Chapter 38
Cal
She got out slowly, her eyes locking on mine. She looked beautiful, tired, but strong, her hair pulled back, holding herself together in that way only she could.
I looked at her, then at the tiny face in the car seat, Asher, awake, staring at me with big dark eyes that seemed to recognize me somehow.
“Hey,” I whispered, my voice breaking as tears welled up instantly.
“Hey,” she said back, her own eyes glistening.
I stepped forward, my hands shaking. “Can I...”
She nodded, a small smile breaking through.
I unbuckled him carefully, lifting him out. He was heavier already, warm, solid, smelling like baby lotion and home. He grabbed my hoodie string and tugged, cooing softly.
I laughed, shaky, overwhelmed, tears streaming down my face as I held him close. “Missed you, little man. God, I missed you so much.”
Hadley watched us, wiping her own tears. “He’s been waiting for you.”
We got in the car. She drove toward Calabasas.
I held Asher the whole way, talking softly to him through the lump in my throat. “Your mom’s been taking such good care of you. Look at you, growing like a weed. I’m gonna try to be half as good as her, okay? I promise.”
When we pulled up to the apartment building, I froze, my heart twisting.
“You brought me here?”
“I wanted you to see it,” she said, her voice gentle. “Before we talk.”
Inside, everything perfect. The nursery hit me hardest, the constellations glowing faintly, the mobile spinning slowly. Asher fussed in my arms. I changed him on the new table, my hands still unsteady, then rocked him in the chair until he drifted off, his little fist clutching my finger.
Then we sat on the couch, Asher between us in his bouncer.
Hadley took a deep breath, folding her hands together like she needed to physically hold herself steady. Her eyes stayed on Asher for a long moment before she finally looked at me.
“We need to talk about the divorce.”
My stomach dropped, fear crawling up my spine like ice water. “Okay.”
Silence stretched between us. Heavy. Real.
“I still want one,” she said quietly.
Her voice didn’t shake. But her fingers twisted together so tightly her knuckles went pale.
“I need it, Cal,” she continued. “Not because I hate you. Not because I want to punish you. But because I need to know I exist outside of you. That my happiness, my stability, my identity… isn’t built on hoping you won’t disappear emotionally again.”
I swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t have had to hope at all.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “I shouldn’t have.”
She exhaled slowly, like each word cost something.
“I loved you so blindly it scared me. I kept shrinking pieces of myself to fit whatever space you left open. And when there was no space… I just waited. I waited for you to look at me like I mattered the way the band did. The way Sydney did. The way your trauma did.”
My chest cracked open at that.
“Hadley...”
She lifted a hand gently, not cruelly. Just asking me to let her finish.
“I don’t regret loving you. I don’t regret Asher. I don’t regret fighting for us. But I regret losing myself trying to earn something that should’ve been given freely.”
Tears blurred my vision. “You deserved everything freely. You still do.”
She nodded once, acknowledging it but not accepting it fully.
“I need legal separation,” she said. “Because if you relapse… if you spiral… if the band life pulls you back into chaos… I can’t drown with you again. I have a son now. I have Eli. I have myself. I have to be strong enough to walk away without it destroying me.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
“I hate hearing that,” I admitted hoarsely. “Not because it isn’t true. Because it is. And I built that fear inside you.”
Silence filled the room again. Asher made a soft snorting sound in his sleep.
Hadley watched him, voice quieter now.
“I still love you,” she whispered.
My head snapped up.
Her eyes filled with tears instantly, like the words scared her too.
“I probably always will. That’s the problem. Because loving you makes me forget to protect myself.”
My throat closed. “You shouldn’t have to choose between those two things.”
“No,” she agreed. “And divorce gives me the ability not to.”
I nodded slowly, wiping my face with both hands.
“I don’t want to lose you,” I admitted. “But I’d rather lose the title of husband than lose the chance to be in your life at all. Or Asher’s.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly, relief flickering across her face.
“That’s… mature,” she said quietly. “Thank you for not fighting me on it.”
“I want to fight for you,” I said. “Not fight against what you need to heal.”
She looked at me then, really looked, like she was searching for the truth inside that statement.
After a moment, she nodded.
“But,” she continued, voice steadier now, “I don’t want to cut you out. You’re his father. And… you’re still important to me whether I like it or not.”
My chest tightened painfully. “I’ll take that. I’ll take any role you give me.”
“I want us to be partners,” she said. “Just… different partners. Parents first. Friends if we can manage it.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Friends feels like both a blessing and a punishment.”
She gave a small sad smile. “It’s probably both.”
“How does that look?” I asked quietly. “Tell me what you need from me. Spell it out. I want to do it right this time.”
She thought carefully before answering, and I could see the maturity in her eyes, not anger, not revenge, just boundaries.
“Honesty,” she said first. “If you struggle, you tell me. I won’t fix it for you. But I won’t be blindsided either.”
I nodded. “Done.”
“Consistency. If you say you’ll be somewhere for Asher… you’re there. No broken promises. No last-minute disappearing.”
“I swear.”
“Respect,” she continued. “If either of us moves on romantically someday… we handle it like adults. No jealousy explosions. No emotional warfare around the kids.”
That one hit like a blade, but I forced myself to nod. “Okay.”
She watched me carefully, making sure I meant it.
“And communication,” she added. “We talk about parenting decisions together. School. Health. Everything. He deserves two present parents even if we’re not together.”
“I want that,” I said softly. “More than anything.”
Her eyes softened.
“Then there’s one more thing,” she said.
“Anything.”
“You don’t try to win me back with grand gestures. No guilt gifts. No pressure. If… something ever happens between us again… it happens slowly. Naturally. Because it’s healthy. Not because we’re scared of losing each other.”
I nodded immediately. “That’s fair. That’s… probably the only way it would ever work anyway.”
She let out a breath she looked like she’d been holding for months.
“Friends. Co-parents. Stability. That’s the foundation,” she said.
“I’ll build on that,” I whispered. “Brick by brick. However long it takes.”
She hesitated, then reached over and took my hand.
Not romantic.
Not desperate.
Steady.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
We sat there in silence, hands loosely linked, watching Asher sleep between us like the fragile miracle tying us together.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like losing her.
It felt like learning how to love her the right way… even if it meant letting her stand on her own.
She drove us to my house in Beverly hills room, dim lights, long table set with non-alcoholic drinks and appetizers.
Everyone was there.
Kei. Holland. Jake. Zariah. Eli. Even Mom, back from New York, smiling wide, her eyes misty as she saw me.
Even my father was there. He gave me a tight nod I returned it back.
We may not see eye to eye but at least he showed up that he still cares about his son.
No alcohol. Mocktails. Balloons that said “Welcome Home, Cal.”
Eli ran over first, hugging me tight around my back. “You did it. I’m proud of you.”
I hugged him back, my throat tight. “Thanks, kid. Means everything.”
Zariah raised a glass of sparkling cider, her smile genuine but cautious. “To second chances. And to not fucking them up again.”
Everyone laughed, soft, real, the sound filling the room like a balm.
My siblings texted me on how proud they were of me.
I looked around the table, at my family, chosen and blood, all here despite my mistakes.
Then at Hadley, holding Asher, smiling small but genuine, her eyes meeting mine with a spark of hope.
I lifted my glass, my hand steady for the first time in months.
“To starting over,” I said, voice thick. “The right way.”
They echoed it, glasses clinking.
And for the first time in years, I believed it might actually be possible.