LISA

When I answer the knock at my door, I don't bother trying to hide my disappointment when I'm greeted with Marco's awkward smile instead of the girl I want.

He stands there, clearly waiting for permission to enter. "I wanted to talk to you about the baby," he says tentatively.

I knew this was coming, and much to my disappointment, there is no way to avoid this shit. "Come in, then." I move out of his way, sitting down in the chair next to the desk. I have no fucking clue what he's going to say, or what I'm going to say, or how this will end up, but I can't see it going well.

Marco doesn't sit down. He just stands by the dresser with his hands shoved into the pockets of his gray dress slacks. The fact that the gray matches the stripes on his tie and he's wearing a black sweater vest just screams, I'm the chancellor at an accredited university! But looking past that, I see the worry in his brown eyes and how his brows are knitted together. He's fumbling with his hands in such a pathetic way that I just want to put him out of his misery.

"I'm fine. I know you probably assumed I'd be breaking shit and throwing a tantrum, but, honestly, I don't care if you're having a baby," I finally say.

He sighs, not looking relieved as I had sort of hoped he would. "It's okay if you are a little upset about it. I know it's unexpected, and I know how you feel about me. I just hope this doesn't make your ill feelings toward me grow." He looks down at the floor, and I find myself wishing Jennie were here next to me, instead of wherever with Karen. I need to see her before she leaves. I promised to give her space, but I didn't expect this father-daughter moment to be thrown at me.

"You know nothing of how I feel about you." Hell, I don't think I even know how I feel about him.

His patience with me is never ending as he says, "I hope this doesn't change or take away from any of the progress we've made. I know I have a lot to make up for, but I really hope you'll allow me to keep trying."

When I hear that, I feel a kinship between us that I hadn't before. We are both fuck-ups; both of us have been led by stupid decisions and addictions, and I'm pissed that I got this trait from being raised by him. If Vance had raised me, I wouldn't be this way. I wouldn't be so fucked-up inside. I wouldn't have been afraid of my dad's coming home drunk, and I wouldn't have sat on the floor with my mum for hours while she wept and bled and struggled to stay conscious after the beating she endured because of his mistakes.

Anger simmers inside me, humming in my veins, and I'm two breaths away from calling for Jennie. I need her at times like this—well, I need her always—but especially now. I need her soft voice to speak encouraging words. I need her light to push against the shadows inside my mind.

"I want you to be a part of the baby's life, Lisa. I think this could be a really good thing for all of us."

"Us?" I scoff.

"Yes, all of us. You're a part of this family. When I married Karen and took on the role of Jisoo's father, I know you felt like I was forgetting about you, and I don't want you to feel this way because of the baby."

"Forgetting me? You forgot about me long before you married Karen."

But I don't get the same thrill out of throwing shit into his face now that I know the truth about his past with my mum and Christian. I feel for him and the shit those two pulled, but at the same time I'm fucking pissed at him for being such a shitty father up until this last year. Even if he wasn't my biological dad, he was in charge of taking care of us—he accepted that role and then just gave it up to drink.

So I can't help myself. I should, but the anger is buzzing in me, and I need to know. I have to know why he would attempt to make amends with me if he isn't completely positive that he's my father.

"When did you know that my mum was fucking Vance behind your back?" I ask, releasing the words like a grenade.

All the air leaves the room, and Marco looks as if he will pass out any second.

"How . . ." He stops and rubs a hand across the stubble on his chin.

"Who told you that?"

"Cut the shit. I know all about them. That's what happened in Thailand. I caught them together. He had her on the kitchen counter."

"Oh God," he says, his voice strangled and his chest heaving. "Before or after the wedding?"

"Before, but she still got married anyway. Why did you stay with her if you knew she wanted him?"

He takes a few breaths and looks around the room. Then he shrugs. "I loved her." He looks me in the eyes, naked honesty seeming to remove any distance between us. "I don't have a reason aside from that. I loved her, and I loved you, and I kept hoping that one day she would stop loving him. That day never came . . . and it was eating me alive. I knew what she was doing and what he—my best friend—was doing, but I had so much hope for us, and I thought she would eventually choose me."

"She didn't," I note. She may have chosen to marry him and spend her life with him, but she didn't choose him in any way that mattered.

"Clearly. And I should have given up long before I turned to alcohol."

The shame in his eyes is humbling.

"Yeah, you should have." Everything would be so different if he had.

"I know you don't understand it, and I know that my poor choices and false hopes ruined your childhood for you, so I don't expect your forgiveness or understanding." He puts his hands together as if he were praying and covers his mouth with them.

I stay silent because I can't think of anything to say. My mind is reeling with horrid memories and the reality of how fucked all three of my . . . parentlike figures are. I don't even know what to call them.

"I suppose I felt like she would see that he couldn't offer her the stability that I could. I had a good job, and I wasn't as much of a flight risk as Christian was." He pauses, and with his deep breath his vest tightens on his chest and he looks at me. "I reckon if Jennie marries another man, this is how he will feel. He will always be competing with you, and even when you leave her for the hundredth time, he will be competing with the memory of you." He's confident in what he's saying, I can tell by his tone and by the way he's looking me square in the eyes.

"I'm not leaving her again," I say through gritted teeth. My fingers are clenching the edge of the desk.

"He said that, too." He sighs and leans back against the dresser.

"I'm not him."

"I know you aren't. I'm in no way saying that you are Christian or that Jennie is like your mum. Lucky for you, it's only you that Jennie sees. If your mum wouldn't have fought her feelings for him, they could have been happy together; instead they allowed their toxic relationship to ruin the lives of everyone around them." Marco brushes his hand over his facial hair again. An annoying habit.

Catherine and Heathcliff come to my mind, and I want to vomit at the easy comparison. Jennie and I may be a huge fucking disaster like the two characters, but I won't allow us to suffer the same fate.

But none of what Marco is saying makes sense to me. Why would he put up with so much shit from me if he had the slightest inkling that I wasn't his problem to begin with?

"So it's true, then? He's your father, isn't he?" he asks as if losing some vital force that had been animating him. The strong, scary man from my childhood has disappeared and been replaced by a heartbroken man on the verge of tears.

I want to tell him that he's a damn idiot for putting up with this shit from me, that my mum and I can't forget the hell he made my life as a child. It's his fault that I side with the demons and fight against the angels—it's his fault that I have a special place in hell and am not welcomed in heaven. It's his fault that Jennie won't be with me. It's his fault that I hurt her too many times to count, and it's his fault that I'm just now trying to fix twenty-one years of mistakes.

When instead of all that I don't say anything, Marco lets out a breath. "I knew from the first time I saw you that you were his."

His words nearly knock the wind from my chest along with the angry thoughts in my mind.

"I knew it." He's trying not to cry, but failing. I cringe and look away from the tears on his cheeks. "I knew. How could I not have? You looked just like him, and as each year passed, your mum would cry a little harder, she would sneak off with him a little more. I knew. I didn't want to admit it because you were all that I had. I didn't have your mum; I never really did. Since I met her, she was his. You were all I had, and as I allowed my anger to take over, I ruined that, too." He stops to catch his breath, and I sit in confused silence. "You would have been better off with him, I know you would have been, but I loved you—I still love you as if you are my own flesh—and I can only hope that you will let me stay in your life."

He's still crying; too many tears roll down his face, and I find myself feeling for him. Some of the weight on my chest has lifted, and I can feel years of anger dissolving inside me. I don't know what this feeling is; it's strong and it's freeing. By the time he looks up at me, I don't even feel like myself. I'm not myself—that's the only explanation for why my arms are touching his shoulders and wrapping around his back to comfort him.

As I do so, I feel him shake, and then he really begins sobbing with his whole body.