A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis - Robyn Peterman Page 0,4

been smashed with a few words.

I now knew how Luke Skywalker felt—gypped and pissed. Only problem was, Luke was fictional.

I was not.

With each step up the stairs, my brain continued to roar with a hurricane of messy and disorganized thoughts—feelings of rage, sadness and inadequacy. But there was no time to focus on myself and my newfound crappy family member. Clarence Smith and I were not headed for a father-daughter happily ever after.

I had a mission and a goal that far outweighed my daddy issues. However, my mind had its own agenda, with no plans of putting on the brakes anytime soon.

I’d lived without the knowledge of my father for forty years. I’d turned out relatively fine depending on with whom you spoke. I’d simply pretend John Travolta—my Immortal Angel sperm donor—didn’t exist.

Good luck to me.

“Slow the heck down,” I muttered.

Gideon glanced at me in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Whoops, not talking to you,” I told him with a weak smile.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked, looking around for ghosts.

“The voices inside my head,” I explained to a blank-faced Gideon. “I mean, not really,” I added quickly, so he didn’t think I was nuttier than I truly was. “My brain. It’s on nonstop mode right now.”

“Got it,” he said with a nod. “That was a lot to take in.”

“Understatement,” I replied.

I was torn between wanting to hate John Travolta and wanting to make him love me. Both reactions were irrational and irrelevant. What mattered was that the time had come to right the wrong that had been done to Steve.

Clarissa, the Angel of Mercy—an oxymoron if I’d ever heard one—would not get away with trying to destroy me by hurting those I loved. I didn’t care if my sperm donor was more concerned with Clarissa’s fate than justice. John Travolta the Archangel was my father, but not in any of the ways that counted.

Still, I had so many questions.

“How in the hell does someone with little swimmers that are older than dirt even make a baby with a human?”

Gideon’s chuckle stopped my forward motion.

Sighing, I closed my eyes. “Shit. I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he replied with a grin. “And to answer your question… the old-fashioned way.”

“So, Clarence banged my mom?”

“Apparently.”

For a second, I felt like a teenager and wanted to scream “gross”. I sucked it back and winced instead. “I thought it was rare that an Immortal and a human could produce a child.”

“Rare doesn’t mean impossible,” Gideon pointed out.

“Can an Immortal make a baby with another Immortal?” I asked.

“Again, rare. Again, not impossible,” he replied, eyeing me with curiosity.

“Not asking for me,” I quickly said. “That train has passed and I’m not exactly Immortal.”

Gideon glanced down and bit back a laugh. “So, you were asking for a friend?”

“Something like that,” I muttered.

Open mouth, insert foot should be my nickname. I owned it and had worn it embarrassingly well as of late.

I mulled over the new information and pushed every other question I had to the back of my brain. My focus had to be laser-sharp.

My priority was Steve and making sure he went into the light. Living through his death was going to suck, but if it freed him from the state he was in now, I would do it a million times.

I’d deal with the fact I was a hybrid Angel later—or possibly never. I had thought being a middle-aged human widow was complicated. What a joke. If the Angels were all like Clarence and Clarissa, I wanted nothing to do with that part of my heritage.

“Daisy, let everything go except the path directly in front of you,” Gideon instructed.

“Impossible,” I replied without thinking.

“Nothing is impossible if you believe,” he shot back, repeating something I’d heard far too often lately.

“From your mouth to God’s…” I began, and then zipped my lip when I mentally reminded myself that I was talking to someone who lived in Hell. However, the one from Hell was far more trustworthy than those I’d met from Heaven.

I gripped Gideon’s hand like a vise. “What if Steve…?”

“No what-ifs,” Gideon said, his gaze steady and his voice calm. “I don’t believe it was a suicide. Period.”

“Right,” I said. “No what-ifs.”

Part of me was terrified Steve’s accident hadn’t been an accident. He couldn’t remember it. If it turned out that the crash had been by choice, my best friend was destined for the darkness and I was about to expedite the trip.

The possible outcome made my stomach churn. I’d been to the darkness,