Carrying Hope by Sennah Tate

conceded.
    In the weeks following our D.C. trip, not only had I completely avoided Marcie, but my temper was on a shorter fuse than ever. I couldn’t stand being under the same roof as her and unable to touch her, taste her, and explore every inch of her soft creamy skin. I wanted to lavish her with gifts, but I knew she wouldn’t accept them. I wanted to try to woo her, but I still had reservations about the ethics of it all.
    “Hey, maybe it’s like that hero syndrome or something.”
    “Hmm?” I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about.
    “You know, like when a chick is saved by a firefighter or something and she gets all hot for him?”
    “So… I’m the chick?”
    His broad grin told me that he planned for his joke to go precisely like this.
    “Exactly! It’s not like a real attraction; when your brain is full of adrenaline from a life-threatening situation, you’re like more susceptible to forming a strong emotional connection.”
    I rolled my eyes. Who had ever heard of such nonsense?
    “That sounds ridiculous. You just made that up to call me a chick, didn’t you?”
    “No! Really, I read it?”
    “You did what?” I teased.
    “I read,” he said petulantly.
    “I didn’t know you could,” I joked, grinning at the way he narrowed one eye at me.
    “Oh, not the pirate look, I’m in trouble now.”
    “Oh, fuck you. Why don’t you go bang your firefighter girlfriend and get your fucking head back in the game.”
    I cocked my head to the side, mulling it over.
    “You know, I think I just might.”
    “Atta boy,” he encouraged, giving me a smack on the back. A twinge of pain shot through me; my injuries still weren’t fully healed. I’d started wrapping my torso to keep my ribs in place and it seemed to help.
    “Are you really sure you still want to do all of this?” He gestured to the whole of my office, inundated as it was with the proof of my obsession.
    I was surprised at my own hesitation. What would finding my father accomplish? By this time he was probably an old man. He lived his entire life without having to face any consequences for what he did to my mother. Or did he? I didn’t know what kind of life he led. For all I knew he could be completely miserable. What did I have to gain from dedicating all of my time to this quest for vengeance?
    I remembered one of the many conversations I’d had with my mother about my father. She was a beautiful woman; fair skin, dark curly hair, and eyes the color of grass after a fresh summer rain. When I had trouble sleeping she would let me rest my head in her lap and stroke my eyebrows. It was a small thing, but it always helped me relax.
    It was during one of these nights, a few months before my mother’s last winter, that I brought up my father again. I knew my mother hated how desperate I was to know more about him. Looking back on it, it probably made her feel like an inadequate parent that I constantly obsessed over him.
    “Mom, don’t you think my father would help us if we asked him?” The old wood-burning stove barely put off enough heat to ward off the autumn chill. My stomach grumbled, protesting its emptiness. I cringed, hoping my mother hadn’t heard the pitiful sound. She ate even less frequently than I did; I wasn’t about to let her sacrifice more of her meals for me.
    She stroked my hair back from my forehead and I closed my eyes, listening to her steady even breaths.
    “Sweetheart, I wish it was that simple,” she sighed and I felt guilty for bringing the subject up again.
    “But don’t you think he loves you?…Us?” No matter how hard I tried to be angry at my father for abandoning us, a small part of me still hoped that he’d come back to us one day and we’d all be a happy family.
    She sighed again; I felt her breath stir my hair as she tried to come up with an answer for me.
    “Your father… He’s a very complicated man.”
    “What’s so complicated? We’re his family!” I cried. I knew my father