She’s got apnea, which means she sometimes stops breathing. (There’s an alarm that’s supposed to go off if it happens, but it’s hard to trust a machine with something so important.) It’s really scary. The good news is that they think she’ll grow out of it and it won’t be a big deal. Melanie has been incredibly strong. The same day as her surgery she got out of bed and climbed into a wheelchair, then made us take her down to the NICU to see Izzy. Didn’t give two shits that she’d just had surgery, or that the doctor told her she had to stay away.
That girl’s a fighter, and she’s going to be a very good mother.
I should get going now, but I hope you’re doing all right. Hunter says he hopes you eat shit and that you’re a douche, but he was smiling while he said it. He also sends his respect.
Take care,
Em
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
MELANIE
I wasn’t ready to see him.
I’d been pumping myself up for weeks—I’d even called Jessica early that morning for a last-second pep talk before I left the hotel room. She’d reminded me of all the reasons I wanted Izzy to know her daddy, but now that we were really here, in the visiting area, I couldn’t remember any of them.
All I could think about was how much he’d hurt me the last time we talked.
I glanced around in near panic, wondering if I should just leave. The guard standing next to me—the one who’d escorted us in—caught my eye.
“They’ll be here in a minute,” she said in a low voice, offering a reassuring smile. She didn’t look like she should be working in a prison. The woman was probably around Loni’s age, and while she wasn’t exactly model gorgeous she wasn’t unattractive, either. She looked down at Izzy, her face softening even more.
“I’m sorry I had to search the diaper bag,” she added. “You wouldn’t believe how many people try to sneak contraband.”
“I understand,” I said quietly, although the reality was I could hardly wrap my head around it. How had I fallen into a world where people expected me to load my daughter’s diapers with drugs?
“You ready?” Puck asked, his face grim and blank as always. Painter’s best friend made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t deny he’d been a huge help. Sometimes it seemed like I couldn’t turn around without finding some biker checking up on me. This was good and bad—I needed the help, but I hated feeling dependent. Much as I blamed Painter for what happened, I blamed the Reapers, too.
They’d dragged him down into this.
Them and their “club business.”
We stood awkwardly with the rest of the visitors, ranging from other young mothers with kids to people in their fifties and sixties. A few of the women could’ve passed for hookers—for all I knew, they were.
Do prostitutes visit their pimps in jail?
That was a dark thought, but darker still, how many women were forced into prostitution to support their kids once their fathers were locked up? I looked down at Izzy, sleeping peacefully in my arms, and knew I’d do anything to take care of her. Anything at all.
A door at the far end of the room opened, and then men wearing orange jumpsuits started walking in. A little boy next to me shouted “Daddy!” as he tore off toward a scary-looking Hispanic guy covered in gang tattoos. He smiled, swinging the boy up in his arms, holding him tight as he kissed his hair.
Then Painter came in.
My breath caught, a thousand different emotions fighting for control. Anger. Love. Hurt . . . Some detached part of me noted that he looked better than ever, although his face was harder than ever. His hair had grown out, hanging down to his shoulders loosely. Pale blue eyes searched for us, dropping instantly to the precious bundle of life in my arms.
He stopped walking, then swallowed.
“C’mon,” Puck said, reaching down to touch my elbow, urging me forward. I stepped toward Painter, our eyes locked on each other. Then I was standing in front of him, tense and uncomfortable. Puck wasn’t with me, I realized. He’d stepped back, offering what privacy he could under the circumstances.
“Hey,” I said softly.
“Hey,” Painter replied. “Thank you for coming.”
This was even harder than I’d imagined.
“I wanted you to meet her,” I told him, feeling uncertain. “You should know your daughter.”
He looked down, taking in the tiny, sleeping face. She’d been born with a head full of pale blonde fuzz. I’d put a little white headband on her with a flower on it—it matched her sundress, a gift from Loni.
“Can . . . can I hold her?” he asked softly.
“Sure.”
He put his arms out and I handed her over carefully, catching my breath when our skin touched. It was still there, the awareness between us. Intense and electric. Izzy startled, her little hands lifting up as her eyes opened.
Pale blue, just like his.
They stared at each other, father and daughter, and something inside my chest broke. He reached a finger toward her and little Isabella grabbed it tight, making a soft, gurgling noise.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered, and even though we were surrounded by people it felt like we were the only ones in the room. Just me, him, and our daughter . . .
“Do you want to sit down with her?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I looked around, finding an open table. “Let’s go over there.”