By the beginning of the next week, I have an official website with photos of my sculpture and a gallery owner who needs someone to manage her Malibu gallery for her during the week. Plus, she’s offered me her tiny guesthouse to live in for less money than I’m paying now at my crappy apartment. I go take a look at the guesthouse. It’s super cute and surrounded by nature.

“This is perfect,” I say to her. “I’d love to live here.”

“And I’d like to commission you to do a couple one-of-a-kind sculptures for my outdoor garden,” Theresa says to me as we exit her guesthouse.

I hold back a scream of enthusiasm. “That would be amazing.”

“If that goes well, I’ve got a lot of wealthy friends who’d love the same. In fact, why don’t we hold a show for your sculptures this week?”

I stare at her. “Are you serious?”

“Just something small and casual. I’ll let my customers know today, and you can put out some of your pieces, maybe with a small description above each one. Can you have them ready by tomorrow evening? We could hold a showing at seven o’clock.”

Now I can’t stop myself from giving her a hug.

By the end of the month I’ll move out of my apartment and begin to get paid for my art—even if it’s just a start. And someday soon, I’ll be able to quit my job at Apex. I’m both excited and scared out of my mind.

So scared that other things that would normally scare me senseless don’t seem quite so scary. Instead of driving back to work just yet, I head for the freeway. With Dale right behind me, I give him a friendly wave and push down on the gas pedal harder.

I don’t give my father any warning that I’m coming by. If my mother didn’t get any, I don’t see why I should treat him differently.

When I reach the doors of Waters Rowe Insurance Agency, I stop for a moment outside the building and catch my reflection in the glass. My skirt looks wrinkled. And it has a few white hairs on it. That would be Bessie’s fault.

I sigh and enter the lobby. Thinking of Dylan and how great a risk I took with him in Arizona gives me the confidence to walk up to the desk and ask the secretary how I can reach Cort Tinley.

“Is he expecting you?”

I burst out laughing, and she stares at me quizzically.

“Um,” I shake my head. “No. No, he is most definitely not expecting me. Tell him I know Marianne Gordon.”

She buzzes him on the phone. “Jasalie Gordon, friend of Marianne Gordon, here to see you.”

She glances at me. “He’s coughing,” she says, covering the phone.

We wait in silence for over a minute. The receptionist and I look at each other awkwardly. Finally, she says I can go up to the eleventh floor.

“Room 1104,” she says.

My father is standing when I reach the open door of his office.

I walk in boldly and extend my hand. “Hello. I’m Jasalie Gordon. You are my biological father.”

I drop my hand when he starts to cough again.

While he reaches for a handkerchief, I stand opposite his desk and get a good look at him. Mom wasn’t kidding about his anxiety. He coughs nonstop for the next thirty seconds.

When he finally calms down, he looks straight at me. That’s when I see what must have drawn my mother to him.

His eyes. They’re a brilliant green.

My father starts to ramble, nearly stuttering, as he trips over himself in explanation. “Your mother and I were not in love. We were not careful with ourselves or with you, of course. I wanted to be a good father someday, but I am an insurance agent. Not a father. I see you have grown up very well. Your mother did a very nice job.”

“My mother is not responsible for most of this,” I say, realizing he’s confused. “She left me at social services when I was four. I did the majority of my growing up without her. On my own.”

He stares at me and then starts to cough again. I sigh and cross my arms in front of my chest. We could be here all afternoon at this rate. I feel for him, but I’m not in a patient mood. I tap my foot on the rug and take a quick look around the office.

He and Mom have something in common. My father’s office is a mess. Papers are everywhere, coffee mugs half-drunk are sitting on the heater, and a vase of flowers long dead is placed on the bookshelf. I turn back to watch him breathe. At least I can leave here saying that—for the first time in my life, I got to see my father breathe. That’s something.

Eventually, he calms again, and we stand in silence.

I was terrified he’d look like Dylan, be like Dylan, be a former athlete of some kind. Then I’d worry our relationship was based on a daddy complex. But my father’s tall and super-thin with thick glasses he keeps pushing back up on his nose. He doesn’t look like he has an athletic bone in his body.

I’m pretty convinced he couldn’t handle the pressure of competitive sports, but I test him out anyway. “You a big Cougars fan?”

“Excuse me?” he says.

“Cougars. The football team?”

“I’m not really into sports. Football is especially dangerous. Even going to a game as a fan increases your risk of bodily harm versus staying at home.” He widens his eyes anxiously. “Do you go to those games, Jasalie?”

“No, I don’t go to those games.” I pause. “But I’m thinking about starting.”

“Whatever for?” he asks me.

“I know someone who plays on the team.”

“Oh, yeah?” He looks at me more closely now and pushes his glasses more tightly onto his face.

“Yeah.” I stand and fidget a bit in front of him, feeling like a teenager heading out on her first date.

“And he’s safe”—my father pauses like he can hardly bear to say it—“on that football field?”

“So far.” I want to scream that he’s the quarterback and that he turned my world upside down, but I refrain. I’ve probably said too much already.

“Well, he’s a braver man than I am,” my father finishes.

I nod sadly. Dylan always was the bravest man I’d ever met, but then he pushed me away. Now he’s just another person who decided I was better off without him.

When I get home that night, I sit down on my apartment floor and try to continue the tradition I started. I take out my clay and attempt to sculpt my father. But nothing happens. I don’t get anything.

This can’t be right. It’s not like my father has no essence. Nobody has no essence. It’s not possible, or he’d be dead. There has to be a pulse in there somewhere right? I’d think after having seen the man for the first time in my life, I could find his pulse.

I pour myself a glass of wine and sip it while I stare, perplexed, at the mound of unmolded clay in front of me. All I can think of is opposites. Opposite of brave, opposite of calm, opposite of confident, opposite of Dylan. And when I get through all that, finally I reach for the clay. I sculpt quicker than usual and don’t give myself time to dwell. When I’m finished, I cover it up and go clean my hands, and then I begin to work on my sculptures for tomorrow night’s show.

I think a lot about how to title them on the descriptive placards I’m going to hang above each one. “Death” is an easy one, but remembering what happened right after I’d sculpted it, I decide to call it “Painful End” instead.

The sculpture of Dante and Harlow I title “Settling for Less Than You Deserve.” And the one of my mother? I keep that one simple: “A Mother’s Love.”

But when I get to the sculpture of Dylan, I freeze. How can I possibly encapsulate someone as vibrant and sexy and incredible as Dylan Wild in a caption?

And then, I know.

I fill out the note card quickly, and before I can second-guess myself, I go to bed.

I sleep fitfully. At dawn, I get up and go take a peek at what I sculpted last night. I inhale when I see the figure I made of my father.

Hard to breathe. Hard to live.

The sculpture of my father looks like a man gasping for air, gasping for life in a cold, cruel world, as he wishes he had a hand to make him feel safe because he never did. And for whatever reason, he could never teach himself that part. I look at the mouth, wide open as it fights for oxygen, and then my gaze shifts to the eyes. Once the clay dries, the eyes will be green. That’s the only color I plan to have on the entire sculpture because they were the only life I saw in my father, the one part of him that felt alive.

I look over at the sculpture of Dylan, and a lump comes into my throat. I don’t know how I met a man who’s so alive, and so filled with love and joy. But I did. And I wish to God he was still in my life. Passing angry messages through his security team doesn’t make a relationship. I wish I could invite him to my gallery show tonight.

But he made the decision to end things. When I remember how determined he was to break it off with me, my eyes fill with tears.

Needing a distraction, I check my website and do a happy squeal when I see I have my first sale. One sale, and I made more than I make at Apex in a month.

I reach for the phone to tell Lilla.

“I know I’ll see you at work in an hour, but I just didn’t expect to be selling so soon,” I say to her. “I thought it would take forever.”

“You’ve been sculpting forever,” she points out.

I guess that’s true. I’ve been building a career for years but never felt courageous enough to admit that to myself.

“So why haven’t you quit Apex yet?” she asks me. “I’m already jealous.”

“Soon. I’m going to start working at the gallery in the evenings, and maybe in a few months I’ll be there full-time.”

“So speaking of football,” Lilla says.

“What?” I say. “I never said anything about football.”

“You didn’t need to. It’s what’s underneath this entire conversation right?”

“I can’t talk about Dylan right now, Lil. I have to get ready for work, and I’m going straight to the gallery from the office, so I’ve got to remember to pack everything.”

“Okay, but I’m going to come to the show with you and admire all your hard work, and after that? You and I need to have a little chat about your love life.”

“Lilla, I don’t have a love life to chat about. Remember?”

“I still disagree. We’ll discuss it tonight.”

“Lilla!”

But she’s already hung up.

I exhale and go get ready for the day.

I haven’t left the house all week, except for my long runs on the beach. Even those weren’t as peaceful as normal because I had security pacing me the entire time. The authorities still haven’t caught the person who sent me the death threat, and I’m feeling caged in by all the safety measures. I always took precautions with a home security system, but now I’ve got a motion sensor in every room, not to mention around-the-clock guards.

To try to pretend like none of this nightmare is happening, I’ve worked out to exhaustion in my exercise room and spent every evening sitting out on the patio with a single glass of wine. Hanging out in the dark with just the moon and the stars for company has been cleansing. The ocean breeze and salty air are soothing, but the ambience hasn’t helped my mood.

Today though, my time on the balcony has started a bit early. It’s only early afternoon, and I’m finding myself out here by myself, searching for a sense of peace I can’t locate anymore.

I miss Jasalie so much it’s ridiculous. I’ve picked up the phone a hundred times to call her or text her, but then I remember the deranged fan, and I stop myself.

Jasalie’s so strong and is able to stand up for herself without blinking an eye. No confrontation ever seems too big for her. But if I kept her in my life, I’d be putting her in the position of having to constantly look over her shoulder. She already needs security guards following her around because of me, but that will end the longer we’re apart. Once people figure out that I’m single again, any negative attention on Jasalie will all but disappear. And then she’ll be safe. And we’ll both be alone again.

My breath catches, and I’m overwhelmed by such a sense of loneliness I nearly drop my glass of wine over the balcony. Jasalie and I filled a hole for each other, a hole that nobody else could satisfy. She gave me everything I never even knew I missed, and I like to think I did the same for her. I can only hope she’ll be able to find that again someday because God knows she deserves it more than anyone.

I don’t know what it’s like to grow up with nobody by your side like she did. To only have yourself to rely on. I can try to put myself in her position, but I feel like an arrogant asshole doing that.

I stare down at the ocean below and realize that it’s time for me to take care of a few things, starting with the people in my inner circle I’ve taken far too much shit from over the years.

I reach for the phone.

Dante and I need to get on the same page if we’re going to work as teammates. He tells me he’s glad I called and is amenable and apologetic when I talk to him about what I’m upset about. We hang up with a promise to work out together next week and talk some more. My father and brother aren’t as easy, but they both mumble that I’m important to them and they don’t want to lose me. I know that in their own way, they mean it. By the time I reach my agent, I realize I have to fire him.

“We’re on different paths,” I tell Tim. “You’ll work for me for the rest of the year, and that will give you time to plan. I know you already have a bunch of new clients. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I just need a change.”

I’ve just hung up with him when my phone rings. I consider not picking up. But Cam won’t stop calling if he doesn’t reach me.

I say hello, trying my best to mask my mood.

“What the hell’s up with you?” he says immediately.

“Nothing.”

“We’re still in Montana except for Jenson, who already flew back to Pennsylvania to be with his sons. But don’t worry because we’ve conferenced him in, plus Colton from Hawaii, so we’re all here on the line. I’m putting you on speaker phone now.”

Oh, shit. Between the five of them, I don’t stand a chance.

“I’m doing fine,” I say. “So all of you can quit bugging me, okay? I thought you losers were leaving Montana by now, anyway. You’ve been up there forever.”

“We fly out tomorrow,” Ayden says. “And after you refused our invitation to come back up here and hang with us, we wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“No way,” Colton says through the line. “Something’s fucking off. What is it?”

“Aren’t you on a honeymoon or something?” I say to him. “Go be with your wife.”

“My wife insisted I make sure her second favorite person in L.A. is doing all right,” Colton says. “Her words.”

My heart squeezes in my chest. “That’s sweet of her, but really, I’m good. I’m just taking some downtime. You know…without football.”

“And without women?” Brayden’s low voice comes through the phone. “What about Jasalie?”

“She’s…out of the picture.”

Silence.

“Why?” Jenson eventually asks the question I know is on everyone’s minds. “She’s clearly in love with you. And I don’t say that lightly, Dyl. It’s the absolute truth.”

“He’s right,” Ayden says. “She loves you. And you clearly love her.”

“I screwed up,” I say. “There’s this fan…”

By the time I finish telling them what happened, they’re talking over each other.

“You’re too hard on yourself about your career, Dyl.” Brayden’s voice is firm.

“I’m worried about you, man,” Colton says.

“I know I fucked up,” I say defensively. “But I did that by inviting Jasalie into my fucked-up world. By letting her go, I’m protecting her.”

Silence hits the line again.

“What’s her story?” Colton says finally. “Not to get nosy, but I’m trying to figure you two out so I can help you fix this shit and be happy again. In the short time I spoke to her, she sounded as scared of commitment as you.”

I sigh. “Long story. She was a foster kid and…”

“She didn’t have a family?” Colton says.

“No.”

“That’s got to be some hell for a kid,” Cam says with a long exhale.

“Yeah. Understatement.”

“So you need to show her that you won’t leave, too.” Brayden makes the idea sound easy. “Which is the opposite of what you did, by the way.”

“Thanks, Bray.” I run my hand down my face. “I think I get it.”

“The Dylan Wild we know never quits on anything,” Ayden says. “Not football games, and not on the people he loves. So fucking tell her you’re still waiting, why don’t you?”

My other line buzzes, but I ignore it.

I let out a low curse before spilling the whole truth. “Look, she said that what I did by breaking things off…she said it was essentially like me telling her she wasn’t worth the risk.”

Another long silence…

Broken by Brayden’s gruff voice saying, “So show her she’s wrong.”

Something about the way he says it stings. It also hits home in a way nothing else could.

“You’re right,” I say in a low tone. “Fuck. I have to go.”

“Not so fast,” Colton says. “Before you go off half-cocked. Look, if this is still about Annabella…”

“Colt, I’m warning you,” I say.

“I don’t care,” he says in a hard tone, running right over me. “I’ve kept my mouth shut for too long about this, Dyl. You need to talk to someone about it. It’s been tearing you up for years, and I can’t stand to see you keep suffering. The fact that you’d go so far as to break up with the only woman you’ve ever loved…you have to work through this shit. It was years ago, and yet it’s still a part of your life.”

My tone rises. “So what do you suggest I do?”

“See a therapist.”

Colton’s words stun me.

“A therapist?” I say. “I wasn’t the one who was sick remember?”

“I do, and I also remember how you blamed yourself, and apparently still do.” His voice softens. “Look, Sky gave me permission to tell you this—she has someone she recommends.”

“Sky?” I swallow hard. “She sees a therapist?”

“Yes. After her bastard of a father abused her and her mother, as you all know…”

Sky’s father was finally put in prison for other crimes, and once that happened, she asked Colton to tell all of us the truth about her family. I always loved Sky, but once I heard what she’d gone through, I admired her even more for how she’d come through such a shitty childhood.

“The therapist is excellent and specializes in past trauma,” Colton continues. “I can text you her info.”

I look out over the balcony as I clench the phone so tightly my knuckles hurt.

“You didn’t make Annabella sick,” Colton says quietly. “And maybe a professional can help you realize that.”

“I don’t get why I should move on when…”

“When she couldn’t?” Ayden says suddenly.

I’d almost forgotten anyone else was on the line.

“Because that’s life, Dyl,” Ayden says. “It’s not always fair or right; it just is. And Annabella is moving on—she’s alive and well right? She may not be in L.A. anymore, but she’s healing. Just like you should be.”

I could tell them all to screw off, and just go find Jasalie and beg her to forgive me. But what if something like this happens again, something that pushes me in all the wrong ways, and I let my guilt consume me? I can’t go after Jasalie if I’m not committed to the future, and that starts with me letting go of my past.

“Send me the info, Colt,” I say finally. “And tell Sky how much I appreciate her sharing it with me.” I pause. “And thanks for pushing me. You’re worse on the phone than on the practice field.”