Scarlett. Just . . . not like that.” He whispered it like a confession. “The things I feel for you, the things I want . . . I could never feel them for her, no matter how hard I tried. It’s like . . . that fate you talked about. That pull. I feel it every time you’re in the room. I have since the moment I laid eyes on you.” He exhaled, taking her face in his hands and leaning his forehead on hers.
She understood his conflict now, understood why he’d said it would be easier not to feel the things he felt for her. If only feelings could be planned and organized to suit what was most convenient. Or perhaps that would be the most tragic thing in the world.
“We can’t help the way we feel,” she whispered back. “Like you said about nature. It just is.”
He gazed into her eyes for a moment and then he kissed her mouth, her eyelids, her nose, and she laughed softly. He smiled back. “Will you tell me more about why you sought out Royce and what happened when you saw him at that party?”
Scarlett sighed, sitting back. She drew her legs up and told him about Haddie’s doctor’s appointment, about reading the article on the man her daughter shared genetics with, about spotting the hotel in the background of the photo. She described Royce’s behavior, his obvious inebriation, and the way he’d seemed to believe she was nothing more than a dream. “I can’t say whether he was just highly intoxicated, or whether I was seeing signs of his illness, or both. But either way, I knew I wasn’t going to get any answers from him. Not in the state he was in. Probably not ever.”
He appeared to digest what she said, finally asking, “Does it matter?”
“What? Whether or not he has a mental illness?”
“No, whether Haddie has a predisposition. What will you do?”
Scarlett shrugged. “I would know better how to treat her.”
“It seems like you’re doing just fine, Scarlett.”
Her first reaction was to bristle. He was being almost . . . dismissive and not acknowledging the seriousness that her daughter might be suffering from a mental illness. Or if she wasn’t now, that she might in the future. But as she looked in his eyes, she realized that his was the reaction she should hope for. She should hope that someone, anyone for that matter, learning that Haddie had a mental illness, would react with calm reassurance, rather than feverish hysterics. He’d never judge her, she realized. He knew exactly what it felt like to be judged and determined as less.
She took a deep breath, letting it wash through her. He was right. So what if her daughter’s Haddie-isms were based on some genetic abnormality? Then . . . she’d love that abnormality. It was part of what made her her. Did she really need some label when she was only seven years old? A label that might or might not come to fruition? And if some specific diagnosis became helpful later, whether because she suffered from something genetic, or for some random curveball life threw at them, then she’d deal with it. She laughed softly. “God, I’m an idiot.” She smiled at him. “Thank you. You’re kinda good at advice.”
He moved forward, taking her in an embrace. “Yeah?” He grinned. “Did I earn one more round of that swirly thing?”
Her laugh was cut off by his mouth meeting hers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ever since they’d returned from Gram’s house, Haddie had been thinking about the horned thing she was so frightened of. She’d been thinking about the way he’d eaten all the Skittles, and then started skipping the green. She’d been thinking about the little boy in leg braces, and the one in the wheelchair. She’d been wondering about a lot of things. And Haddie wanted to find the answers. She wanted to understand the things that were only starting to be clear. She thought . . . she thought it might be very important. Haddie set her iPad aside, going into the hallway on the second floor where her mommy was hanging long strips of wallpaper with blue and gold flowers on it. Her mommy had been smiling a whole lot since they got back from LA, but she wasn’t smiling now. Haddie didn’t think the wallpaper was going very well for her mommy because she was muttering bad words under her breath and the one strip she’d hung was