Sometimes I wonder if I drove Mum up the wall with how many times I rewatched the same cartoons as a kid.

I mean, it's not like I have anyone to ask, really. She's been gone nearly a year, and my sister? We haven't said a word to each other since she moved out eight years ago. And then there's the sperm donor, but that's all he ever was. So yeah, he's also out of the question.

What I do remember from back then is the telly either being busted with a boot-sized hole in the screen, or a drunk, ratty old man sitting in front of it with a beer propped on his lap and spit dribbling down his chin. I honestly thought he was dead half the time until Mum would try to pry the pint from his hand.

That's why, every time I visit and Charlotte and Lydia won't budge from their usual programs, I start wondering what I was like at their age.

One thing I've learned about growing up is that your brain has a way of making you forget things. Like it has its own kind of antivirus software embedded in there somewhere. It spots something toxic and just... wipes it out. Only, it doesn't let you pick and choose what gets deleted. The good stuff goes with it too.

"Alright, now it's my turn to ask you," Allie says from beside me. "Are you okay?"

I slide an arm around her shoulders and pull her to my chest.

She has no idea how okay I am. Every time I'm here, it's like I can actually breathe. I can be me without any big expectations because she only cares about what makes me happy.

I give her a small nod. "I'm more than okay, love."

She snakes her arms behind me, which is impressive since we're both sunken into the sofa, but she still somehow manages it.

"Thank you for putting them to bed," she says softly. "You really didn't have to do that."

"It was my pleasure," I admit into her hair.

She's shown me what a real family looks like, and I didn't just inch my way in. I jumped in head first—and it was the best decision I ever made. So these little moments? They're everything to me.

My mum and I did all we could growing up, but with the florist shop, my sperm donor and his constant issues, and then my sister never making anything easy, those moments with her were always rushed.

But here? The only thing rushing me is—

Fuck. I forgot.

I glance at the clock on the wall. 7:32 PM.

My head falls against hers and I sigh loudly. "I don't want to leave."

"I'm counting down the days until you don't have to," she murmurs.

"And I'm counting down the minutes."

And that's not really a joke. I'm tracking every bloody second until I don't have to walk away from her at the end of the night. But that day still feels way too far off.

We might be done recording, but now there are interviews, and getting ready for tour. And Trevor damn near blew a gasket just finding out Allie and I were dating. I can't imagine what he'd do if he thought I was staying over.

But once all this shit is behind us, she'll be my wife.

She's mine in more ways than she probably even realizes. And yeah, maybe that sounds possessive—but I really don't care.

She's mine. I'm hers. Paper or not.

***

Some days, this drive feels like nothing.

Then there are times like tonight where they drag on, making it feel longer than it actually is.

The broken white lines on the motorway start to blur together when my phone rings, startling me slightly. Which is probably the fifth time it's rang, and the fifth time it'll be met with the same response.

I pull one hand from the wheel, reach over, and jam my finger right into the decline button.

It's so bloody tempting to just say fuck it and turn back to Allie. But for more than just one reason, that'd be a terrible idea. For one, the guys would be pissed as hell. Two, she has enough of her own shit going on. She doesn't need mine on top of it. Three, I'm fucking exhausted and just need to sleep.

Only an hour left to go.

The phone rings again—but this time it doesn't startle me. It just pisses me off.

I peer over the steering wheel, seeing a junction loom on the horizon. I don't even think clearly, just gun it off the slip road, and into the nearest car park. I slam the gear a little more forcefully than I mean to, and pull the phone to my ear.

"What?!" I bark, my hand already tightening around the steering wheel.

"Hey, slow down, son. I just wanted to check in, since you never call your old man. You're a tough guy to track down these days."

The word son rolls off his tongue like it belongs there. Like he has a sliver of a right to call me that after everything he's done—or everything he hasn't done, for that matter.

I scoff loudly and push my fingers so hard into my eyes everything goes black.

"Why would I call you? And don't call me that, Dick. You know you lost that right when—"

"Well, why wouldn't you call your father? Especially with you living so close now, Jackie."

God, it's like he's using every word in the dictionary to get under my skin. Every single word, but especially those two. The nickname. The titles. As if we were ever just a big happy family and I'll remember all the good times.

But there were never good times. Not with him.

I don't say anything. Instead, I sit in silence, listening to the background noise on the other end of the line—which I'm willing to bet is a pub—shrill laughter, glasses clinking, and whooping echoing in the distance. And the fact that it's my sperm donor? All pretty solid clues pointing to where he's at.

Yup. Definitely a damn pub. Good to know things don't change.

"What do you want?" I finally ask, slamming my head back against the seat.

"Well, if you're wondering—"

"I'm not. But the faster you spit it out the faster I can hang up."

He laughs. The noise spilling through the line, making my veins run cold.

"I just wanted to see if my son would help his old man out—"

"Not interested."

He's silent. Maybe finally learning to shut his mouth, but I know that's wishful thinking.

Richard Owens always gets the last word.

"I don't need much. A few hundred and I won't bother you again. I won't call, I won't text—"

I cut him off with a barking laugh. "Yeah, we'll see."

I start to hang up, but his voice stops me.

"And maybe I'll even think about not showing up in Boston like I planned. I'm just so proud of my boy, figured I'd see him in action. Big city, big party just for him. Plus a little birdie told me you're seeing a new girl now. I'd love to meet her," he says, voice dripping with condescension.

My grip tightens on the wheel, the blood quickly draining from my knuckles.

That's the fucked-up part about all of this. If he really wanted to, he absolutely could, because the universe decided to really fuck me by giving me a Welsh mum and an American sperm donor, who just so happens to be only a few states away.

I shouldn't even care. If I send him a few hundred bucks, maybe he'll finally just kick the bucket. Sounds like a no-brainer, but I'm still weighing it heavily.

If I send it, he could end up hurting someone—again.

If I don't, he'll never let me live it down. He'll track me down and just take it anyway. He's done it before.

So, what the fuck do I do now?

"Fine," I seethe. "But this is the last time. You do not show up anywhere I am. You stop calling me your son. And you stay the fuck away."

I don't even give him time to respond before I hang up. Reluctantly, I send him a few hundred—not enough for him to go crazy with, but enough to get him off my back.

My head falls back against the seat, and I chuck the phone to the other side, hearing it bounce off the window. I don't even care if it's broken. At least if it is, he can't call me demanding more.

And if he shows up in Boston?

No. He's stupid, but he's not completely brain dead. There's still some rational thinking buried in there—or he'd have shown up at the studio already. That information isn't hard to find. So maybe there's a fraction of hope he won't actually show up.

Either way, the only thing I know for sure is that if there is a God? He completely fucked up and took the wrong person.

My mum deserved to be here. She deserved to see her shop come to life, and see what potential I really had to give her everything she worked so hard for. To see what I could do with the things she gave me and made possible for me.

But him? Not a fucking chance in hell.

He doesn't deserve anything but a slow, painful, lonely death.

And if that makes me a dick? So be it.