days I sat at the top of the steps with a bag, hoping he was going to come get me for the weekend. The thousands of times I would ask if Daddy was going to call or come back. Every birthday when I would cry because I would wish for him and he’d never show. Tears fall relentlessly as anguish slices through my heart.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mom.” I take deep breath. “I wasn’t enough. I have to go.” I press end, disconnecting the call, and throw the phone on the bed. I won’t listen to her tell me he loved me. If I stayed on the phone, we would’ve fought more and I can’t handle any more of it today.

The anger evaporates and all I’m left with is nothingness. Numb. All I feel is complete numbness. I’m not angry anymore, or sad. I couldn’t give a shit less about anything regarding my mother or father. I open the balcony door and sit out there, enjoying the solitude. There’s something about the ocean that’s soothing. I hear my phone ring a few times, but there’s no way I’m getting up. I’m enjoying this small sliver of peace. The smell of the salty air, the sounds of birds and the waves crashing, and the caress of the gentle breeze overwhelm my senses. Focusing on them, I melt into the lounge chair and just breathe. Time passes and I’m content and restful.

“Well, this explains why you aren’t answering my calls or the door.” I leap out of my seat at the sound of an angry voice.

Jackson is standing on the balcony to my right, glaring at me. Trying to slow my rapid pulse, I place my hand over my heart. Short of breath from the rush of fear, I gasp and try to speak. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “I was worried. I had no idea if you left or were lost.” He opens his eyes, straining to maintain his temper. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but I didn’t know what to think.”

His concern warms my heart. I smile and shrug. “What if I was in the bathroom?”

“For an hour?” he questions in that raspy voice of his.

“An hour?” I ask, confused. I thought it was maybe twenty minutes.

“Yes. An hour of calling and then banging on your door. I came out to my balcony to see if maybe I could see you on the beach because I was starting to panic.” He shakes his head and runs his hands through his dark brown hair.

“I came out for some fresh air. I didn’t even hear the door. I’m sorry you were so worried.” I walk over to the edge of my balcony to get closer to him. “You should know, though, I’m not as fragile as you seem to think.” I smile, trying to reassure him.

Closing his eyes, he turns his head toward the ocean and mumbles to himself. Something about women being the death of him.

Using my diversionary tactics, I clear my throat to grab his attention. “Ready to go?”

He seems to collect himself and one side of his mouth quirks up. “Yeah, I’ll meet you right outside your door.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

I head back in the room. Grabbing my phone, I look at the call list: eleven missed calls. Two are from my mother and the rest are from Jackson. No wonder he was pissed and worried. I check myself in the mirror and groan at my appearance. I look like a bus hit me. Knowing that he’s waiting and already irritated, I decide not to push my luck. I pinch my cheeks for some color and flip my hair a few times, trying to bring some life back to it.

As I open the door, I can’t stop the smile that forms at the sight of Jackson. He’s pacing with his hands clasped behind his head. When he hears my door shut, he looks over and walks toward me. Standing face-to-face, I tilt my head to look up and try to read his mood through his eyes. They give nothing away as he stares down at me. He shakes his head, letting out a short groan as he does so. I lift my eyebrow at the noise that escapes him and Jackson returns the gesture. Then we both start laughing at each other.

The moment of humor seems to have quelled our awkwardness. He puts his arm out in a gentlemanly way and I place my hand through it. He looks down, smiling as we walk and get on the elevator. “What am I going to do with you?”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as I try to decipher what exactly his question is implying.

“Just what I asked.”

“Yes, but what kind of a question is that?” I drop my arm from his.