Chapter 16

16

Dakota

I t's late November, and San Francisco is putting out its first round of festive decorations. This may be California, but they can still whip up winter holiday spirit out in the streets and on every storefront. My hometown doesn't disappoint.

In past years, I'd always been a tad more excited about Christmas. It used to be my favorite holiday growing up. After my parents died, however, I almost swore off it. I just couldn't seem to enjoy it as much without my mom and dad, but Sally pulled me back in, and I've been joyfully celebrating it ever since.

This year, unfortunately, the approach of Christmas fills me with dread.

The clock keeps ticking on the inheritance, and I have yet to find the right way to express my needs and concerns about it with the Faulkner brothers. No matter how I spin it, I still feel like a user. I am ashamed for having such a want, but Chelsea keeps reminding me it's eighty million dollars. Money that could completely change my and my daughter's life in ways I could never imagine.

"What person in their right mind wouldn't try to lock down that money?" she says as we leave Trevor and Maisie to play in the living room while we move our conversation into her kitchen, a handful of feet away. "You have to tell them about it, Dakota."

"And risk disappointment?" I shoot back. "Marriage is a sacred institution, Chelsea. I can't just ask one of them to marry me solely for this inheritance."

"You're going to lose the house," she bitterly reminds me.

"I'm well aware."

It's too much to bear. Not even my cocktail-making endeavors can take the edge off lately. Maisie can feel my anxiety levels rising, too. I shouldn't have gone to that funeral in the first place. With this now hanging over me, even my evenings with the brothers haven't been as enjoyable.

They've been picking up on my raw nerves, trying to figure out what's going on, and I always end up rushing out of their house like it's on fire, sprinkling apologies in my wake. It's building tension between us, and I fear it will eventually blow up in my face.

"The worst that can happen is that they'll all say no," Chelsea insists as she pours us some coffee. "At least then you'll know where you stand."

"Yeah, and I might end up resenting them for it. I know they are in no way obligated to help me, but still, I'd probably resent them if they said no, at least a little bit."

"You can't say that for sure. Come on, Dakota, you're a reasonable and kind woman. You're not asking them to hurt somebody or to commit some kind of felony. It's just marriage."

I can't help but laugh bitterly at the sound of that. "It's just marriage?"

"You've already had a nasty taste of it so you might as well gain something this time around. It's eighty … million … dollars ."

"You're making all the sense in the world, but it's like my heart and my brain are going to war on the ethical aspects here," I reply. "On top of that, not knowing what they'll say feels slightly better than actually hearing them say no. Because if they do say no, it might dampen our relationship, and we'd eventually drift apart. I'd be busier than usual—"

"You would absolutely be busier because you're going to lose the house!" Chelsea hisses, almost at her wit's end. "Are you seriously ready to lose your and Maisie's home when you could just take the plunge and tell the Faulkner's about the inheritance? We both know you're not going to tell them about the foreclosure notice because God forbid, you let a man, or anyone else, help you."

"Hey," I shoot back, somewhat aggravated. "I relied on a man before. You saw where it got me. I'm scared, okay?"

Chelsea takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. "I get it, honey. But here's the thing. Keith isn't really a man. A guy who walks out on his wife and daughter after said wife took a mortgage out on her own home to support his stupid Los Angeles dreams cannot possibly be considered a man." She adds milk to my coffee. "The Faulkner brothers strike me as real men. What if they actually want to help you?"

"I don't want to feel like I owe them," I mumble, but even I can't make sense of my own reasoning at this point.

Maisie's cry has me jumping out of my chair as she comes running. "Mommy! Mommy!"

"What is it, honey?" I ask, worriedly checking her from top to bottom.

My baby girl seems physically okay. There's nothing out of place. She looks adorable in her pale blue dress with sequin wings sewn across the back and her hair pulled up in a cute little ponytail. But it's the tears welling in her eyes that have my nerve endings flaring.

"Trevor was mean to me!" she says.

Chelsea and I both freeze, exchanging brief glances before we look at Trevor. He's on the couch, playing Nintendo. He seems fine, focused on the game, and not really bothered by Maisie's sobs.

"What do you mean, baby?" I ask my daughter.

"He said girls are stupid and that they can't play video games. I told him I'm pretty good at Fruit Wars and Zelda's Quest, but he said those games are for babies," she explains, trying to convey her emotions as clearly and as eloquently as possible. "And then I told him that I'm not a baby, but he said I am one if I'm still playing Fruit Wars. And now, he won't let me play Zombie Hunt."

"What's Zombie Hunt?" Chelsea chimes in.

"Trevor says it's a game for big boys," Maisie replies. "I said I wanted to play, too, but he won't let me."

I look at Maisie and kiss her warm forehead. "Here, stay with Chelsea for a minute, okay, honey? She'll make you a hot chocolate."

"With marshmallows?"

"Yeah, well, it's not really hot chocolate without the marshmallows, now is it?" Chelsea replies. It seems to be enough to soothe my baby's hurt feelings, so I leave the two of them in the kitchen and head back into the living room.

"Hey, kiddo," I say.

Trevor ignores me at first. He's busy killing some ugly-looking zombies with a crowbar. The sound effects on this game are a tad too realistic for my auditory senses.

"Hey," I say again, gently, as I sit next to him on the sofa. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm playin'," he replies, his eyes glued to the TV screen while his fingers fiddle over the controller.

His black hair has grown longer, silky, and messy, and it partially covers his forehead. He's been wearing black or dark blues and greens ever since I met him, but I remember Reed telling me he used to love wearing brighter colors.

His clothes speak plenty about his mood since his parents died. I get it. I need to go easy on the kid; I've been there, and I know what it's like. But I can't let him be mean to my daughter, either. Maisie's too young to fully understand what he's going through.

"I understand you and Maisie argued just now?" I ask in a soft voice.

"I didn't argue. I just told her she couldn't play a zombie game. It's not for little girls."

He sounds calm. I nod slowly. "Okay, but are you sure you used the right words and tone? Maisie is crying."

"She's a baby."

"No, Maisie is a girl with feelings and emotions, just like you are a boy with feelings and emotions," I say, trying to find the right angle and approach. "And we need to use our words carefully so as not to hurt others, okay?"

Trevor finishes killing one last zombie, then sets the controller down and looks at me. "Did Maisie say I was mean?"

"It's how she felt," I reply.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to. But she was bugging me, and I can't really play with her. She's so little."

"You're not that big yourself," I chuckle lightly, "though I understand. It's okay, Trevor, you don't have to play with her. But you do need to be a bit more careful about how you talk to people. Most of them don't know what you're going through."

"I'm not going through anything," the pint-sized stoic says.

"Trev, did I ever tell you about my parents?"

He gives me a confused look. "No."

"They died when I was more or less your age."

And just like that, his demeanor shifts. A softness encompasses his moody features. We've never really talked about this because Trevor tends to keep to himself when I'm around. Maybe it's because he's shy, or maybe he just doesn't know who I am or what role I play in his foster dads' lives—which makes all the sense in the world, given the current situation. But today, I've got the kid to myself, and it would be foolish of me not to try and connect with him on a deeper level.

"They did?"

"Yeah. An accident, just like your parents," I say. "I know how awful it feels. And I also know you're a brave little man, and you think you've got it under control. Just know that you're not alone, okay? It's not always easy. Some days are better, some are worse, and just when you think you've got some peace and quiet, a little girl comes along and bugs you. Right?"

Trevor thinks about it for a moment. "Maisie didn't mean to bug me. She just wanted to play. But it's a really violent game."

"Technically speaking, you shouldn't be playing it, either." I pause and glance back at Chelsea. She and Maisie are busy sipping on hot chocolate and chewing marshmallows. "Pretty sure this game is for fourteen-year-olds and up," I say, loud enough for Chelsea to hear.

"Oh, actually, I got that one for myself," she replies with a sheepish grin. "Forgot to put it away."

"There we go," I mutter, shifting my focus back on Trevor. He looks disappointed. "I'm not going to stop you from playing the game because I'm not your adult. I'll find something else for Maisie to do if it makes you feel better. How does that sound?"

"Sounds good."

"But I do need you to apologize to her. She really wants to be your friend," I say. "I'm not saying you have to be her friend, but you do have to be kind."

"She's actually pretty cool for a little girl," Trevor says, half-smiling. "I just wanted to kill zombies."

I can't help but laugh. Once I get him and Maisie to sit down and talk about what happened, peace reigns over Chelsea's house again. That's one problem fixed as Chelsea takes Maisie into a playroom and whips out a couple of puzzle boxes for her to play with. There are bigger problems ahead, however, in dire need of a drastic and quick solution.

"Those puzzles are going to keep your brainiac busy for at least a couple of hours," my friend says as she comes back into the living room. "And you need to talk to the guys already. Put that ego aside. You need help, and they might be willing to give it."

"I guess," I concede with a heavy sigh.

Given how quickly time seems to be flying these days, I will have to find the courage.

With everything so close to crashing down around me, I simply can't afford not to.