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No Way Home	By : Flagg1991 Category: +G through L > The Loud House Views: 2161 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Loud House nor will I profit in any way from this story

Chapter List
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Lemy boarded the 10:15 to Detroit after loafing around the station for two long, mind-numbing hours. On his way over, he stopped at McDonald’s and used some of the money Dad sent him to buy an Egg McMuffin and a coffee. Sitting in a booth along one of the windows, he stared out at the parking lot as he ate. A white paper bag spun and danced in the breeze, and Lemy absently watched it, his stomach turning sour; he was thinking about the future, and unlike the song, it wasn’t bright at all - it was dark and bleak.

Dropping his unfinished sandwich onto the tray, he sat back and drew a deep breath. He made a lot of mistakes in his life, and right now it felt like he was being drawn into making another.

And not just any mistake, the absolute biggest of his entire life.

A black minivan coated with dust pulled into the parking lot and the bag disappeared under its tires. He turned to the empty playground behind him, dim and desolate now, but soon to be filled with happy, playing children and their loving parents.

Or maybe not going back and signing those papers was a mistake. He honestly didn’t know anymore; every time he thought he was doing the right thing, it wound up being wrong. Nothing he ever did turned out right, and each time he dismissed something as being dumb, gay, retarded, or not a very good idea, he got egg on his face. He thought finishing high school was lame, now he had no diploma and no GED, so his career options were limited; he thought moving out to the city would help him get on his feet; he thought a lot of things.

Like that holding on was right.

Maybe he was selfish, but he didn’t want to let go, he really didn’t - call him what you want, but he wanted so fucking desperately for things to be okay and normal that it kept him awake at nights, eating at him like cancer.

They wouldn’t be, though; they never had been and they never would be.

That thought depressed him, and the hankering for a drink hit him like a fist to the mouth. He swallowed thickly and swiped the back of his hand across his lips. There was a liquor store around the corner; he had enough to get a bottle or two.

He started to get up, but stopped when his father’s words came back to him. Don’t drink it up. What a fucking prick; like he was so irresponsible he’d spend the whole thing on booze. Dad thought so fucking little of him that it was enough to make him not even wanna go out there.

Whatever, screw him.

Lemy grabbed his coffee and went out the side door. He waited for a truck to pass before crossing the parking lot and turning left onto the sidewalk.

The bus station was downtown, and tall buildings stood against the gray morning sky on all sides. Crowds of pedestrians hurried to their daily destinations, many of them wearing suits or dresses and holding briefcases. Taxis, city cops, and bicycle couriers passed in the street, and at a corner, an Arab man in a white apron sold hot dogs from a cart. He tried to hawk one to Lemy, but Lemy just shook his head and kept going.

All through his childhood, Dad ignored him - every time Lemy tried to get him to play catch with him or to play a video game with him, he was too tired from work. After a while, he stopped trying. And you know what? It pissed him off; he got bitter, and even now, he could feel it roiling in his guts like acid. Dad acted like he didn’t even exist sometimes, and everything he did meant nothing. In sixth grade, he won a class spelling bee, got a little certificate and everything. He was so proud of himself, and the first thing he wanted to do with it was show Dad. He got home and went up to his father’s chair...just to get a wave of the hand. I’ll look at it later, he said, like it was garbage.

Like Lemy was garbage.

The first time he got caught shoplifting at Flip’s, Dad was right there to ream him out, though; he had time for that. The next time he got caught? He did it on purpose just because.

And maaaaaybe he kind of liked the attention.

Presently, he joined a crush of humanity waiting to cross the street and wound up standing next to a slim black woman in a power suit. Her firm ass drew his eyes, and he leaned back a little to get a better view. Of all the problems he’d ever had in his life, getting a woman wasn’t one. He couldn’t have any (he’d have to be rich and or famous for that), but he was smooth enough and charming when he wanted to be. Lately, he really didn’t wanna be. He wanted…

Sigh.

He wanted something he couldn’t have.

Because he was weak and given the first chance, he’d fuck it up, just like he fucked it up before.

The light changed, and the tide carried him across the lane. The liquor store was on a corner next to a pawn shop with bars on the windows and a sign on the door that said LOITERS WILL BE SHOT, SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN. Okay, then, remind me not to loiter.

Inside, the store was cramped and claustrophobic, shelves along the walls and two in the center of the floor. A bored looking Indian man leaned against the counter and watched Lemy with narrow-eyed suspicion. Lemy ignored him, went to a shelf flanking the back wall, and grabbed two bottles of Canadian Mist whiskey. Could he fit these in the pockets inside his jacket? He opened his coat and started to shove one in to see, and the Indian perked up. “No, no, no!” he cried in a thickly accented voice and waved his hand. “You no steal from me!”

Lemy froze. “Hey, no, I-I’m not stealing, I -”

“You go to jail you steal from me. I no play games with people who steal. People who steal bad.”

“Dude, I swear, I wasn’t -”

“Leave my liquor store!” He jabbed one finger at the door.

Lemy threw his head back. “Aw, man, come on, I swear, I’m gonna pay.”

“You pay now!”

“Okay, okay, shit.” Lemy went to the counter and sat the bottles down with matching clunks. The clerk snatched one and scanned it, then the other, his eyes never leaving Lemy and his lips in a sour sneer. If Lemy had any pride, he’d have smashed the bottles on the fucking floor and walked out, but he didn’t, so he stood there with his head hung in shame.

“30.50,” the clerk spat.

Lemy took a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket and laid two twenties on the countertop. The clerk took them, opened the register, and slipped them in, closing the door.

“Uh, my change.”

“Trying to steal from me fee,” the clerk grumbled. “You pay price.”

Seriously? Lemy threw up one hand. “I wasn’t stealing! Give me my change!”

The clerk’s eyes flashed. “No,” he snarled, then pointed at the door. “You leave.”

For a minute Lemy simply stared at him, his brows angled down in an angry V and his teeth clenched. He could punch him in the face then run; he wasn’t in top physical form, but he was fast and always had been - years of outrunning cops and security guards honed his speed to perfection. Just this once, though, he thought before he acted: He didn’t wanna go to jail...he just wanted out of this miserable fucking city.

He grabbed the bottles and shoved one into each inside pocket of his coat, then went out the door, fighting and winning against the urge to slam it as hard as he could. He almost called a racist name of his shoulder, but the Inflammatory Speech Act of 2052 made that kind of shit illegal, so he just bit his tongue.

Everything that can go wrong will. Pfft. Fucking bullshit, fuck that guy, fuck this city, and fuck this state. He didn’t know where he was ultimately going - maybe he’d swallow his pride and stay in Royal Woods, maybe not - but he was never coming back here. Too many goddamn bad memories: Poverty, homeless shelters, hunger, tainted smack that took him to the brink of death (three times), lost jobs, broken relationships, broken dreams.

It occurred to him that those kinds of memories haunted Royal Woods as well. He lived there for the first twenty five years of his life - it was so steeped in bad memories it practically bubbled.

Everywhere I go is a bad fucking memory, he thought bitterly as he started toward the bus station. The truth of that statement twisted in his stomach like a knife, and he swallowed thickly. Before coming here, he lived in a smaller city south, a storied hub of industry crowded with factories and steel mills. He liked its working class charm, the ancient brick buildings along the river, and the old houses, but by the time he left (three months after arriving), he hated its guts and never wanted to see it again. Before that was Detroit, which turned his stomach every time he thought about it. And finally, before that, Royal Woods. A great weight pressed down on his chest, and even though he was outside, claustrophobia gripped him. The buildings were too tall, too dense, getting closer, looming over him like leering child molesters ringing a lost little boy in a trailer park.

Suddenly, he didn’t want to leave the city so badly.

And he did not want to go to Royal Woods.

At an intersection, he turned around and went back the way he came, his stomach rolling and threatening to spill from his mouth. There was a mission on Lawndale Ave - he got stay there for awhile, and maybe, maybe, he could beg Sean for his job back.

What would he tell Dad, though?

Eh, fuck Dad.

He was a block back, moving through an oncoming crowd like a salmon swimming upstream, when his father's voice filled his head. You’re running away.

No, I’m not.

Yes you are. You always run from the messes you make instead of owning up to them.

Signing that paperwork is a mistake.

No it isn’t. You signing it would be the best thing you could ever do for those -

Lemy balled his fists.

But you’re being selfish. Like always. You’re holding onto something you have no plans to actually ever use. You’re a hoarder of the worst sort.

Fuck you.

You make vague platitudes, but you have no plans to ever be a -

Shut. Up.

You’re not a man. A man would come take care of his problems. A man would do the right thing for his family.

Hot, stinging tears welled in Lemy’s eyes, and he shuffled to a stop; people streamed around him on either side like a river parting at a jutting rock, their faces white masks of apathy, unfeeling, uncaring.

Dad was right. Going back and signing that paperwork...he didn’t want to, but when you’re a man, Dad said once, you sometimes have to do things you don’t like.

He looked over his shoulder, seeing not a city street, but the future.

It would be best.

For everyone.

Slumping his shoulders in defeat, he turned and dragged himself the twenty blocks to the bus station, getting there just before 9:30. At the window, he bought a one way ticket to Detroit from a sleepy looking white woman with platinum blonde hair, then sat in a chair next to a Coke machine. The waiting room as nearly empty, the only other occupants being a man in a business suit and a teenage boy wearing a red and white letterman jacket. Lemy twisted the lid off one of the bottles and stole a surreptitious drink; the whiskey burned going down and detonated in his stomach like a bomb, its fortifying warmth spreading through his cold and tired body.

During the forty-five minute wait, his drinks went from little, hidden nips, to openly tipping the bottle back and guzzling, amber liquid sluicing down the corners of his mouth. The blonde behind the window looked at him and rolled her eyes, and the man in the business suit lifted his brows in what could only be snide condescendtion. Fuck them. He was getting the fuck up out of this city, and they could all go to hell.

When the bus finally arrived, he shoved the bottle, nearly empty now, into his pocket and climbed on, taking a window seat adjacent to the driver, a black man in sunglasses and a baseball cap with a sports team logo on it. He felt loose, light, and fuzzy, all of his problems a million miles away in either direction.

This...this was why he drank; when everything in the world was falling down around him, all he had to do was pay a little money, spin a cap, and BAM, happy. It didn’t last forever, but when you can’t stand to look at your own face in the mirror and lay awake at night in regret, even a few hours away is worth the price of admission.

He took the bottle out and opened it, then stiffened when the bus driver spoke. “Yo, yo, yo, you can’t be drinkin’ that on my bus.”

Lemy looked up, and the driver stared at him with an admonishing expression, head down, brows lifted. Lemy started to tell him to fuck off, but thought better of it and put the bottle away. There were bathrooms on this thing - he’d go drink in one of those later.

The driver watched him warily for a moment, then turned in his seat and started the engine. Lemy gazed out the grimy window as the bus pulled away from the platform and turned onto Front Street, passing a rush of vacant, overgrown lots, boarded up houses, and abandoned warehouses. In the distance, a curved highway overpass leading to I-95 stood stark against the skyline, cars and trucks zipping along like toys on a track. The driver took the onramp and joined the flow of traffic, the road lifting high above the city; its narrow streets, decaying buildings, and trash strewn lots lay spread out before him like a dirty blanket, and he grimaced at it. I hope you burn, he thought as the road straightened and soared over Downtown, with hits fashionable shops, clean avenues, and well-manicured lawns - a diamond mired in shit, an oasis surrounded by dystopian wasteland crawling with Mad Maxian thugs. Bunch of rich assholes. Fuck them.

He turned away and stared at the back of the seat before him.

He never saw that city again.

Before going home for the day, Lincoln stopped by Beauty Queen’s, Lola’s salon - it occupied a small storefront in the Royal Pines strip mall on the edge of town, flanked by a Food-Lion on one side and a Chinese take-out joint called Wok and Roll on the other. He parked the truck in a slot facing the street and cut the engine, killing DNCE in the middle of Cake By The Ocean on 101.9, Solid Gold Oldies. He grabbed the keys, shoved them into his pocket, and got out, feeling like a small child - he hated using Lana’s truck because it was so goddamn big. Why the cab needed to be fifty feet off the ground, he’d never know; when a man drives something like this, you say he’s compensating for something (a small penis), but what about when a woman’s behind the wheel?

That’s she’s a lesbian, which Lana may very well be; not only was she generally mannish, but she’d also had a couple very close female friends over the years. He didn’t particularly care as long as she fulfilled her sisterly obligations - not that he called upon her very often.

Having so many wives, he’d come to desire something different from each. From Lori, he wanted stability and fidelity; from Leni, he wanted affection; from Lucy, intellectual stimulation; and from Lola, sex.

Waiting for a sedan to pass, Lincoln crossed the parking lot and made toward the front door; through the front windows, several women sat in chairs while hairdressers in a blue smocks worked on them from behind. Beauty Queen’s employed seven people; five hairdressers and two receptionists. When Lola first opened it in 2048, nearly a decade ago, they had a staff of two dozen. During the Recession of 2051-4, they lost all but the remaining balance, and most of their business as well. Profits had been down for years, and if things kept going the way they were, they’d be in bankruptcy by 2060.

Lola was a stubborn woman, though, vain and prideful too - she absolutely refused to admit defeat and sell even though Andrew Goldblatt, their accountant, had been urging her to for eight months now. Things will pick up, she said and stuck her nose into the air, especially if we spend more on advertising. The last part came out dripping with accusation; they didn’t have money for advertising, and the last time they did, the radio spots they bought drew exactly zero customers.

Inside, the smell of chemicals and hair products hung heavy in the sultry air, and Lincoln’s nose crinkled; if he spent more than twenty minutes in here, his head started to ache.

Amanda, the receptionist, sat behind the front desk, a wide, calculated smile on her narrow face. A tall woman with curly carrot colored hair and too red lips, she reminded Lincoln of a giraffe...or maybe it was a hyena. He could never be certain. “Good afternoon, Mr. Loud,” she said, her voice cloying and saccharine. Amanda was a friend of Lola’s from beauty school and had been working here since the beginning. Lincoln never liked her. She was too fake. Lola, at least, was open with her disdain and haughtiness; Amanda hid hers behind a false front that, he suspected, was transparent on purpose...a way of adding to the insult.

Or maybe he was paranoid.

“Afternoon,” he said and went up to the counter, his hands splaying on the edge. “Lola here?”

Amanda opened her mouth to reply, but Lola’s singsong voice cut her off. “Right here, Lincy~”

He turned as she swept into the room from the back, a tall, thin woman with high cheekbones and blonde, elaborately coiffed hair piled atop her head, one long, curly strand hanging down the side of her arrogant face. Her green eyes, like those of a cat, were slightly narrowed, and the hem of her flowing pink dress rippled around her feet as she entered. Gold necklaces and diamond rings adorned her throat and fingers, and silver bracelets dangled from her slender wrists. Her pronounced fenminity had always attracted Lincoln, but it also repelled him too: She was the type of woman who refused to get her hands dirty, worried over broken nails, and demanded only the finest jewelry. She was high maintenance and thought far more highly of herself than she should, but her womanliness drove him wild when he let it.

“I’m here for the insurance paperwork,” he said shortly when she came over.

“It’s in the office,” she replied with a flutter of the eyelids and gestured. It’s simply beneath me. I can’t be bothered to think of it.

Right now he wasn’t in the mood for her high and mighty bullshit, and brushed rudely past her, making her stumble. “Come on. I need to talk to you.”

Lola sighed. “About?”

“Just come on.”

Rolling her eyes, she followed him through the shop and to the back office, a tiny space crammed with filing cabinets, a desk, an ancient desktop computer, and neat stacks of files, forms, and folders bulging with papers. The binder he needed sat next to the keyboard, clearly marked and ready to go. He picked it up and turned; Lola filled the doorway, her arms crossed and her brows lifted expectantly. “What do you need to talk to me about?” she asked snottily.

In the near forty years that they had been together, Lincoln had come to dislike Lola. He loved her as his sister and as the mother of his daughter Leia, but her personality was detestable at worst and irritating at best. They hadn’t had a decent conversation since Donald Trump was president, and that, as far as he remembered, was the time they professed their feelings to each other, and in matters of taste, they were as dissimilar as winter and spring. She was, to put it mildly, shallow; you could delve into her personality and come back without even getting your hair wet.

Then there was the...Lemy situation. Like her twin, Lola had a reason to be angry at him, but unlike Lana, she was not the sort to hold her tongue. When Lemy still lived at home, she would constantly badger him and Leia both; God knows they deserved it, but she nitpicked every little thing to the point that he told her to shut the fuck up because he was sick of hearing it.

“Lemy,” he said now, “he’s coming out to sign that stuff.”

Lola’s hip cocked to one side and her tilted forward. “Oh, is he he now?” she asked sarcastically.

“Yes,” Lincoln said, “he’ll be here sometime tomorrow. Do not start anything. I don’t feel like dealing with drama.”

Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a dog-like sneer. “He’s the one -”

Lincoln held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear it,’ he said sharply, “you know just as well as I do that this needs to happen, and I’d like it to be as painless as possible, please.”

A humorless laugh burst from Lola’s throat. “Painless??? It’s already been painful, Lincoln.”

She wasn’t wrong. “I don’t want to add to it. If you can’t keep your trap shut, stay away from him.”

A dark shadow rippled across Lola’s features, and her eyes glinted like the steely edge of a knife blade. “Fuck you, Lincoln Loud,” she hissed through her teeth, “keep your son away from my daughter and from me too.”

A fist of anger clutched Lincoln’s heart, and his teeth bared. Lola had always tried to minimize his role in Leia’s upbringing, and when she referred to her, it was always my daughter, and never our daughter. Hi, Lincy, guess what my daughter got on her math test today? A hundred! He didn’t have time for discipling children, but he tried with Leia because Lola was like Luna only ten times worse, and every time he did, it lead to an argument. I will handle my daughter, go worry about your delinquent son. And how do you think Leia turned out? She was just like her mom, a stuck-up little bitch who thought her shit didn’t stink. She was better now because life has a way of strangling you into humility sometimes, but when she was a teenager, she was a brat and Lincoln reached the point of disliking her as much as he disliked Lola.

“Just keep your shit to yourself,” he said. “Now get out of my way.”

In the truck, he slapped the folder onto the passenger seat and pulled the belt over his lap; the sky was soft with purple twilight, and the lamps up and down the street winked on one by one. He jammed the key into the ignition and turned; the engine roared to life, and the radio came on...the deejay was giving away tickets to see a nostalgia tour headlined by Ariana Grande. Lincoln threw the truck into reverse, backed up, and swung left, stopping at the exit and waiting for traffic to pass before turning right.

Fifteen minutes later, he parked at the curb in front of the house and got out; it was full night and the air was cold enough that his breath misted in front of him. Inside, the living room was warm and comfortably lit; Leni and Leia sat in front of the television, the former in a aquamarine sweater and the later in jeans and a pink halter top that tied in the front. Her long, layered blonde hair spilled over her shoulders like shimmering liquid gold, the ends curled slightly.

Neither acknowledged him as he passed behind the couch and went into the kitchen, not that he minded. He was tired, his back ached, and after the confrontation with Lola, his nerves were frayed.

Speaking of frayed nerves, Loan sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee raised to her lips; her hair was neatly combed and done up in a bun so tight it stretched her face back, lending her eyes the appearance of almonds. She wore a blue button-up blouse and a black skirt; her coat hung on the back of the chair. Lori stood at the stove flipping pork chops with a fork; the pan hissed and popped, and the smell of cooking meat found Lincoln’s nose, making his stomach grumble. “...have to do sometimes,” she was saying. She glanced at him when he entered, and his kissed her on the cheek.

“What’s that?” he asked and looked to Loan.

Before she could speak, Lori said, “Her boss. He’s giving her extra work but not extra pay.”

Loan sat the mug down. “Yeah. It’s really stressing me out. I have three reports to do by this Friday, and a spreadsheet, and a-a Powerpoint presentation tomorrow.” She brought her thumb to her mouth and chewed the nail, her eyes going to the table. Lincoln watched her for a moment and tried to come up with something to say; he didn’t know much about what being a paralegal entailed, but he imagined it did get stressful, especially for someone as miswired as Loan. As a teenager, she was diagnosed with virtually everything under the sun: OCD, anxiety disorder, depression, bipolar, borderline personality, intermittent explosive complex, and a thousand other things that Lincoln couldn’t recall and didn’t want to. She was always a nervous child, and tended to be withdrawn. Why, he couldn’t say: Lori wasn’t overly affectionate, but she showed Loan a reasonable amount of love and rarely ever pushed her too hard. Until her teens, that is, when she thought that her issues excused her from having to do well in school, help care for her younger siblings, and get a job. Her grades were never the best, but they began slipping during her freshman year, and that wasn’t acceptable: One can’t get into college on a shit GPA, and Lincoln intended for all of his children to go to college.

Of course things didn’t go according to plan. With Loan they did, surprisingly, but not with everyone else.

“Sometimes you just have to suck it up,” he said because he didn’t know what else to say.

Loan nodded. “I know,” she said, “I am, it just makes me…” she held her hands up and hooked her fingers like she was going to strangle someone.

“That’s when you take deep breaths and remember that it’s all worth it in the end,” Lincoln said. He went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of Beck’s, and opened it. He took a deep drink and watched Lori. “It’s almost ready,” she said, “can you set the dining room table, Loan?”

“Yeah,” Loan said and got up. Lincoln sat his beer on the counter, opened a cabinet, and grabbed a stack of plates without counting. He handed them to Loan, then gathered cups and silverware.

He followed behind Loan, laying a knife, fork, and glass at every spot she set. “How’s Rich?” he asked to make conversation. Rich was Loan’s current boyfriend and worked in the mailroom of her law firm.

“We broke up six months ago,” she said flatly.

Oh.

Former boyfriend, then. Lincoln couldn’t say he was upset; he didn’t like Rich. He had a phoniness about him that reminded him of Lola. “Did something happen?” he asked as he sat the last fork down.

“Not really,” she said in a tone that indicated she didn’t want to talk about it.

Just as well, he figured. In the kitchen, he picked his beer up and took a drink. “How long?” he asked.

“I just need to finish the mashed potatoes,” Lori said. “Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

“Perfect.”

He pushed away from the counter, went into the dining room, and then into the living room. He paused at the couch; Leia sat with her arms and legs crossed while Leni leaned forward to pick up a glass from the table. Lincoln took a deep breath and let it out slowly; his original plan was to make an announcement during dinner so that everyone present could find out together (Lucy would have to call Lupa since she couldn’t make it), but he decided against it. “Leia?”

Leia turned and looked up at him. “Hey, Dad,” she said.

“Can you come into my office, please?”

She furrowed her brows in confusion. “Sure.”

Lincoln went to the door at the bottom of the stairs and opened it, snapping the light on. He took another drink as he went to the chair and sat. Leia came in and closed the door behind her, leaning against it. “What’s up?”

Tipping the bottle back, Lincoln drained it. “Lemy’s coming out. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

Leia blinked. “He is?” From the tone of her voice, she wasn’t particularly happy to hear that...but she wasn’t unhappy either. That didn’t surprise him - though she and Lemy were polar opposites, like him and Lola, they were drawn to each other like magnets. Fire and gasoline, he called them. She couldn’t leave him alone...and he couldn’t leave her alone. He didn’t think it was love, though, and never had been, even when they were young and inseparable. He didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t want to - he was a lot of things, but a daughter-fucking pedophiile was not one, and he didn’t relish thinking too deeply about his children’s romantic and sexual affairs. He did know one thing: It wasn’t healthy, and with both of them being fuck ups, they would most likely try and pick up where they left off...having sex, fighting, yelling, and having more sex.

Their tumultuous relationship, and their inability to leave well enough alone when it came to each other, was one of the reasons Lincoln was having second thoughts about inviting Lemy to move back in. Their shouting matches were the stuff of nightmares, and Leia, like her mother, was fond of throwing things when she was really mad - vases, knick knacks, plates, and yes, even her fists. The most Lemy had ever done was shove her away when she lunged at him, and while Lincoln respected his son immensely for refusing to strike a woman, there were times he sorely hoped he would. Just one swift jab to the mouth - wake her up a little.

If Lemy moved back in, she’d be right there, the proverbial dog returning to its own vomit, and you know what gasoline does to fire.

“He is,” Lincoln confirmed. “To sign the paperwork.”

Leia blinked and darted her eyes to her feet. “Oh,” she said, her voice small and shaken. “So...it’s gonna be official.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Lincoln said with a nod.

Getting Leia to sign was almost as hard as getting Lemy to; she hemmed and hawed for months before her mother finally talked her into it. Lincoln suspected that she was counting on Lemy to never do add his signature, keeping the process in limbo so she wouldn’t have to let go. Leia was a fuck up in a lot of ways, but she did genuinely love her daughter.

“He’ll sign the adoption forms and Lori and I will have legal custody of Megan. And the others too,” he added. Lizy’s son, Lupa’s daughter...all three of Lemy’s children. “Nothing’s going to change,” he assured Leia now. “It’ll just be...formal.”

Leia’s head bobbed quickly up and down, her throat working as she swallowed. “Yeah, okay, no, I mean, it’s good.” She flashed a wan smile.

“It is,” Lincoln said. “They’ll all be a lot better off.”
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