At twenty-five years old, I’d assumed I’d felt hurt before. But then Della takes Annie from me in one bitter sentence, and I am so grief-stricken I immediately sit on the couch. Annie has made my heart a delicate thing. Before, my heart cared about the things that were important to me, but it forsook me for Annie. A mute drummer, it constricts and aches in my chest until I reach a palm up to touch the place above it. There’s nothing I can do to change her mind. And do I blame her? Just this morning, Annie cried and squirmed to get out of her mother’s arms to come to me. I have no rights. I have no reason to feel angry. I am the bitch, not Della.

“I want you out of my house by tonight.” She starts to leave the room, when the monitor on the counter says that Annie is waking up. “He’s mine, Helena.” And then she’s gone.

Since I didn’t bring much, it takes only a few minutes to gather my things and throw them in my bag. There’s a flight leaving in two hours if I hurry. I text Greer and ask if she can pick me up at the airport. It’s a long drive for her, but I don’t know who else to ask.

She texts back right away: Thank God you’re coming back. I’ll be there.

I leave Della’s car keys on the counter, along with the spare house keys, and step outside to call a cab. Kit is leaning against his truck.

“You don’t have to leave tonight,” he says softly.

“That’s not what Della said,” I say. My throat is burning, and my eyes are burning. I am humiliated, heart tired. In the two minutes I stand outside, I have five mosquito bites.

“She doesn’t mean it. She almost died, Helena. She’s been in a wheelchair for five months.”

“You’re dumb,” I tell him. “She’s defending her own. She means it. I would mean it too. You can’t tone down what just happened. It’s fucked up.”

“You’re right,” he says. Then he looks up at me suddenly. I can see the light of determination in his eyes, and I know that what he’s going to say next is going to be hard to hear.

“Don’t go. We can make this work. Just give me some time to get her situated.”

“No. She needs you. You chose her. You have to stay. I’m okay.” All these words come tumbling out of me. Lies and excuses.

“She won’t always need me. She doesn’t need to be with someone who loves another woman. I did the wrong thing. It’s you I wanted; it’s you who I came to find. I should have told Della the truth.”

It all hurts too much. Don’t make someone burn, and then try to douse the flames with the things you should have done. Those regrets are gasoline not water. I have to make him stop. This is madness.

“Annie,” I say softly. And that name holds enough weight to slow us both down.

His lips tighten, and he shakes his head from side to side. How dare you bring her into this. But I have to. She’s what matters.

“She is my daughter regardless of who I give my heart to. What type of message am I giving her by not choosing to be happy?”

It’s cruel, but I say it anyway. “You made your bed, Kit. Now lie in it.”

He opens the passenger side door to his truck. “In,” he says. I make to argue, but then I decide I don’t have the energy. I climb in, hugging my bag to my chest.

“Kit,” I say. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to Annie.” I try to keep my voice even, but it cracks on her name. Kit nods, then strides toward the house. I didn’t expect him to do that. I can’t imagine Della allowing it, but a minute later he emerges carrying Annie, who is covered in sweet potatoes, and I smile. He passes her to me, and I let her stand up on my thighs while holding her hands. I can feel Della seething from behind her poplin curtains. Kit will probably return to a fight, and for that I feel bad.

“I love you, Annie,” I tell her. Her knees are stiff and fat as she stands as straight as she can, wobbling left to right. The wind tickles her tuft of troll hair as she looks around the truck. I kiss her cheeks, even though they’re covered in bright orange goo, and she smiles and grabs my hair with a sticky fist. “Be good and be kind,” I tell her. “No matter how pretty you grow up to be.”

I hand her back to her father, holding the back of my hand over my mouth. Kit presses his lips together as he carries her back inside. When he returns, he has sweet potato all over the front of his shirt and along his arms.

“She left her mark on both of us,” I say, holding up my hair. He laughs, and it breaks the tightness between us.

It’s not until we are inside of the airport that he speaks to me again.

“Helena,” he says.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I say quickly. “Seriously, it’s all good.” I mess with my ticket, compulsively folding and unfolding, pretending to search in my purse for something that isn’t there.

“It’s not all good. Stop telling me what to do.”

I hold up my hands. “Go ahead then,” I tell him. “I’m all ears, Kit Isley.” He glares at me for saying his name like that, but I don’t care.

We stand near security, my duffel at my feet. Families have to part to pass us; an older couple turns around to give us a dirty look.

“You’re gonna take five minutes to get your shoes off and into a tray. Plenty of time to pay me back,” I say to them. Kit covers his mouth and turns away.

“What?” I say. “They are.”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me out of the traffic.