In the two weeks I’ve known my daughter, she hasn’t stopped watching me. Sometimes it’s out of the corner of her eye. Other times it’s more obvious when her head turns, following my movements with her eyes.

She hasn’t spoken much. A word here and there but nothing substantial. It’s like she’s curious, yet shy.

It boggles my mind. I don’t want to scare her, but I do want to get to know her. I just don’t know how to.

I stand my guitar on the floor, propped against the end table between Shawn’s couch and the recliner. Twisting to my other side, I face Everly. She’s sitting at the other end of the couch with her legs tucked underneath her.

“TV boring you?” She glances at the football game playing on the TV that’s mounted to the right of the window in the living room. “You can change it if you want to watch something else.”

The guys would probably flip if she does. Saturday afternoons are usually spent watching college football. Even Taralynn loves watching her beloved Ole Miss Rebels.

It’s Blake’s first weekend alone with Emersyn, so I thought it would be a good idea to get out of town in an attempt to get Whitney’s mind off the situation. Obviously, shared custody isn’t ideal. I don’t want him near Emersyn any more than I’d want him around Everly. So we’re spending the weekend at my brother’s. My parents are coming over tomorrow after church for lunch. It’ll give my parents some time to get to know their granddaughter.

“No, it’s fine,” she shrugs, then looks back at me. “I’d rather watch you play that.” She points to the Fender acoustic guitar. “If that’s okay.”

Joy spreads through my chest at her admission to want to listen to me play. I wasn’t playing anything in particular. Just messing around with some chords.

I left it at Gavin’s the night Whitney showed up. Thankfully, my brother—or it could have been Taralynn—had enough sense to grab it, bringing it with them. But in all the chaos, they forgot it in Shawn’s truck that night, so I didn’t take it home when we left.

“Of course that’s okay.”

“You’re really good,” she whispers. This is the most she’s spoken to me. I’m not fond of the way she’s so soft spoken. It’s such a contrast from the way her mother was at her age. I’m not complaining though. Sure, I’d like her to be bolder, but she’s still perfect the way she is. “When did you learn to play?”

I think back, smiling at the memory. “I started learning in middle school.”

I first picked up a guitar in sixth grade after hearing Whitney sing in the school choir. I needed something I could use that would give us something in common. By then I’d stop feeling embarrassed over my attraction for her. But I can’t sing, so it left an array of instruments to choose from. Guitar just made sense. What other instrument is so . . . intimate between a small group? Between two people?

I took lessons for a whole year before I let anyone know.

It worked too. It got her to pay closer attention to me. And eventually—by the time we got to eighth grade, and after a lot of time hounding her—it got her to go on a date with me after I helped her put music to some lyrics she had written.

“Wow.” She gleams.

“Do you like guitars or music?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve had lessons.” She points to the guitar, then her body sags. “Well . . . I’ve had two lessons.”

“When?” My voice excites knowing she’s taken guitar lessons. That must mean she’s interested in the instruments and wants to learn.

“A few weeks ago,” she tells me. “But my—” She stops as if catching herself saying something she wasn’t supposed to. “He found out Mom was taking me and said I wasn’t allowed to go back.” Everly’s voice sounds crushed, making my chest ache.

She doesn’t clarify who the ‘he’ is, but I’m guessing it’s Blake. The way she stopped from saying, ‘dad,’ though is . . . odd. Whitney would have told me if she said something to Everly about Blake not being her dad. In fact, we discussed telling her after her birthday in three weeks.

I don’t ask her if Blake was the one that told her she wasn’t allowed to learn how to play. I don’t need to, but I can remedy it.

“Do you want me to teach you?”

She beams up at me. “Really?”

“Sure. I’d love to, Ev.” She grins, showing all her teeth. The ache starts to recede.

“Okay then. First lesson, forget whatever you’ve already learned.”

She laughs, giving me that big, bright smile, again. It’s the first time she’s looked happy instead of guarded. It thrills me to no end.

I mute the TV. Then I grab my guitar, pulling it onto my lap.

“Come closer.” I motion for her to take a seat next to me. “We’re going to start with the basics: how you hold the instrument.” I start to twist, facing her, but that’s not going to work. “Everly, come sit on the coffee table in front of me.”

She hops up, doing what I’ve told her to do.

“You want to position it comfortably on your thigh. Right about here.” I indicate the spot on my leg where it’s sitting, and she eagerly nods. “Are you right handed?” I ask her before moving on.

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Me too. That will make it easier. Okay next, rest your forearm over the body of the guitar, like this.” My right arm touches the cool, smooth, black wood on the face of the guitar. “Then you want to place your palm, lightly, on the bridge at the base so that you can pivot your hand easily. You following?”

“Yes.” She wraps both hands around the edge of the coffee table, watching every step I tell her. I’m impressed. She’s a good girl. From everything I’ve seen I know Whitney has great kids.

“Now, with this hand,” I hold up my left hand, palm facing her. “You want the pad of your thumb on the back of the neck. Make sure it’s the pad of your thumb, not the tip.” I hold mine up, rubbing my thumb and index fingers together. “Then, you want to wrap your hand around the neck, placing the tips of your fingers onto the fret when needed.” Watching her watch my movements lifts a weight I hadn’t realized I had. This feels good. It feels right—me teaching her. “Am I going too fast?”

“Nope,” she says without looking at me.

I grab the pick that’s lying on the end table. “Going back to this hand,” I wave my right hand that has the pick clasped between my thumb and index finger. “You can either hold the pick between your thumb and index finger like I’m doing now or you can add your middle finger too. I only use these two,” I show her, taking my middle finger off the pick. “Come here. I want you to try everything I just showed you, and then we’ll do chords.”

She stands as I scoot as far into the corner of the couch as I can, motioning for her to come sit between me and the guitar.

Once she’s seated comfortably between my legs, I pull the guitar toward us, placing it on her lap.

“Like this?” she asks after she performs everything I’ve showed her.

I lean over her, inspecting. She’s done well.

“You need a gap between your palm and the neck so that your fingers arch correctly,” is the only thing I correct. “Perfect,” I tell her once she’s adjusted. “Okay, so before I have you pick the strings, I’m going to tell you the names of each one. Let’s start with how they are numbered. From the bottom to the top you have,” I place my arm over her, putting my finger on the top string. “This is six, then going down, you have five, four, three, two, and one. There are letters associated with each string. Going back to the top, you have E, A, D, G, B, E.”

She looks at me from over her shoulder asking, “How am I supposed to remember that?”

“You’ll learn, trust me. And we can always come up with a phrase later if it’ll help.” She nods. “Take the pick, placing it at the top. Pick down for me.”

That first sound is like a balm coating my heart in warmth. It soothes and settles something inside me.

“Great job, Everly. That was a down stroke. Now pick up.” She does. “That’s an up stroke. You can alternate picking up and down.”

“This is so cool!” I laugh, enjoying her enthusiasm.

We continue, and she picks a few chords I show her.

“What’s going on in here?”

We both look up to see Whitney, beer in hand walking in with Taralynn and my brother following. Matt and Mason are home too, but they must still be out back drinking.

Weekends around here have always been party central. People usually just show up without an invite. But I guess tonight isn’t one of those nights, or maybe my brother called off any plans they’d had when I asked him if we could come down.

Whitney takes a seat at the other end of the couch. Shawn falls into the recliner, pulling Taralynn with him.

“You were playing that song that night. I forgot.” Whitney stares off into space, probably thinking back to the night she re-entered my life, the night she awoke my soul again. “I sang that song. In all the chaos that’s . . .” She trails off, not wanting to say too much in front of our daughter, I imagine. “I’d never heard it before.”

“Yeah, you had,” I admit, making her eyes lock on mine. “You wrote that song.”

“I did?”

“My mom wrote a song? No way.” Everly beams, looking at her mom.

I move the guitar from her hands, sitting it on the floor. “Your mom is a very talented songwriter.”

“I am?” Whitney’s lips are snarled as if what I’m saying isn’t believable. If my daughter wasn’t sitting here, there’s no way I’d be able to keep myself in check.

How does she not believe she’s capable of so many things?

“Yes, you are.” Mason’s voice fills the room as he comes through. “I remember you used to sing things you’d written when you were at my house visiting my sister. You’re a good singer too.” He turns, addressing Shawn and Taralynn. “Matt and I are heading out. We’re gonna go to Mac’s for a little while. May hit up Level a little later.”

“Have fun,” Taralynn tells him.

Mac’s is a local, small, pub-like bar in town. He mainly has a blue-collar, older crowd, but when Taralynn used to waitress, my brother and his friends started hanging out there. She’s no longer waitressing that I know of, but I guess they still frequent there. Level, however, is a club on the outskirts of town, but it won’t open until around ten.

I look at the clock hanging on the wall seeing it’s just past eight thirty so they have a little time to kill because they head to the night club.

“It is getting late. Ev, why don’t you go upstairs and take a quick shower. Do you remember the room we slept in a few weeks ago?”

She sags against me but nods at her mom. Standing, she turns to face me. “Thank you for teaching me a few things.”

“We can practice more tomorrow if you’d like.”

Her eyes light up. “Yes! Please.”

“Sure, kiddo. Night,” I tell her as she starts to walk off.

I’ll teach her how to play. Maybe it could become our thing like Whitney and I used to have. But this’ll be how I bond with my daughter.

Until tonight, I’d forgotten how far down I’d buried the need to play. It started out as a way to get Whitney’s attention, but I quickly discovered I loved it. Since Trent’s death, I’ve only strummed a song here and there. I was forcing something by doing it. I’m not meant to play alone. I need my Love. I need our family.

Family.

I look at Whitney. She’s watching my brother and his girlfriend. Taralynn is cuddled in Shawn’s lap, and he’s whispering God only knows what. But whatever it is, even I can see it’s turning her on.

The look in Whitney’s eyes says a lot. There’s need behind those dark, violet eyes of hers. But I can’t do anything about it—not yet anyway. I won’t chance messing up a future with her.

I don’t plan on being some fling to scorch her needs at this moment. I want it all. And I want it for as long as I have air in my lung and a pulse in my body.

It’s not long before Taralynn hops off Shawn’s lap, spouting how tired she is. Shawn mumbles a goodnight, and they head upstairs to their room.

Whitney and I stare at each other until I can’t handle it anymore and get up to find a beer.

* * *

After showering, I come down the stairs to find Whitney in the kitchen, bent over the island, staring at the cell phone in her hand. Her eyebrows are set in a frown, and her lips are pursed as if she’s thinking hard.

“What’re you looking at?”

She blows out a thick stream of air. “A text.”

My body goes still. I hate that she gave him her new cell number. Logically, she had to, and I know that. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, just as I don’t like Emersyn being with him this weekend. Or that the judge awarded him joint custody. Makes no fucking sense. But like Jacob said, we’ll fight it. At least I hope she will.

I make my way over to where Whitney is propped over the counter. I can’t stand it. I need to know what he has said to her, so I peer over her shoulder, reading the text message I know is from him.

Blake: Our daughter misses you. Misses her sister too.

Blake: It doesn’t have to be this way, babe. You can come home. We can be a family again.

Blake: I still want that. Just come back home.

My insides turn. I can’t stop my hand from wrapping around her front and pulling her against me. She’s mine. She will always be mine.

But I’ll also never stand in her way if she doesn’t want me.

She hasn’t replied to the text messages, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want him. It’d probably be easier for her if she thought about it long enough. She knows him. Knows that life. She doesn’t know me that well. Not yet anyway.

“What do you want, Love?”

“What do you mean?” She leans up, pressing her back into my chest. Her head rises, so she’s looking up at me. I glance down at her.

“Do you want to go back to him? Do you still want your family . . . with him?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want. I want to know what you want.”

This passive shit is grating on my nerves. It’s not her. The road to her memories may be in getting her to find the woman locked up inside herself. That’s the girl I want.

I tighten my grip on her, raising her onto her tiptoes and bending so that my mouth lines up with her ear.

“Do you want him? Do you want to stay married to him and raise your kids with him?” She shakes her head, but that’s not good enough. I want words. I push her front into the hard surface of the countertop. My dick starts to swell, and right now, I don’t want to do anything to stop it. I push my jean-covered crotch into her ass, eliciting a moan from her lips. “Answer me, Love.”

“I want you.” My cock grows, hardening to the point it’s painful against her body.

“I asked if you wanted him.” My words are harsh, coming out as a bark and entering her ear making her spine straighten.

“I don’t love, Blake. I don’t want to go back to what I had. I want my girls, but . . . I don’t want him.”

I push myself away from her so fast I end up backing into the refrigerator. I was seconds away from kissing her. And as much as I want to do that and so much more, I can’t. She’s married. She doesn’t remember who she is. I can’t.

I open the fridge, pulling out a Bud Light and downing the whole thing in one swallow, trying to cool my body down. When I finish, I toss the empty bottle into the trash, then I grab another out, handing it to Whitney. I know her body is as on fire the same as mine is. I don’t need to touch her again. It’s written all over her face and in the flames staring back at me through her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” She calls me on the lie. “Why don’t you tell me why you keep stopping it?” She twists the cap off the beer then she takes a sip. “I was clear a week ago. My marriage is done. And I know you want me. Hell, I felt it pretty clear moments ago.” She looks down at the hard-on I’m still sporting.

“I am sorry,” I admit. “I’m confusing you, and that isn’t what I want.”

“Stop saying that. I’m not confused. I may not remember everything, but I’ve remembered more in the two weeks I’ve been with you than I have in the last ten years. Stop, stopping this.” She gestures between us.

“I can’t, Whitney.” I turn away from her, bending and resting my forearms on the counter.

What am I really fighting against?

She comes to stand behind me. I feel her even before she touches me, placing her hands on my hips. “It’s late. We don’t have to figure this out tonight. I want my memory back too, Shane. I do.” She sighs, her breath fanning my T-shirt. “Let’s call it a night, yeah?”

“I do want you.”

“I know you do. And I’ve said what I want, and what I don’t want. Bed, Shane.” She makes me smile, but when she lets go of me, my smile fades. I want her so bad I can almost taste her on my tongue. She is the biggest craving I’ve ever had.

“You sleeping in the same room you did last time?”

“Nah. Matt’s home. That’s his room. And Mason has the other one down here. I’ll crash on the couch. If you need me, just shoot me a text if you don’t feel like coming down the stairs.” I turn around.

“The couch?”

“Yeah.”

“Um . . .” She pauses, thinking about what she’s about to say. “Come sleep with us. The bed is big enough without Em here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Love.” After what just happened, it’s definitely not a good idea.

“Sure it is.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself, but not buying any of it. “Everly will be between us. It’ll be fine.”

“And what happens when she wakes up and doesn’t understand why I’m in bed with you both?”

She’s the last person I want to confuse. She knows her mother is married to Blake. Fuck, she still thinks he’s her father.

“You underestimate our daughter.” Hearing her say, ‘our daughter,’ does something to me. I swear it warms my soul. “She’ll be fine. She won’t think anything of it. You aren’t sleeping on the couch, Shane.”

“I’m not, huh?”

“No. Not when there is a comfortable bed with room in it that we can all share. Come on. Let’s go to sleep. I’m tired.”

Without argument, I follow her.

I’d follow her anywhere.