34. Cole
THIRTY-FOUR
COLE
I thought I’d survived the worst experience of my life in the attic of my adoptive parents’ house all those years ago. That gut-wrenching discovery had rearranged everything I thought I knew about myself, my life, and my past. I’d been on the cusp of adulthood, and suddenly I knew nothing.
The slow, dawning realization that I’d never really belonged to the family that had raised me had broken me. It suddenly made sense that my birthday presents weren’t the same as my siblings’. Or that my college fund had never been built. Or that I somehow ended up in trouble for my brothers’ misbehavior.
It all made sense—and it hurt .
In my teen years, I’d had this feeling that if I just worked hard enough, I would be loved as much as the other kids in my family. If I got good grades, and did all my chores, and stayed quiet, and behaved—then I’d be worthy .
To discover that I’d been lesser because of something I couldn’t control? Something I hadn’t even known ?
The hurricane of emotions that came had decimated me. I’d been flatted by the grief and anger, by the hurt. The rage. Over the years, those emotions had quieted, and what had remained was a deep sense of uncertainty. I didn’t know my place in the world. I didn’t think I could trust anyone. I didn’t think I belonged.
Discovering I was adopted—and making sense of the childhood I’d endured—had shaped much of my young adulthood. I’d come through it, battered but not broken. I had scars, but I thought I was doing okay. Sure, my loyalty was hard-won, but it was winnable .
Standing in the lobby of the Gershwin Theater, I realized how laughable all those beliefs had been. The thin veneer hiding those old scars from the surface was ripped away. I was bloody and wounded and yes, I was broken.
Or at least, I was breaking.
Carrie disappeared into the theater doors, and beside her, a dark head of curls went with her. A six-year-old with my face. My eyes.
The last stragglers hurried into the theater, and the ushers closed the doors. I stood in the lobby as my world tilted.
She’d lied to me. She’d taken me into her bed and smiled at me like I was her world, and the whole time, she’d lied .
Not about something small. Not about something forgivable.
She’d lied about a child . Something so huge that I couldn’t even feel the shape of it in my heart. I’d been a father for years , and I hadn’t even known it. She’d taken that from me. I’d missed all those firsts. I’d missed the chance to be what my own fathers—adoptive and biological—had never been to me.
Carrie stole that from me.
No wonder she fucking fainted when she saw me. Unless that was a lie too. How would I know? She had me fooled the whole time. Here I thought I’d met the woman of my dreams, and the whole time…
That pedestal I’d created in my mind—the one that held the memory of Carrie from all those years ago—came crumbling down.
She wasn’t the perfect woman. She wasn’t made for me, as I was made for her. She was a lying, deceitful woman who’d probably been laughing at me the whole time.
The first step I took toward the exit felt like I had to unglue the sole of my shoe from the floor. I stumbled forward and somehow made it outside. The air was cold; it smelled of exhaust and old garbage. Blinking at the brightness outside, I gasped in a breath and wanted to scream.
I was as much of a fool as I’d been at fourteen, scrubbing the kitchen floors because I thought it would make my mother like me. Except this time, I’d let a woman snake her way into my life, my bed, and my heart. My engagement had fallen apart. I’d blown up my whole life.
For what? For her ?
People jostled me as they walked past, and I barely felt it. I hailed a cab and slid in the back seat, and it wasn’t until the cabbie told me to either tell him where to go or get out that I blinked back to myself and gave him my address .
The apartment was empty. I couldn’t even go sit by Alba’s bedside, because what right did an ex-fiancé have to support her? I had no family here. I had nothing.
I blinked, and I was standing at the bar cart in the living room, a glass of liquor in my hand. I didn’t remember walking over here and pouring it. I took a sip, relishing the burn of the alcohol as it slid down my throat. It hurt less than the rest of me. At least the pain reminded me that I was alive.
Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, I pulled out my phone.
“Kaia,” I said. “Terminate Carrie Woods’ contract, effective immediately.”
There was a short, sharp silence. “You mean?—”
“Fire her.”
To her credit, my head assistant simply said, “Of course,” and it felt good to be vindictive. To remind Carrie that I wasn’t powerless here. Then I hung up and dialed my lawyer to set up a meeting for Monday morning. Never again would I feel like my life was at the mercy of other people’s lies. I wouldn’t be controlled by secrets. I wouldn’t let my daughter go through the same thing I went through. She wouldn’t discover my existence when she was twenty, wondering why I never fought for her.
The thought was so heavy I collapsed onto the sofa. I had a daughter. I’d created a child. And I’d had no idea.
My hands trembled as I looked at my phone again. The tiniest thread of hesitation wove its way through me. Carrie had said she’d looked for me for months. Maybe…
Anger swept in and crushed the thought like a scuttling cockroach. Carrie didn’t deserve my patience or my kindness. She didn’t deserve the time to come up with some explanation that would smooth over her sins.
She’d lied to me. She’d looked me in the face, told me she wanted me—told me she was mine —and it had all been a lie.
Scrolling past her name, I dialed the only person I knew I could trust. Rome answered on the third ring, listened to the story of my awful, awful day, and told me he’d be at my place within the hour. I hung up and took a deep breath, already drawing the battle lines in my head.
I cursed Carrie. I fed the hatred that wanted to grow. But beneath it all, what I really felt was hurt. And when Rome arrived at my door, a traitorous part of my heart wished it was Carrie standing on my threshold, waiting to be invited in.