"Okay . . . how was your thing the other night?"

"All right. Not really sure how it's going to help me."

With a mouthful, Ethan plops on the couch next to me, shifting the cushion up and down and asks, "Why do you think that?"

I shrug, not quite sure. I left the gathering the other night feeling lackluster, as if nothing changed. I knew going into it that nothing was going to immediately differ from what I'm doing now, but I thought maybe I would feel a little different after leaving. Maybe a little lighter, like the world wasn't trying to bury me alive.

I didn't feel anything.

Actually, that's not true.

Driving home, after writing that letter, I felt angry, mad, pissed off at the world. At Life. I feel the same way even now, a few days later. Exposing myself like that, letting myself dive deep into my feelings, it wasn't freeing. It was constraining, trapping me in a suffocating, self-imposed hell of a box that I can't seem to find my way out of.

"Just don't feel much different."

Ethan scoffs. "You're such a millennial."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Shoving another piece of pizza in his mouth, he leans back on the couch and assesses me, giving me the once-over. Pointing his half-eaten pizza at me, he says, "You're all about instant gratification. Believe me, when it comes to the opposite sex, instant gratification is a train I want to be riding on, but when it comes to problems you might be facing, shit can't just wash away that quickly. Especially the kind of trauma you're going through." Leaning forward, his face morphs into something sober, resolute. "Man, you gave up your baby."

"I know." I stand and run my hand through hair. "I know what happened, okay? I don't need to be reminded."

"Maybe you do," Ethan replies. Setting down his pizza, he stands with me. "Jace, you made a huge sacrifice, one of the biggest sacrifices a person can make. You have to give yourself time to heal."

"It's not that easy. I wish I could just forget everything, but it's impossible. Every fucking morning, when I wake up, it feels like I have a three-hundred-pound man sitting on my chest, making it practically impossible to breathe. And when I do get out of bed and out of my place, I have to face the world. You can't believe the amount of people who actually have babies. You never notice them until you're missing yours. It's a fucking punch to the gut every time I see someone carrying their baby, walking them in a stroller, making them giggle. It's like everyone in Denver with a baby decided to make my life a living hell by following me around everywhere. It's torture." I throw my hands up in the air, gesturing to my surroundings. "This life is torture." I never thought I'd know this type of pain.

"Damn. I'm sorry, man. I wish I could relate, I really do."

The ring of my cell phone cuts me off before I can answer him. Sighing, I pull it out of my pocket and see June's number pop up. What could she be calling for?

"Uh, it's Hope's adoptive parents," I say awkwardly.

Ethan holds up his hands. "Say no more. I'll get out of here. Call me if you need me. You know I'm here for you."

I nod and answer the phone. "Hey, June. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, hi, Jace." June's voice seems weak, quiet as she talks. "I know we're to only call for important things." She almost sounds like she's been crying. "But I had to hear your voice."

"You can call me whenever you need, June." I really don't mean this but when I feel uncomfortable, I say anything to try to make the situation better. The fact that she's calling me right now has me on edge, like my life is about to fall apart with her next sentence.

"I appreciate that." Sniffing, she continues, "I just . . . Ugh, I'm not doing well, Jace."

The hairs on the back of my neck stick straight up in the air, warning lights threading their way into my brain, and my stomach starts to churn at a rapid rate, making it impossible to swallow the sudden tidal wave of saliva in my mouth.

Taking a deep breath, I ask, "What's going on? Is everything okay with Hope, with Alex?"

"Yeah," her voice becomes quieter. "Alex actually doesn't know I'm calling you. She would be furious with me, but I had to talk to you, Jace. I haven't been able to stop crying. I can't stop thinking about the look on your face when you handed Hope over to us, the pure devastation in your eyes. It's slowly eating away at me."

"You and me both, June," I answer honestly.

Tightness clamps her voice. I can hear her tears and feel her pain through the phone. It's the same pain I've suppressed for the last few days. "I took your baby, Jace." Her voice cracks. "I stood in that hospital room and took your baby away from you. She isn't mine, she's yours. I can't . . ." Her pain sears me through the phone. "I can't be the mother you want me to be, the mother she deserves. She doesn't belong to me."

"June," I say in a tortured voice. "Stop." Taking a deep breath, I collect myself, making sure to hold back anything that might further upset her. Between the both of us, she needs to be the well-composed one, so I can't set her off any more than she already is. "Remember the first time we had dinner together? You told me all about how you've felt deep down in your soul that you were meant to be a mom one day? How you knew you were put on this earth to mother, to nurture? Are you telling me those feelings have changed?"

"No," she sobs into the phone.

"Then what's changed?" I swallow hard, the next words leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. "Hope was meant to be with you and Alex. If I didn't believe that, I would never have handed her over."

"It's just . . ." she pauses, a sniff coming from her, "watching you say goodbye, seeing the total desolation in your face when you gave her to us, it's broken me, Jace. It's stuck with me to the point that every time I look at Hope, all I see are the tears in your eyes and the regret in your face."

"There's no regret," I say quickly, surprising myself ever so slightly with the confession. "Fuck, am I sad? Yeah. Do I wake up, hating every aspect of my life? I do, I won't lie to you about that. But do I regret helping you become a mom? Do I regret seeing the pure joy on Alex's and your faces when you said hello to your daughter for the first time? I don't. Those memories, the meaning behind the connection we've made, that's what's getting me through each and every day. Please, June, please don't take that sliver of happiness away from me. Believe me when I say, you didn't take my baby, you've blessed me . . ." I choke on my own tears, trying to find the right words.

Blessed.

The thought never really came to me until just now, until talking to June. Blessed. Is that really what this bond with June and Alex is? A blessing?

Taking a deep breath, I say, "You've blessed me with the comfort in knowing that I've made the right decision. You and Alex, fuck, you're perfect for Hope. I only wish I was as lucky as her growing up."

An empty childhood in a run-down foster home with a lack of warm arms to welcome me home. I would have given anything to have people like June and Alex as parents.

"I think it's going to take time," June replies after a short silence. "This might sound strange, but I feel like I'm mourning your loss, that I'm carrying the weight of my emotions as well as yours on my shoulders. And I never thought I would feel that in adopting."

"No need to carry mine, June. Move on and enjoy your new family." I take a deep breath and say, "I hate to cut this short but I have to take off."

"Oh . . . no problem," she stumbles. "I'm sorry if I bothered you, I didn't know who else to talk to. Alex doesn't like to talk about it. She's harboring her feelings right now and no one else I know has even remotely gone through the same thing we did. I know it's been exponentially harder on you, but you're the only person I could relate to. I'm sorry if I was out of line contacting you."

I press my fingers in my brow, wishing I wasn't having this conversation with June, because every word that comes from her mouth makes me feel guilty. Why the hell do I feel guilty? Maybe because I want to lash out at her right now. But why? Because she's struggling with carrying my grief? That's not something I should be mad at her for. Shit, that's something I should be relieved about. It shows the kind and caring heart she has.

"You aren't out of line, June. Please don't think that. I'm just going to need some time, you know?"

A sniff comes from the other line on the phone. "I understand."

"Give it time as well," I add, hating that she's still sad. "It will get better. Don't worry about me. I couldn't be happier that you and Alex are raising Hope. I know you will do an amazing job. I definitely made the right choice. I just need to mourn the loss of being her father."

"Jace," June gasps. "You will always be her father."

Funny thing, I really won't be. I'll be her birth father. There's a difference.

After some quick and rather uncomfortable goodbyes, I hang up the phone, emotionally exhausted.

Grieve. That's what I'm supposed to be doing right now. I feel like I went through the five stages of grief in the short amount of time it took to talk to June. The only stage left: depression.

Is that what Dear Life wants? For us to grieve through the five stages? If so, this is some convoluted program because I feel like total and utter shit.

Yup, not one ounce of me feels remotely better. If that's what's supposed to happen, then mission accomplished.

CARTER.

"What the hell are you doing back here?" I ask Hollyn, who has a smarmy look on her face.

Without a word, she plops a plate in front of me from the dining room. "Steak isn't well done."

"That's because steak should never be well done."

"Funny thing is," Hollyn places a thoughtful finger to her chin, "the customer couldn't care less about how you prefer steak to be prepared. They asked for it well done, not a, what did they say?" She thinks for a second and then says, "Ah yes, they didn't ask for a bleeding heart on their plate."

"Bleeding heart?" Flipping a fork in my hand and grabbing a knife, I examine the steak that barely has any pink in the center. "They're calling this a bleeding heart? I can show them a bleeding heart if that's what they really want." I wipe my hands on the rag attached to my hip and make my way away from the grill, soft threats at the tip of my tongue.

"Fix the steak," my uncle's voice booms in the kitchen, his eyes glaring at me.

"There's nothing wrong with the steak. It's actually overdone," I argue. Gesturing a hand toward the dining room, I ask, "Do you really want customers thinking you're handing out lumps of charcoal on plates instead of steak?"

"Fix the steak," he repeats, with malice.

"What the fuck ever." I give up, grab the steak off the plate and set it on the grill.

Who orders a well done steak? What's the point? Why even have steak if you're not going to eat it medium well. I bet Bobby Flay doesn't have to deal with this shit. If someone asks for well done, he probably demands they leave his restaurant.

Not my uncle. It's all about the customer and not the food. Which of course burns my already bitter soul. I went to school to learn how to appreciate the subtle combinations of foods and the bold flavors you can pull from them. I learned to masterfully create meals that are not only appealing to the eye, but burst with flavor on your tongue.

Think my uncle would allow me to put any of my knowledge to practice? No. He thinks serving the same Italian shit he's been serving for the past twenty years is okay.

Who wants to be just okay?

I sure as hell don't. I want to be extraordinary. I want to be known for thinking outside the box, for challenging people's taste buds, for pushing their limits and comfort zones. Think of Remy from Ratatouille, how he immediately falls in love with the perfect, fresh ingredients and the plethora of combinations you can make. That's me. Now if only I could break free of these shackles, to escape the debt looming over me.

And I was so damn close.

Until life kicked me on the tip of my dick, laughed, and then walloped me in the balls just to make sure I was paying attention to my misfortune, filling me with so much goddamn anger, I can barely breathe.

"Any day now would be great, Carter," Hollyn speaks over the warming lamps.

And if my misfortune wasn't bad enough, now for some reason, my uncle thought it would be a good idea to pair Hollyn and me on some of our shifts. My guess, because we're taking the same shitty, my-life-sucks-so-help-me program. As if spending an unnecessary amount of time sitting in a circle, holding hands, and talking about our problems wasn't enough time with the woman, yes, let's add some shifts as well.

Picking up the steak with my tongs, I plop it on its original plate and say, "There, the moo-er should be dead now. If they send it back again, I'm pube-ing the shit out of the thing."

"Mature," Hollyn scoffs at me, flipping her hair and walking away, plate held high.

God, I can't stand her.

"You two seem to get along," Marcus, my fellow line cook, says as he flips a few steaks on the stained grill. Can you guess what the special was for tonight? Steak. Uncle Chuck got a deal on some steaks, decided to pair it with mashed potatoes and broccoli . . . at an Italian restaurant. There is nothing Italian about that. Might as well go to Red Lobster and order chicken.

Not even bothering to look over at Marcus, I say, "Can't stand her."

"Because she made you go to that weird program?"

Of course Marcus would find out. Nothing is a secret around here.

"Who did you hear that from?"

"Hollyn. She was telling everyone about how you were sulking the whole time at the meeting."

"Yeah?" I ask, my anger starting to boil over. The faint sound of my teeth grinding together fills my ears, drowning out any sense of reasoning.

"Yeah. Seems like you're really getting a chance to reach deep down and express your feelings." The laugh that follows his statement ticks off any last hold I have on reining myself in.

Getting in his face, I ask, "What's wrong with a man expressing his feelings? I bet a sensitive man gets way more pussy than some closed-off, video-game-playing deadbeat like you."

"Get the fuck out of my face," Marcus replies, shoving me with his meaty hand.

"Make me." Pushing my luck, I bump him with my chest, egging the fucker on, begging and praying for a brawl. I would give anything to lay this dickhead out, anything to ease the tension coiling rapidly inside me. But before Marcus can reciprocate, Uncle Chuck rips me back by the shoulder, sending me into the counter behind me.

With a beet-red face, he snaps at me, "Office, now."

"Not unless you make her go too," I say, my uncle knowing exactly who I'm talking about. This isn't just my battle, it's Hollyn's too.

Looking me in the eyes, he says, "Ashley, cover for Hollyn for a few minutes and send her back to my office, now." Raising a brown eyebrow at me, he says, "Move."

Even though Uncle Chuck doesn't particularly scare me, I move toward his office, flipping my tongs onto the counter because his face looks almost purple from anger, and I don't want to be the reason he has a heart attack.

The walk from the kitchen to his office is short, just down a narrow corridor with walls stained by spaghetti sauce and dirt. The restaurant is disgusting, barely passing health inspections with its dirty walls, sticky floors, and out-of-date machinery. It's a less than desirable kitchen to work in.

I barely have enough time to take a seat when Hollyn comes barreling into the office as well, her eyes a little wild with concern. From behind us, Uncle Chuck shuts the door and then takes his seat behind the metal desk covered in spreadsheets and order forms. How the hell does he get any work done in this mess?

"Care to explain what that was back there in the kitchen?" Uncle Chuck asks me with his arms crossed over his chest.

Turning to Hollyn, I say, "I don't know. Hollyn, care to take a stab at the reason why you're ignoring the NDA you signed at the Dear Life program and telling everyone we work with about how I interacted at our first meeting?"

The girl may think she's snarky and clever but at this moment, she knows I caught her and I caught her good.

Searching my eyes, cluing in to her mistake, she says, "Uh, I . . ."

"Don't answer that question," Uncle Chuck cuts in and then looks at me. "I don't care about Hollyn's discussion of the program, I care about your piss-poor attitude toward other coworkers."

Oh come the fuck on. Is he delusional? I've always been a miserable ass to work with. This is old news.

Letting the anger take over, I say, "It's bad enough I have to do this program, I don't need her telling everyone about my personal life."

Uncle Chuck plays with a pencil on his desk, a knowing smile on his face. "Don't worry, boy, everyone here knows about your desperate life. Keep picking fights and it's never going to change."

"What is your dire need to keep me by your side?" I seethe. Sitting in the crossfire, Hollyn stays silent, leaning back in her chair with one leg crossed over the other. "Are you trying to make me as miserable as possible?"

"You're doing that on your own. I'm just taking what I deserve."

"What you deserve?" A sardonic laugh escapes me. "What exactly do you deserve?"

The weight of his body causes his chair to squeak as he leans back, testing the hinges stability. "More than what you can offer. I took you in, I sheltered you, fed you, and helped put you through school. I'm just cashing in on all the IOUs you tossed in my direction."