Page 137 of Fighting Chance

“Dude!” Johnson snaps from a stall farther down from mine. “We lost, you don’t need to add to our misery with your fucking cat-like screaming.”

“I take personal offense to that! Taylor Swift makes everything better.”

“Fucking Irving,” O’Connor mutters as he moves into the stall next to mine.

No matter how much everyone yells at him, Irving never lets up and that’s why I find myself sighing as I slide into my car, relieved to hear nothing but silence.

The tiredness weighing upon me isn’t just from the game nor the defeat hanging over my head. It’s…everything.

My mind is churning, and no matter how many times I try to get off what feels like a Tilt-A-Whirl, I’m thrown into a deeper pit of endless streaming thoughts.

Everything from this past week continues to assault me, one after the other, piling up until it resembles a junkyard.

Emmy hasn’t spoken since the barbeque a week and a half ago. Not another peep. And trust me, I have triedeverything.

That high I felt with Layla that night at the bar was a comedown like I’ve never experienced before, going from the highest ofhighs to being smashed by life until I was splattered on the ground unwilling to get up.

As happy as I was that day at the barbeque I feel like I’m back to square one with her. I read books to her every night before bed. I ask her questions instead of just telling her what to do. Fuck, she’s in therapy three times a week, and still nothing.

Every day that goes by and I don’t hear my baby girl speak is another day a splinter cracks my heart.

I’ve never wanted answers to something outside of my control so desperately. No words are uttered in therapy and despite being told that it takes time for trust to build, I’m getting antsy.

I want to know what her mother did to her.

Ineedto know.

Not only so the what-ifs that run through my mind on a loop like a horror movie can stop, but so I can help her heal. I more than understand the ramifications a horrendous parent can have on your mind.

Fuck, I still can’t sleep through the night without waking up in a cold sweat after having nightmares of the matron and everything she did to me. Every time I’m reminded my little girl was in her care for two weeks, bile rushes up my throat.

I sent off a message to the private investigator, have already paid the deposit, and despite knowing he said he needed two weeks, I keep checking my phone like a girl waiting for a text from a guy after a first date.

What if Emmy never speaks?

The therapist says the chances of that are low, but it’s been nearly two months since she was handed to me, and if she’s still not talking, does that mean she doesn’t feel safe with me? Her carefree smiles and big round eyes give the impression that she does, but then there’s times like tonight where I fall into a hole so deep, I fear I’ll never be able to crawl out.

And it makes me wonder, am I doing this right?

Sometimes I feel like the best dad in the world and then sometimes I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing and using Google far too much. Every night I sit in her room for an hour or two flicking between listening to one of Layla’s books and aparenting one and trust me the vast difference in them is jarring. Who the fuck was going to tell me that you need to start applying for schools when they’re three because the acceptance rate of any decent school is slim to none? Someone commented in the review section of one of my parenting books wishing they had listened to it sooner to help with their son’s tantrums because he had one during a school interview and was denied…denied!

He’s four for fuck’s sake and already doomed.

As my chest starts to get that uncomfortable tightness, and the flashes of the foster home berate my mind, I let out a scream of frustration before quickly pulling my car over on the side of the road.

“I can’t fucking do this!” I cry as I unbuckle my seat belt and throw myself out of the car.

The crisp night air assaults my body.

Taking a deep breath, I look up and down the road, realizing I’m not that far from my house. Fucking hell, now I’m praying Grayson left before me so he doesn’t find me on the side of the road trying not to have a panic attack.

Squatting, I put my head between my knees and breath in for four and out for six. Remembering the age old breathing technique Allie taught me when a panic attack would sneak up on me.

It’s been a really long fucking time since I’ve had one.

And yet here I am on the side of the road after a game, my vision spotting, my hands shaking, my chest turning unbearably tight as my imagination conjures up reasons for Emmy’s mutism.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to stop the images but all that does is make the silver that was lining my eyes roll down my cheeks. My chest tightens further until I’m wincing in pain, clutching my shirt like I can pull my lungs apart and give myself enough room to breathe.