I Have Lived and I Have Loved - Willow Winters Page 0,67

Come in, come in.” My dad ushered us in, his hand falling to my shoulder. I heard him murmur to Mallory, “Can we use the screened-in porch?”

“Yes. Sure, sure. Anything you need.”

“I’m sorry.”

I stiffened and whipped around. “Yes.” My tone was scathing. “Please, Dad. Keep apologizing. Tell your whore you’re sorry we showed up here because I’m losing it over my dead sister. So goddamn sorry to inconvenience you.”

“Wha—”

She turned to my dad, but he coughed, interrupting her. “We’ll be outside if you need me.”

“Phillip.”

His hand tightened on my shoulder, but Ryan tugged me out from beneath my dad’s hold and led me toward the back patio. He opened the glass door and shut it behind us, leaving my dad behind.

I took the seat farthest away, and Ryan sat beside me.

He didn’t reach for my hand again, and I didn’t know if I wanted him to. He watched my dad and Mallory talk just on the other side of the door.

His hand went to her arm, but she pulled away. She looked out at us with angry eyes as she said something else to my dad. His shoulders drooped, and she crossed her arms over her chest, disappearing down a set of stairs.

“I might be crazy, but I don’t think your dad is with her like that.”

I grunted. “Trust me. No one will be calling you crazy.”

He grinned at me, leaning back in his chair. “You know what I mean.”

“Still no. You’re amazing. Not crazy.”

Raking a hand over his head, my dad regarded us through the glass doors. I noticed his clothes. Sweatpants and a thermal long-sleeved shirt—he paused just outside the door to slip his feet into a pair of black slippers.

A low growl started in my throat.

“Where’s your robe, cigar, and newspaper?” I asked as he opened the door. “You look more at home than you ever did at the new-new house.”

He stiffened and then stepped out and shut the door behind him. I looked for the bags under his eyes that I saw last night, but they were gone. The bastard looked almost refreshed.

“You’re angry.” He sat across from Ryan.

I snorted. “What gave it away?”

Fuck him.

He got the new job.

He wanted to take it.

He made the decision to move.

He was the one who brought us to this town.

I leaned forward and hissed, “You promised us a better life.”

He looked at the floor.

Ryan coughed, sitting forward too. “Uh, Mr. Malcolm?”

He was a lot nicer than I was.

My dad looked up, and I saw the anguish on his face. It was real and genuine. He mirrored everything I was feeling inside. Torn and twisted.

The bags under his eyes might’ve disappeared, but a grayish tint had settled under his skin, making him look almost half-dead.

He tried for a kind smile. “Yes, Ryan?” The smile faded fast. It’d been only a small blip.

“I don’t know my place here, but I feel like I should speak up about something.”

This was it. My heart started to press into my chest. He was going to tell him about Willow. I was slipping to the mental side.

Ryan folded his hands together on the table, and looked at them. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with your daughter—enough to know I shouldn’t have been.”

What?

He looked up then, staring right at my dad and not looking away. “I’m aware of the hell your whole family has been put through, but if you were still doing your job, your daughter wouldn’t have been in my bed half those nights she was.”

Good Lord. What in all the Willows was he doing?

My dad’s face went flat. “You think so, huh?”

“I know so, sir.”

“You think you know how I should’ve been parenting more than I do?”

Ryan didn’t flinch, grimace, cringe, or look away. His tone was soft but strong. “When it comes to Mac, yes.”

My dad was the one who twitched. My nickname acted like a repellant. I could almost see my dad shriveling, and I knew he was going to make an excuse, stand, and ask us to leave.

It was coming . . .

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe you’re right.”

Uh, what?

I sat straighter in my seat. I hadn’t heard that right. I should’ve been halfway to the door by that point.

“I have been messing up this whole time, and it takes a seventeen-year-old to set me straight.” He laughed, the sound bitter and weak.

“I’m eighteen.” Ryan grinned, shaking his head. “Not that it matters.”

“Oh. Well.” My dad tried to grin back, humoring him. “That one year