“I don’t know,” I say. I hope not. Cora deserves a better ma, someone to give her the love that she needs.

She cries her little heart out.

* * *

A week goes by and there’s nothing but sadness lingering in the mansion. Cora cries so much her tears could fill up a pool. Gia and I comfort her, but there is no amount of comfort to cover the hole in Chibi’s chest.

I asked Rainbow to help me with Cora, and she didn’t even hesitate. I don’t know how to be a dad. Sometimes, I wish kids came with an instruction manual. Cora is hitting pre-teen years, then she’ll be a teenager and hormonal and moody. Then I have to worry about her dating boys. She’s already adamant about kissing Liam and she doesn’t know about sex yet. Just imagine how she will be in high school. Then I have to worry about her fucking and having periods. I have to have that talk with her, too. Then I have to teach her how a man’s supposed to treat her. The boy she decides to date is going to answer to me, and I’ll beat his fucking ass if he hurts her. How am I going to be a parent to a teenager? A man who suffers from PTSD. What if I fuck up more than Dad and Rylee and let her down? Shit.

I have to drive back and forth to work since there is no room at the condo for Cora. Even though Alana is mad as hell at me, she agreed to help out with Cora. And I spoke to my ma yesterday, and she agreed to babysit Cora while I work and Gia looks for another job. I told her I feel bad for throwing Rylee in jail and she responded with, “Don’t beat yourself up about it. She’s fucked up, and a piece of shit. It was best for Cora.”

Since Gia has a job interview in Brooklyn at a bakery today, I gave her the day off.

I walk into Logan’s office at his firm and sit in the chair in front of his desk. He’s buried behind a mountain of paperwork, and I clear my throat as he looks up, pushing his reading glasses on the bridge of his narrow nose. His chestnut hair is pushed up in a man bun and his nails are painted a glittery blue.

What the fuck is going on with him?

“Are you going through a midlife crisis?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“No. Why?” His gray eyes narrow.

“I’m trying to figure out why a thirty-one-year-old man is wearing a man bun with glitter nails. I can look past the man bun, but the nails have got to go.”