I blink up at the ceiling and wait for the blurry chandelier to come into focus. It takes a minute for my vision to clear, although my brain remains a fuzzy mess.
Why am I on the floor?
“Oh, thank God you’re awake. Are you okay?” Lana leans forward. Her dark waves brush against my face, tickling my skin. She smells like snickerdoodle cookies, reminding me of late nights staying up past curfew together, eating raw cookie dough while hanging out on the dock. My attempt to hold back from taking another deep breath fails, and I’m hit with a second inhale of her cinnamon scent.
I can’t remember the last time I dreamed of Lana. Months? Years? This one is more vivid than my others, nailing the smallest details like the tiny birthmark on her neck in the shape of a heart and the scar above her cupid’s bow.
I reach out to brush the faint white mark above her lips, making the tips of my fingers tingle. The world ceases to exist around me as her gaze crashes into mine.
God. Those eyes.
Her brown eyes remind me of the soil right after it rains—with them being so dark, they look black in certain kinds of light. It’s an underrated color that rivals all others, although Lana always used to disagree.
My thumb accidentally grazes her bottom lip, drawing a sharp breath from her.
“What are you doing?” She pulls away.
I wince at the sharp pain drilling a hole through the back of my skull.
You’re not dreaming, dumbass.
“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to make it hurt worse.” She lifts my head off her lap. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three,” I grunt.
“What day is it?”
“May third.”
“Where are we right now?” Her nails graze my scalp, sending sparks shooting down my spine.
“Hell,” I hiss.
“Did that hurt?” She repeats the same move. My skin burns from her touch, and heat spreads throughout my veins like wildfire.
“Stop. I’m fine.” I pull away and slide across the floor until my back hits the wall opposite her. Despite the distance I gain, the spicy cinnamon smell of her bodywash sticks to my clothes. It’s the same addictive one she has been using for years.
I take another deep inhale because clearly I must enjoy torturing myself.
God. You’re pathetic. I smack my head against the wall, and it throbs with retaliation.
“Here, mister. For your boo-boo.”
Oh, shit.
Alana has a daughter. A five-year-old daughter with dirty blond hair and big blue eyes eerily like mine. With me sitting down, we’re nearly the same height, although she has a couple of extra inches on me from this angle.
Alana’s child—possibly my child—stares down at me with round eyes and pajamas that are buttoned incorrectly. Her hair color borders on light brown, with most of the wavy strands falling out of her poorly constructed ponytail.
Is she mine?
God, I hope not.
The thought is shitty but true. I’m not ready to be a father yet. Hell, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready. Until this point, I was satisfied with becoming the cool uncle who never really got his life together in time to have any kids. How could I when I’m only able to do the bare minimum for myself?
The kid shakes an ice pack in front of my face while she bounces on the tips of her toes. I reach out mindlessly and grab it from her.
“Are you okay?”
I wince at the sound of the child’s voice. It reminds me of Lana’s, right down to the slight rasp she has. Another dizzy spell hits me.
Lana rises and kisses the top of her daughter’s head. “Thank you, baby. That’s sweet of you to help him.”
“Do we need a doctor?”
“No. He just needs to get some rest.”
“And a strong drink,” I grumble.
Lana turns toward her daughter. “See? He’s good enough to make bad decisions again. All is well in the world.”
Her nose twitches. “That don’t make sense.”
Lana sighs. “I’ll explain in the morning, mi amor.”
“But—”
Lana points toward the stairs. “Vete a dormir ahora mismo.”
God. She looks and sounds just like her mother.
Maybe because she is a mother.
My body goes numb.
Are you having a heart attack?
From the way my left arm tingles and my heart feels like it might launch itself out of my chest, I wouldn’t rule it out.
The kid points at me with a chubby finger. “He don’t look so good.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s just got a headache.”
“Maybe your kiss will make it all better like my boo-boos.”
“No,” Lana and I both say at the same time.
“Okay. No kisses.” The child crosses her arms with a pout.
Lana’s eyes dip toward my mouth. Her tongue darts out to trace her bottom lip, turning the tips of my ears pink.
You’re hopeless. Completely and utterly hopeless.
“Will you read me a story?” The kid interrupts us, her voice having the same effect as an ice bucket on my mood.
Could she really be mine? Would Lana hide a kid from me for years solely because she hates me?
The room spins around me. I shut my eyes to avoid looking at my mini-me and Alana.
“Camila,” Lana warns.
“You still both owe the swear jar,” her daughter reminds her.
I can picture Lana rolling her eyes as she says, “Remind me in the morning.”
“Okay!” The sound of feet slapping against the wood stairs echoes off the tall ceilings.
Lana doesn’t speak until a door clicks closed in the distance. “She’s gone now, so you can stop pretending to be asleep.”
I stare up at the chandelier. “Is she—” No matter how hard I try, I can’t finish the sentence. Lana never seemed like the type to hide a secret like this, but people do crazy things to protect the ones they love, especially from those that will hurt them.
Maybe that’s why Grandpa gave Lana the deed to the house. He could have thought I was doing a shitty job supporting my kid, so he took charge.
Assuming he left her the house in the first place.
“Is she what?” Lana presses.
“Mine?”
She blinks. “Did you seriously just ask me that?”
“Just answer me.” My fear morphs into agitation. I’m not quick to give in to my anger, but between the early signs of a headache and learning about a child who I didn’t know existed, my patience is running thin.
“Would it matter if she is?”
Lana’s question feels like a trap, yet I willingly fall into it anyway. “Yes. No. Maybe. Fuck! I don’t know. Is she?” I run my hands through my hair and tug at the strands, making the tender skin throb.
“If you’re actually asking me that, then you must not know me at all.”
I scramble to my feet, ignoring the unsteadiness as I rise to my full height. “What do you expect me to think? It’s not like we left things on good terms the last time we saw each other.”
“So you assume I’d keep your child away from you because of my personal feelings?”
“Either that or you moved on pretty damn fast from the sound of it.” It’s an awful thing to say. An angry, judgmental, stupid-as-fuck statement that I regret the moment it comes out. I can’t even blame alcohol this time, which only makes my outburst that much worse.
The temperature in the room drops.
“Get out,” she whispers.
I remain frozen in place. “Shit. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I mean, I know why I said it, but I shouldn’t have—”
“Get the hell out of my house before I call the cops to escort you out themselves.” She turns away from me. The way her shoulders shake with each deep exhale adds to the churning sensation in my stomach.
“Alana—”
She turns on her heels and points at the door. “¡Lárgate!”
I don’t need Google Translate to help me out with that one.
I hold my hands up in submission. “Okay. I’m leaving now.”
You’re just going to go without getting any answers?
As opposed to what? The Lana I knew needed to calm down before she came around to talking. I learned a long time ago that if I pushed her too hard too soon, she would only shove me further away.
I grab the handle of my suitcase and walk out the front door.
“Wait.”
I pause on the doormat, my feet pressing into the faded sin postre no entran letters.
“Give me the spare key.” She steps forward and holds out her hand.
Her ringless left hand.
What does it matter? It’s not like you’re here to get her back.
I hold on to that thought, replaying it twice before sliding my usual smile into place.
Her nostrils flare. “The key, Callahan.”
I take a second to retrieve the silver key from my pocket. When Lana reaches for it, her fingers brush against my skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight through my body. She snatches her hand back and guards it against her chest.
She must have felt the same thing.
Great. At least I can go to sleep tonight knowing that although she might hate me, her body isn’t on the same page.
You’re ridiculous for believing that’s some kind of accomplishment.
She slams the door shut. I jump backward to avoid a potential broken nose and tip my luggage over.
I bang my head against the wood door with a groan. “What were you thinking by sending me here, Grandpa?”
The deadbolt slides into place before the light above me shuts off.
“You couldn’t bother waiting until I got into the car?” I don’t expect a response, but I say the words aloud anyway.
One by one, the lights surrounding the wraparound porch turn off, further emphasizing Lana’s point.
Get lost.
I release a heavy sigh as I return to my Aston Martin DBS. The engine rumbles to life, and I hold my breath for a few seconds, half expecting Lana to come out wielding her gun and threatening to call the cops again. A whole minute passes without the front door opening, so I consider it safe to turn on the overhead light and search my glove compartment for Grandpa’s letter.
The envelope is hidden at the very bottom, right where I left it almost two years ago when he passed. While my brothers rushed to complete my grandfather’s tasks to receive their inheritance and Kane Company shares, including Rowan working at my family’s fairytale theme park and Declan getting married, I did what I do best.
Avoid what scares me.
Procrastinating never gets you anything but trouble.
I trace over the broken wax seal of the Dreamland castle before I pluck the letter out from inside. My eyes shut, and I take a few deep inhales before unfolding the piece of paper.
Callahan,
If you’re reading this version of my final letter, that means I must have passed before we talked out our differences and forgave one another for what we said. While I’m devastated that this is the case, I want to make things right between us with my last will and testament. They say money can’t solve everything, but I’m sure it can motivate you and your brothers to step outside of your comfort zones and embrace something new. Out of my three grandchildren, you were always the risk-taker, so I hope you rise to one more challenge for me.
Between us, I tried not to play favorites, but you made it nearly impossible. There is something special about you—something that your brothers and father lack—that draws people in. You always had this light within you that couldn’t be snuffed out.
At least not by anyone but you.
It hurt me to watch what made you unique disappear as alcohol and drugs became your crutch. At first, I excused it because you were young and immature. I thought maybe you’d outgrow it. After rehab, you seemed better. It wasn’t until I really spent time with you at the lake a few years later that I realized you just got better at hiding it.
I will always regret the things I said to you during our last talk. Back then, I was angry at myself for not stepping in sooner—for not at least checking in on you once you were permanently benched from hockey—and doing the bare minimum because I was too consumed by my job to take the time. You were suffering after your injury in a way none of us could understand, although I should have made an effort to try.
I wish I had swallowed my pride and apologized sooner, so you didn’t have to read it in this letter. Better yet, I wish I had never used your addiction against you and said all those hurtful things I did in the first place, thinking it would be a push in the right direction.
You were never a failure, kid.
I was.
Invisible claws sink into my chest, digging their way through years’ worth of scar tissue to take a stab at my heart. Grandpa might regret what he said, but he was right. I am a failure. What else would you call someone who tried to get sober on two separate occasions, only to relapse not too long after? Weak. Pathetic. Miserable. The options are endless, but I think failure sums it up perfectly.
I take a cleansing breath and continue reading.
Getting sober isn’t a goal, it’s a journey. YOUR journey. And as much as I wanted you to get healthy, I went about it all the wrong way. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t wonder what might have happened if I supported you rather than turned my back on you. Would you have been interested in finding your place within the company because you no longer resented its connection to me? Or would you have been excited to marry Alana and work on giving Señora Castillo all those grandkids she wanted?
There are a hundred different ways I want to show how I’m sorry, but my options are limited from the afterlife. Hopefully one day—if you pull yourself together and all—we can be reunited. But until then, my will is the best I can do.
So, to my little risk-taker, I have one thing to ask of you in exchange for 18% of the company shares and a twenty-five-billion-dollar inheritance:
Spend one last summer at the Lake Wisteria house before selling it by the second anniversary of my death.
I reread the sentence twice until everything clicks into place.
Oh, shit.
He wants me to live here with Lana.
Of course. And to make matters worse, as if they weren’t already, my grandpa puts the final nail in my coffin with a single request.
I ask that no one outside of your brothers and my lawyer knows the true reason behind selling the house until it is sold.
Fantastic. Whatever chance I had at appealing to Lana’s humanity or pocketbook is stolen away from me with one last wish from my grandfather. I swear he is probably sipping a strawberry margarita from the afterlife, gleefully watching my life implode.
Looks like all I need to do to earn my shares of the company and twenty-five billion dollars is convince Lana—the only woman in the world who would rather shoot my ass than save it—to let me sell the house.
Time to invest in a bulletproof vest.
