14. Chapter 14
fourteen
My life, which, not long ago, was a fairly dull routine, has turned to chaos. One decision changed everything, but I stand by that decision. I couldn’t live with him any longer.
What did Grant say to my father to upset him that much?
My impulse is to call the jackass, but I remind myself of Meredith’s words, “Don’t talk to him. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
I throttle my urge to tell him off.
But I’m afraid to push Daddy. Whatever it was, just recalling it might upset him, and I don’t want to go through what we went through last night.
Last night. Calder.
Everything around us is… so bruised. Him. Me. Us.
I’m the one who offered friendship first, but his acceptance last night killed me. How can I live in this town if he falls in love with someone else? How will I survive that?
“Enough,” I tell myself out loud.
“’Nuf what?” Bowie asks, sipping his juice.
“Self-loathing. Dread. Worrying over what can’t be changed.”
He stares a long moment, blinks, and shoves a handful of Fruit Loops in his mouth. “Blippi?”
“How about something else? You’ve had a steady diet of Blippi since we got here.”
“Trash Truck?”
“Perfect.”
I set up his tablet, telling him, “After breakfast, we’ll get ready. We’re bringing Grammy and Pop-Pop home in a little bit.”
The doorbell rings. I freeze, toast halfway to my mouth.
Bowie looks up from Trash Truck with another fist full of Fruit Loops as I glance over my shoulder toward the front door. “Who’s here?” I ask him because talking to a three-year-old sometimes steadies me more than talking to myself.
He shrugs. “Aunt Mercy?”
“I don’t think so, Baby.” Mercy would’ve texted.
The doorbell rings again, longer this time—demanding—and my stomach tightens as I move to the front door.
Bowie slides from his booster seat, padding after me in his socks. “Who is it, Mommy?”
“I’m about to find out.” I put a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him behind my legs as I open the door.
A man in a suit stands on the porch, holding a thick envelope. “Laurel Prescott?”
My blood runs cold. “Hayes,” I correct automatically.
He doesn’t blink. “You’ve been served.”
“He’s asking to be Primary Residential Parent,” my attorney, Meredith, says.
My stomach drops. “He wants full custody?”
“Yes. You’d have visitation rights.”
“That’s what happened,” I whisper.
“What?”
“My father had a heart attack last night, after talking to Grant.”
“I’m sorry,” she offers. “Grant is claiming you abandoned the marital home, so he’s requesting a temporary hearing—temporary parenting plan, temporary support, everything.”
“He’s lost his mind.”
“He wants a morality clause. No unrelated men around Bowie. He wants the marital assets divided ‘equitably,’ which means he thinks he deserves a lot more than half. And he wants you to pay his attorney fees.”
My knees go weak. “What will I do?”
“Relax. You have me. Grant thinks he’s playing hardball? He won’t have any balls left when I’m done.”
“How?”
“By filing our own temporary requests. I’ll ask for everything he asked for—and I’ll ask the morality clause apply to both of you. Our firm has private investigators. We’ll start tailing Grant today. But Laurel… expect the same. There’s probably someone in Ladera watching your every move.”
It’s clear now what happened to Daddy. Grant threatened him with all of that if I didn’t ‘come to my senses.’
You don’t threaten Dabbo Hayes or his family.
And, holding Bowie in my arms, I understand what that did to him—what it would do to me if someone threatened Bowie that way.
My father does love me. And my son.
I’ll tell Mom about it privately.
That was the plan. Until Little Mr. Ears, who absorbs more than we realize, sees his Pop-Pop and blurts out, “Mommy got served!”
I groan, my eyes meeting Dad’s. “It’s okay. My lawyer has it under control.”
“She better. Or I will.”
“We’ll talk about it later.” I turn to Mom. “This divorce isn’t going to dictate my life. It’s about money for Grant, not custody. He doesn’t want to split everything with me. If I have to, I’ll give it all to him, to have this one.”
Bowie’s looking back and forth, clearly not understanding.
A rap on the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Hayes?” a young doctor stands in the doorway. She’s not much older than me.
Mom stands, “Yes.”
Entering the room, the doctor looks from her to Dad. “Mr. Hayes, you had a cardiac event. There’s no heart damage, but it’s a warning. You need to avoid stress, change your diet, and start the cholesterol medication I’m prescribing. And you need to take it seriously.”
Dad shuffles in the bed. “How the hell am I supposed to avoid stress? I’m the president of a bank and my daughter’s going through a divorce.”
She lifts her brows, standing at his bed, looking down at him.
“You avoid stress by letting other people carry some of it. You’re not twenty-five anymore, Mr. Hayes.
You had unstable angina—your heart told you it’s done being ignored.
Now change your diet, take the meds, and slow down.
Or the next time, you might not walk out of here. ”
“I guess that means no more bacon and eggs,” he mutters.
“Occasionally, but not a steady diet like you obviously have had. Your triglycerides and cholesterol are too high. Oatmeal is good for cleaning out cholesterol.”
He sits up higher in his bed. “If I liked oatmeal, I’d have been eating it all along.”
The doctor swallows a chuckle, turning to Mom.
“We’ll send you home with all the literature you need.
” She turns back to Dad. “I can tell you’re as hardheaded as my own father, so let me make this clear.
If you want to see this little boy grow up, change your ways.
Reduce the stress and get that cholesterol under control. ”
With that, she leaves, and less than an hour later, we’re walking into the house.
After getting Dad settled, I pull Mom aside. “I need to end this, for Daddy’s sake.”
“How?”
“I’ll agree to everything but joint custody. He can have it all—but Bowie.”
“You’ll do no such thing. You’re through cowing down, remember? Dabbo Hayes can handle a fight.”