I leaned down to the little bright-eyed wonder, picking a dandelion from the grass near the sand. She lifted it into the air, tilting her head and marveling at the tiny, fingernail-thick petals.

“Yellow is my favorite color,” she sighed, verbalizing this to me for the sixteenth time that day. Everything she did, she did totally, without hesitation. She loved with her entire heart.

“I know, squirt. I know,” I told her, bringing my hands beneath her armpits and lifting her. She squealed before tossing her arms around my neck. We’d spent the past four hours together, after Connie had said she needed to run errands that day, and I’d marveled at the way time had passed. It was racing, feeling like water through my fingers. I wondered if this was every day as a parent. If suddenly you looked up and they were gone.

Having Maria had at least kept my mind occupied from thoughts of Remy and our son. I’d tried to call her that morning, but she’d either ignored it or hadn’t seen it—choosing, surely, to block me out for another day after our massive fight. I felt close to groveling, wondering at the perfect way to describe to her my feelings, while dropping in this large shift in our dynamic. Maria wasn’t going anywhere. And, probably, neither was Connie.

Just after six, I eased Maria back into the Chevrolet. We’d planned to meet her mother for dinner in the Mission after her errands. “It ain’t Florida food, but it’ll do,” had been the refrain of Connie the past several days. “Don’t y’all have any good fried chicken places? Can you really live on Mexican food all the time?”

I hardly remembered the fare in Florida, mostly thinking of it as grease-laden, heart-attack-inducing. Already, Maria had picked up on favorite Mexican dishes, falling into a hankering for shrimp tacos and pico de gallo. I’d beamed at her when she said “gracias” to a server, her tongue hitting the notes perfectly. I imagined teaching her Spanish, French—hell, even German—a language I hadn’t yet picked up on the road.

Maria mumbled and sang to herself in the backseat as I snaked the car through the Mission, near to Station to Station. Quintin’s familiar motorbike glinted with sunlight. At the stop, I paused at glanced back at it, at a familiar form beside it—her head tossing back and her blonde hair curling wildly through the air.

Jesus. Connie stood outside Station to Station, cozying close to some tattooed stranger. I swung the car into the lot just beside the bar and cut the engine, watching them for a long moment. Connie brought her hand along the stranger’s bicep, squeezing it and cackling at him. Sliding the window down just a notch, I could hear her chaotic voice.

“Oh, you should see my fiancé’s biceps,” she said. “You know what? We’ve been together six years, and he’s always been able to lift me clear over his head. Don’t suppose you can do that?”

The man shrugged, muttering something I couldn’t quite hear. Connie continued on, unperturbed.

“You know, he’s partner of the Adams tech company. One of the richest men in the world, he is. And that means all that money is mine. I’m a proper San Francisco princess. Wouldn’t you say, Josh?” She beamed up at him, leaning her tits closer to him.

My heart burned with anger. What the hell was she doing, wandering around the Mission spewing lies to strangers, smearing my name? Sliding another of the windows down just a crack, I whirled my head toward Maria, my nostrils flared. “I’ll be just outside the car, OK?”

“Is that Mommy?” Maria asked, her eyes widening.

As she asked, as if on cue, Connie stumbled into the brick wall beside her, drunken and sloppy. She laughed once more, a horrendous, almost evil sound that echoed out across the Mission. People on the sidewalk paused and stared at her, this stick-thin woman with a whipping laugh, drunk out of her mind at six-thirty in the evening.

“She’s just not feeling that well,” I told Maria, trying to make my voice sound solid, something she could hold onto. “I’ll just go help her, OK?”

“OK,” Maria said, nodding, sounding sure. “She’s sick a lot.”

Once outside the car, I stared at her, bringing my massive arms across my chest and leaning heavily against the wall. The guy she was chatting up pointed at me, his face growing slack. Connie swirled toward me, again losing balance. Her heels clicked from side to side as she tried to scamper toward me.

“There he is! There’s my man!” she cried, bringing her hand against the brick.

As she approached, Quintin ducked out from the bar, staring at us. He gaped. “What the hell is going on, Wes?” he asked me. “Do you know this woman? I’m getting insane complaints from everyone about her. And earlier she was here, talking to Rem.”

My eyes turned from Quintin to Connie and back. With Quintin’s report, Connie’s mouth curved into an almost evil smile. She nodded firmly, shrugging. “Oh that little pregnant girl? She was just so cute, wasn’t she? Thinking that the two of you were going to be in love. When it was just a stupid contract. Don’t worry. I put her in her place, Wes. I’ll always be there to clean up your messes.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. My head felt pressurized, near popping. I gaped at her.

Connie tittered. Behind her, the man she’d been speaking to slid a cigarette between his lips and leered at us. A strange show. Quintin pointed a finger at Connie, then at me, his dark eyes wide. His black hair swept backward with an onslaught of San Francisco wind. It seemed suddenly like the sky was going to storm on all of us.

“All I know is, this woman was speaking with Remy, and then Remy disappeared without saying goodbye. And I haven’t been able to get ahold of her,” Quintin said to me.

“What did you tell her?” I demanded to Connie, growing taller. “What did you say to my Remy?”

Connie’s smile began to falter. My voice, strong and powerful over hers, made her confidence shift. “I just told her, you know. About Maria. About us. About the world we’re going to build together, Wes. You don’t have to have any sort of bullshit contract with her, when you have us.”

“Connie!” I cried, realizing the rift she’d created. “I told you last night, I didn’t know how to tell her—”

“Wait. Who is Maria?” Quintin asked, his eyes flitting toward the car behind me. Connie and I followed his gaze to the little girl in the back seat. The image of her bobbing her head back and forth, still twirling in the dandelion, made my stomach clench.

This girl. I couldn’t allow her to grow up like Connie.

“Connie and Maria showed up a bit less than a week ago,” I said to Quintin, my eyes heavy. “She’s my daughter, man.”

“And shouldn’t fathers and mothers be together?” Connie asked, her words growing slurred. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t just try. For Maria’s sake!”

“Connie, no!” I said, my voice growing grisly. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. I love Remy. I’m going to have a baby with Remy. I’ll do whatever I need to do for you, to keep Maria here. I want her to be a part of my life, which I know means having you, as well. And that’s fine. That’s fine.”

As I spoke, Quintin leaned heavily against the brick wall, gazing at me. His face changed several times—from one of distrust, to one of interest, of true appreciation. I finally turned my eyes to him, knowing I needed to reckon with what I’d done to his sister.

“Listen, man. I’ve been a fuck-up. I know that. But I want to fix everything with her. Ask her to be my real wife, man. She’s been the only stable part of my life for the past fifteen years.” I paused, my eyes switching between the two of them. “Any idea where the hell she might have gone?”

Quintin volunteered to close up the bar for the night and take Connie back to her hotel. Not wanting to leave Maria with her drunken mom, he opted to take her back to his apartment, telling me he’d order a pizza, show her some cartoons. “Kids are easy, man. Good thing, huh? Cause you’re about to have two of them.”

I had no room to chuckle at his jokes. No energy, besides what I was pushing toward finding Rem. I watched as Quintin slid into my car, tossing me the keys to his bike. With a wink, he said, “Man, I know you know how hard it is to lend my bike out. But you gotta find her, OK? Bring her back. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Sorry I’m always making such a goddamn mess,” I told him, giving him a slight smile.

“I’m used to it, man,” Quintin said. “Just be better. For all of us. And for your son.”

I sped out on Quintin’s bike toward Remy’s apartment. As I suspected, her car wasn’t parked anywhere near. When I smacked my fist against the door, it produced no answer. And a call to Sam brought me just an earful of hatred. “No, I’m not going to tell you where she is. If she hasn’t told you where she is, she doesn’t want to be found.”

“Sam. I mean it this time. It’s like, life or death that I find her,” I said back, pleading. “If you know where she is, you have to tell me. OK?”

After a long pause, Sam admitted that she didn’t know. That she hadn’t seen her since the previous night and was nursing a hefty hangover. “Jesus. Did you know Gwen could drink so much?” she sighed to me, in a moment of strange clarity. “To be sixty-something, without a care in the world.”

“I have to go, Sam. Goodbye.”

Just before slipping my leg over Quintin’s bike once more—going over a wide variety of places she might be—I received a text from Quintin himself.

“I’ve never seen you so sure of yourself about Remy, Wes,” it read. “I think I’m actually finally ready to accept that you’re going to be with her for good. I believe you, man. Don’t fuck this up.”

I held the phone up, gazing out over the Mission. As I did, I felt a wave of memory, making the Mission look different, like the one of my teenage years. I could almost visualize Remy in those little jean shorts she’d so often worn, her thin legs snaking across the road as she’d strutted away from me. “You can’t treat me like that!” she’d howled to me, making me spin with rage. I’d chased after her so many times, whirling her into me and kissing her angrily, recklessly. Always, the anger had been tinged with sexual energy. My cock had pulsed up against my jeans, grazing against her perfect thigh. I’d tossed her against my motorbike, inhaling her.

“Come to Los Angeles with me,” she’d cooed so often, first in a teasing way, and then with more purpose. “We can make love on the beach. We can bicker while swimming in the waves. Come with me, Wesley. I so want us to be together. Beneath the sun.”