CHAPTER 2

“Dadddddyyyyy!” Milka clapped her hands.

I turned around sharply. She pulled herself up on the TV stand and stared at the screen like a lovesick teenager. But my heart was thumping double time, my palms almost sweating. It took a few beats of the music to realize it was just Dirty J(Conor’s) latest song on MTV and not the man himself walking through the door.

I forced a laugh at myself. Shit, I had been back in Santa Clarita for ten minutes, and I was already thinking James Conor would burst my door down for the daughter he didn’t even know existed.

I ran my fingers through my hair. Crap.

My stomach twisted with the same guilt I had carried around for nearly two and a half years—the guilt of keeping her away.

Milka shrieked when Conor’s face filled the screen. He was smiling, his voice crooning through the speakers and sending wave after wave of tremors through my body. The way it always had. He was living the dream, his dream. I could never take that from him.

I knew what I did was for the best. Running away the day I saw that little blue line was both the best and worst decision I had ever made. Besides, I had never kept him from her.

That was not a justification for my actions, no matter how many times I told myself it was. And I had told that myself a million times, maybe more. Like the fact I was lying to only one of them made it better.

I watched Milka bopping up and down to the song. I watched my secret, my darling little skeleton in the closet, and know it was about to be over. I knew that within forty-eight hours, all of Santa Clarita would know I was back. Forty-eight hours, if I was lucky.

They’ll know and they’ll spy and they’ll talk. Because that was a small-town life. Everyone knew everyone’s business. No stone was left unturned, no secret left unshared.

Soon enough, they’ll all know. And Conor will, too. The second Dirty J. arrive back in town for their mid-tour break, he’ll know.

I pulled the keys from my pocket, turned off the television, and swooped Milka up with one arm. “C’mon, baby girl. Let’s go shopping.”

The store stared at me like it was challenging me to get out of the car. I stared back at it, wondering if I really was brave enough to face reality this time.

I wasn’t for my father’s funeral. I wasn’t brave enough to show everyone I was there, so I slipped in a minute late and hid at the back of the church. I watched them bury him from afar like the wimp I am.

Now I couldn’t run any longer.

I swiped my sweaty palms across my thighs and took a deep breath. My fingers ran through my hair as I got out, like the impromptu restyle would hide my face from everyone.

Milka reached for me as I set her on my hip and pushed the car door shut. I locked it and rushed towards the front of the store for a cart.

I slipped Milka into the seat, my hands shaking as I walked into the store. Not without reason.

All it took was for one person to notice you, and you’re done for.

And I had been noticed.

Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was assumption. Or maybe it was true, because I could feel questioning gazes burning into me. I could feel the stares making sure I was really there. That I was really Chloe Hudson, back from wherever the hell it was I went.

I hid down one of the aisles, smiling reassuringly at Milka. She babbled to herself quietly, blissfully ignorant of the whispers I knew were circulating. It might be midday on a Thursday, but it was still packed.

For the first time in my life, I wished for a Walmart instead of our local market. And I hated Walmart.

I filled the shopping cart with the essentials. Bread, milk, cheese, Milka’s favorite star-shaped chips. She reached for the packet immediately and I swatted her hand away gently.

“Nuh-uh, missy. When we get back.”

“Mama! Want sars!” She reached behind her.

“Milka, no.” I righted her and grabbed her diapers off the shelf. Her little legs kicked the cart in protest, but I ignored her. This was a regular battle—one I always won.

“Well, if it ain’t the long-lost Chloe Hudson,” a voice drawled behind me. A voice I despised.

I turned, keeping Milka hidden behind my back, and stared into the face of Nancy Brook. From the bleached blonde hair and heavy makeup to the way-too-low-cut shirt, she looked exactly as I remembered her. “Nancy. How are you?”

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “I’m doin’ good. Where’d you go to?”

“I’m really well, thanks for asking.” I forced my own smile. My mom taught me that a Southern girl is always polite. Especially when she wants to scratch the other woman’s eyeballs out.

Nancy’s smile strained, and her eyes flicked to my side. “I didn’t know you were a mom now.”

I reached behind for Milka’s hand. “A lot of things change in two years. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s time for her lunch. Bye, Nancy.”

I had barely taken a few steps before I heard her voice again. “I guess Conor doesn’t know. At least he never mentioned it to me after you left.”

My heart clenched with her insinuation, and I turned quickly. Only my face didn’t betray what I felt inside. “Conor? Why would he know anything about her?”

Nancy blinked harshly but didn’t say another thing. I had no idea if she bought that, but the sound of a “You’ll never guess who I just saw . . .” followed me as I walked to the cashier.

I almost dropped my debit card because my palms were sweating again, but I jabbed my pin number in correctly. I just wanted to get out of there and back to the safety of my father’s house.

I was practically running across the parking lot when another familiar voice called my name. This one was softer, one I had missed.

“Chloe? You’re back?”

I paused, swallowing, and nodded. “Yep. I’m back.”

“And . . .” Leah stepped in front of me and looked at Milka. “A baby?”

I looked into the eyes of one of my closest friends. At least, she used to be. Once upon a time, when everything was simple and the biggest thing we had to worry about was whether or not we could sneak in past curfew without getting caught. “Yep.”

“She’s yours?”

“No. I stole her,” I muttered, and loaded the shopping into the trunk. Leah didn’t say anything when I lifted Milka and strapped her into her seat.

“Chloe . . .”

“Don’t.” I looked up and into her blue eyes, so similar to Conor’s. “Please don’t ask me questions I’m not ready to answer.”