“Leave it,” I whisper, making the choice for him.

He nods, the relief easing out of his shoulders. He’s gone a moment later, but he doesn’t go back to bed. Instead, I hear him in the kitchen, his footsteps moving, fridge door opening, coffee pot churning, and I know that, just like me, he won’t sleep. Not until we know our girl is no longer in pain. That the suffering is gone. That her past won’t take away from the joy of the present. At least for one night.

I focus on Becca, on stroking her hair and feeling the heat of her breaths on my chest, and I push aside all other emotions and remember how badly I wanted this. How badly I craved and missed this exact feeling. Every night away from her, in whichever hotel room I’d find myself in, I’d close my eyes and think about this, and during the months after Dad’s passing, it was the only thing that kept me going… this one thought… this one moment of calm and clarity.

Minutes pass until an entire hour ticks by and I spend that time switching between staring at the ceiling, staring at her, and listening to Martin in the kitchen. Slowly and carefully, I untangle her arms and legs from around me, making sure she’s still asleep before shrugging on my jeans and joining him.

“Coffee?” Martin asks, his voice low.

I nod and sit at the table, exhausted and overwhelmed.

“Couldn’t get back to sleep, huh?” he says, placing a mug in front of me.

I shake my head and rub my face. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Not as much as it used to. The last one was when she was at her grandmother’s during spring break.” He sits down, kicking out his legs to the side. “Her therapist says it happens whenever she feels as though she’s truly happy. It’s like her subconscious’s way of trying to make her believe that she doesn’t deserve it.” He takes a sip of his drink. “It’s messed up. Even in her death, her mother still finds ways to haunt that little girl.”

I almost tell him that Becca’s not a little girl, but I see her through a father’s eyes and I understand.

“To be honest,” he adds, “with you showing up the way you did, I was almost expecting it to happen.”

“You did?” I ask, looking up at him through my lashes.

“For her, true happiness means you, Warden.”

We sit together—two grown-ass men who once despised each other—and we find an even ground through the one thing that connects us. Becca.

We talk, not just about her, but about everything. I ask him about his work, he asks about mine. I thank him for cashing the blank check I gave him, even though it wasn’t anywhere near as much as I’d hoped he’d go for. He tells me what all the money went toward, as if I’d want to know. I don’t. I just want to make sure she’s taken care of. And the longer we sit, the more I get to know him, the clearer it becomes that with or without that money, Martin would have found a way. He would’ve moved mountains to take care of her, even if the strength it took to do so was eighteen years in the making.

We take turns making excuses to check on Becca, who seems to be back to sleeping deeply, peacefully. The sun begins to rise, the birds make it known it’s morning, and on my third coffee, Martin receives a phone call that has him standing quickly and heading right for Becca’s room.

I follow, of course, and watch as he nudges her awake with a hand on her shoulder. “Becca, wake up.”

She stirs slowly, her beautiful eyes clear of tears, and looks up at him. “Where’s Josh?” she signs.

I move toward her. “I’m here.”

Her dad says, “Lexy just called. She wants to see us. Get ready.”

Becca shoots out of bed and goes to her bathroom. A moment later, her shower turns on.

“Who’s Lexy?” I ask Martin.

“Her voice therapist. You coming?”

“Y-yeah,” I mumble, picking up my discarded clothes scattered all over the floor along with Becca’s bra and panties. I pick up her underwear and quickly shove them in my pocket, hoping he doesn’t see them.

But he does, because he cocks an eyebrow and points to my pocket. “Souvenirs?”

*     *     *

Becca sits in the middle of her dad’s truck, bouncing in her seat, while Martin drives. I sit on the other side of her, staring out the window, trying to forget the shame of this morning.

“It has to be good news, right?” the car speakers sound, relaying the message from her phone. She calls it Cordy… because her vocal cords are whack. She finds it ironic. I find it kind of morbid, but whatever.