the entryway into his apartment, and I sank gratefully onto his couch. My limbs felt flaccid. My breathing was short and shallow. My hands were cold—stiff and shaking. But my head was clear. For the first time in a very long time, my head was clear.
Scott sat at the other end of the couch, his gaze intense, cautious. I took in my surroundings, knowing they would reflect their owner’s heart. The space was tidy, though not immaculate by any means. There were a few dirty dishes in the sink, a coat slung over the back of a chair, papers strewn over the dining room table, and shoes lying where they’d been kicked off. The furniture was sturdy and modest, the dark leather couch well-worn and needing care. This was a soothing space—warm, masculine, restful.
“Are you—?”
“I need to say something,” I interrupted, too scared of faltering to waste any time. “And it might take a while, so . . .”
He smiled a little confusedly but nodded his agreement. There would be no censure here.
“I am Jim Davis’s daughter,” I began, linking my fingers to stop them from shaking. And the story unfolded from there, carried on the ebbs and flows and lashes of a past mired in the sinking sand of shame. I didn’t hold back—there was no use in that—as I carefully unwrapped the soiled and sordid, tattered shreds of who I was. He heard about the violence, the maiming words, the threats, the abuse. He heard about the Huddle Hut, the hospital, the car, and the abuse. He heard about the pancakes, the zucchini, the ties . . . and the abuse. He heard about it all. Right up to Shayla. I faltered at that hurdle.
“The reason I’m telling you all of this,” I said, when the lumbering, restorative tidal wave had passed, “is that I want you to understand who I am.”
His eyes hadn’t left me. I’d felt them on me from beginning to end, though I hadn’t looked at him very much. I’d spoken with determination, with the kind of focus and resolve that had dimmed my senses and sapped my strength. I felt wrung out.
“I don’t know what to say.”
I was grateful for that. Any platitudes would have cheapened my vulnerability.
“Is your dad still alive?” There was a trace of anger in his gentleness.
I shook my head. “Only his legacy.” And this is where my words ran out. How could I . . . ? What would I . . . ?
“I guess you’re . . . a miracle,” he said, and I could tell he was choosing his words carefully. “That someone as—” he paused—“good as you could come from him. And be so different from him.”
“You’re basing that assessment on limited experience.”
“On consistent behavior.”
“You don’t see behind closed doors.”
“Is there anything to see?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. But sometimes . . . sometimes I wonder if it’s just going to hit me one day. If something unimportant will happen and I’ll just . . .”
“I’ve had a lot of time to observe you, Shell. With Shayla. With the students. I have never seen a trace of the man you describe.”
“Maybe it’ll turn up tomorrow.”
“And maybe it won’t.”
I scratched at my scalp with my fingertips. There was a headache coming on.
“You’re so good with the students. And with Shayla. Shelby, you’re more patient with that child sometimes than she deserves.”
“But on the inside,” I said. “On the inside there are times when I just want to shake her.” Tears were coming, and I covered my mouth to mask my trembling lips. “And sometimes I just want to yell—to yell at her to be quiet or stop whining or straighten up or just obey the first time for once!”
“True confession?”
“You’re turning me in to social services?”
“No—but I’ve had the same thoughts as you a few times.”
“With Shayla?”
He nodded.
“No way. You’re always so calm with her.”
“Remember when she threw that tantrum at the McDonald’s in Basel? It was all I could do not to sling her over my shoulder and find the nearest fountain to dump her in.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or be worried. “You wanted to dunk her?”
“Dunk her. Yell at her. Shake her.”
I gave him a disbelieving look.
“Sorry,” he said, hands up in concession, “it looks like I’m as warped as you. The good news is, neither of us has done anything to act on it.”
“But you don’t have my heritage.”
He sighed. “Nope. I’m the son of a business owner and a