Chapter 3
three
JORDAN
The best part about living in a small town like Hallmark Beach is all the people who care about you.
The worst part about living in a small town?
All the people who care about you.
Because this Tuesday morning, all I want is to grab a coffee from The White Mocha and be on my merry way. But as I’m waiting for my Americano near the pickup counter, Earl Flanders and Ned Chamberlain hop up from a round, black metal table in the corner—their usual spot—and make a beeline for me.
“Jordan, my boy.” Earl sidles up beside me, stretching a bony arm around my shoulders. The Old Spice aroma he douses himself in every day wafts upward and tickles my nose. “We’ve got a question for the Town Guru on All Things Sports.”
“Good morning, Earl.” It’s only eight-thirty, but the place is already hopping, with a line stretching out the door and onto Main Street. From the large picture window out front, I catch a glimpse of the rising January sun glinting off the windows of Rainbow Ice across the road. “And wow, that’s quite the title.”
Bespectacled Ned stomps up and lightly shoves Earl’s arm away from me. “Now, don’t go getting all warm and fuzzy with him in hopes he’ll agree with you, Flanders.”
“Pshaw. As if I would.” Earl flashes me a mischievous grin, and I know without a doubt he definitely would.
Even though I’m in a hurry, I can’t help but laugh and indulge them. I’ll be here a few minutes waiting for my order anyway. “All right, guys. What’s the question?”
“In your fine opinion”—Earl’s bushy eyebrows dance and disappear underneath the brim of his cowboy hat as he emphasizes each word—“which is better: pig wrestling or underwater hockey?”
If I’d been drinking my as-yet-to-be-served coffee, I’d have sputtered it all over the burnished wood floor. “Um. Well. That’s a very…interesting question, gentlemen.” One for which I have no answer.
Because… What the what?
My hesitation is covered by the sound of the coffee grinder whirring behind the pickup counter, where Amy, the younger sister of coffee shop owner Thomas Montrose, works on filling orders.
She flicks me a smile. I glance away. Not because she isn’t pretty. With her blonde braid and slim figure, she definitely is.
Just not as pretty as…
“Baseball,” I say, moving my attention back to the two seventy-something chuckleheads that have come to be like crazy great-uncles to me. “Baseball is definitely the best sport.”
“Aw, come on. It’s okay. You can tell us the truth.” Earl leans in close and whisper-yells, “We both know it’s pig wrestling.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” I hold up my hands in defense. “I choose to abstain from this…er, discussion.” Not only because it’s ridiculous, but because at my core, I’m a peacemaker. Though in reality, nobody has been able to keep peace between Ned and Earl, who have been best friends since grade school. They’re always arguing about something. Thankfully, they do it in love.
They’re proof that people can say what they’re thinking without losing someone’s affection and respect.
If only I’d experienced that in my own life.
“That’s because for the hundredth time, Earl, pig wrestling’s not a sport!” Ned shakes his head in disgust. I catch a whiff of some sort of olive oil wafting off his flannel shirt. His family has owned Olive Paradise for as long as I can remember—and he’s smelled this way for as long as I can remember too.
“Is too! My granddaddy wrestled pigs with the best of ’em.” Tipping his hat upward with the thrust of his pointer finger, Earl struts back toward their table.
Grunting, Ned follows, muttering something about how Earl’s old and that means his granddaddy probably wrestled pigs one hundred years ago.
I can’t help but grin at their nonsense when Amy finally calls my name. Turning, I find her there, smiling at me again, my Americano clutched in her hands. “Morning, Jordan.” Her eyes are bright and eager. She’s a bit younger than me—maybe five years?—and she’s really sweet. In any other life, I’d ask her out in a heartbeat.
But she’s just not my person.
Not that my person knows how I feel. And even if I could summon the courage to tell her, I’m not sure she’ll ever be ready to hear it.
“Hey, Amy.” I don’t want to encourage the poor woman’s attention if she does have feelings for me, but I also can’t be rude. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Biting her lip, she runs her thumb along the lid of the cup. She opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, her brother—who is taking orders in his signature, bright-orange Hawaiian shirt—asks if she can get some more coffee beans from the back.
“Sure, Tommy.” With a sheepish glance my way, she slides the coffee across the counter. “Enjoy your drink and have a good day.”
“Thanks. You too.”
She heads through the kitchen door behind the glass display case featuring a variety of breakfast sandwiches, yogurt parfaits, and specialty sodas.
Shaking off the discomfort I feel over the interaction, I grab my coffee, its warmth seeping through my hand, and turn, nearly smacking into Bea Reynolds. “Oh geez, sorry, Mrs. Reynolds!” Just my luck. She’s one of the chattiest town members around, and I’m short on time as it is.
I guess this is what I get for coming to the town’s only coffee shop instead of making my own cuppa Joe at home. But I was nearly late dropping Ryder at preschool as it was.
“Jordan Carmichael! We haven’t seen you in ages, sugar.” The Texas charm oozes off of Bea, who just happens to be the aunt of Marilee’s other best friend, Lucy, and the mother of their mutual friend, April. “And you know, it’s Bea. We don’t stand on formality here.”
“She’s right.” Aaaaaand she’s not alone. Her sister-in-law, Janine—owner of The Purple Seashell, the town’s only inn—peeks from behind her. “You’re keeping yourself far too busy these days.”
Both women are looking at me with big, sympathetic eyes, like I’m a cartoon bunny they just want to wrap up in a motherly hug.
Like I said. Small towns.
I chuckle. “I believe we all saw each other Saturday night at the barbecue in your very own backyard, Bea.” Lucy and Blake invited their closest family and friends over to announce their pregnancy, and Burt and Bea hosted.
Bea waves her hand in the air. “That hardly counts. I didn’t get a chance to catch up. How’s your mama doing? We’ve missed her at book club.”
“She’s feeling a bit better than last week. She had to miss Ryder’s birthday dinner and felt really bad about it.”
“Oh, how’s the little man doing?” Janine asks.
“He’s great. Loving being five now.” I take a sip of my coffee while glancing surreptitiously at the white clock hanging on the black brick wall behind the counter. A stitch of impatience pulls at my chest. Because the clockface tells me all I need to know—I’ve got only a handful of hours left until preschool is over, and I’ll either be able to finish the work that’s piling up or calling in yet another favor to Marilee, who I’ve been relying on far too much lately.
Marilee, whose words from last week I can’t get out of my brain: “I value your opinion, and you’re one of the only ones I trust to always tell me the truth.”
The truth?
Ha. She couldn’t handle my truth.
“The poor dear.”
Bea’s words snap my attention back to the town matriarchs beside me. “What’s that?” I say.
Janine tuts and pushes a strand of her gray bob behind her ear. “Is he still having nightmares about his mama being gone?”
I feel the band around my chest tighten. I know it’s not my fault Ryder’s going through this. But he already had to deal with parents who didn’t live together, who didn’t even love each other.
Who were only in each other’s lives permanently after a one-night stand—something I’ve never done before and have never done since, the combined effect of rejection and alcohol.
He already had to live with the consequences of my poor decisions and broken heart, but then to lose his mom when he was just barely four years old?
I want so much more for my little man than the year he’s had. Than the life I’ve been able to give him.
I clear my throat. “He’s back to sleeping in his own room, thankfully. Of course there are still some nights when the bad dreams come…”
“Of course, dear, of course.” Bea’s strong arm pats my shoulder. “You’re such a good daddy.”
What do I even say to that? Because I want to be. But I can’t help feeling like I’ve failed him. I try not to take work home, to be fully present for him when I’m there. But that doesn’t help during my busy season, when I can’t be home at all. Because when you run an adventure tours company and are one of the only guides…well, sometimes you literally can’t bring it home.
Thankfully, I make enough to support us. But being a small business owner at a start-up company—and being a dad on top of that—is not for the faint of heart.
I don’t want much in this life, just to take care of my people as best I can. To make things as smooth and easy for them as possible.
But Mom’s sick, Dad’s an alcoholic, and they’re living paycheck to paycheck. Ryder’s mom-less and has to be over at his other grandparents’ house or with Marilee more than he’s with me. And Marilee…
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “You’re kind to say so.”
Janine leans in close like she’s divulging a secret. “So?—”
“I know that look.” Bea yanks Janine upright. “Leave the poor man alone.”
“What?” Janine presses a hand to her chest, her mouth screwed into a smile that’s about as innocent as a toddler with a dirty diaper. “I was merely going to ask?—”
“I know what you were going to ask,” Bea says. “And you don’t need to.”
I’m glad Bea is sure, because I’ve got no clue. But now that the flow of conversation is broken, it’s the perfect place to finally assert myself and escape. “It was great running into you ladies, but I’m needed at work. Mandy’s holding down the fort alone.” Not that my assistant minds. She’s used to my wonky schedule.
“Of course. Get on, now.” Bea makes a shooing motion, and I take the chance to get out of Dodge.
A breeze greets me as I duck out of the building. I toss a wave to Adam Painter across the street, where he’s sweeping sand off the deck of Rainbow Ice. In between the ice cream shop and The Green Robin restaurant sits Blake’s black-and-white food truck, its serving window shuttered until about eleven, when he’ll start grilling up some of the town’s best fare. His wife alternates between working as a waitress inside the Robin and helping him out at the truck, which has turned into a thriving business.
The man’s got it all. Plus a kid on the way.
He did things in the order I’d have preferred to. But I can’t regret Ryder for a second, so I try not to think about my mistakes too much.
I hustle down the street—past the early morning joggers, headed for the boardwalk on the other side of the row of buildings to my right, past the Golden Highlight salon and the Pink Rose flower shop, all coming to life after a nighttime of sleep—and finally, after rounding the bend, I catch sight of the bright-green facade of Go Round Adventures. Colorfully painted surfboards are mounted on the front wall beside the yellow door, the sight of which always makes me smile, because Marilee chose that particular shade. I would have made it all blue, but she insisted it needed to be bright and happy.
She didn’t need to say anything else. All I needed to see was the light in her eyes—light that that jerk of a husband Donny had slowly chiseled at in the years since I’d been away at school—to say okay and ask when she was free to help me pick out the exact right color.
Of course, it had to be a night Donny was out. Because while it was completely fine for him to be gone until two a.m. with no explanation of his whereabouts, if he got wind that Marilee and I were hanging out at all, she’d hear about it.
Other than a few cars, the street is fairly deserted—not surprising, as winter isn’t the most popular time to come to the beach, even though our weather stays fairly temperate with a high of mid-sixties.
Just as I’m approaching the front door, it swings open, and a guy who looks around my age steps out wearing a red polo and jeans, with a messenger bag strung across his chest.
His eyes fix on me. “Jordan Carmichael?”
“Yes?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before, but he seems to know me. Maybe Mandy told him I was on the way and he wanted to talk with the owner.
The guy whips an envelope out of his bag and has it in my hands before I know what’s happening. “You’ve been served. Have a nice day.”
“Wait.” I turn, blinking as I watch him cross the street to a parked, white car. “What is this?”
He looks over his shoulder, shrugs. “Not sure, but I suggest you read it ASAP.”
Sitting on the bench, I rip open the crisp white envelope and pull out the paper inside. The letterhead reads Superior Court of California . My neck heats despite the cool breeze blowing up off the Pacific as I read the words.
Words that, honestly, make no sense.
Because if my eyes can be believed, Larry and Constance Comer—Georgia’s parents—are petitioning the court for custody of Ryder.
But that can’t be right. I mean, sure, they never loved me, but they also never said I was an unfit parent. And yet, there it is, in writing, questioning whether being with me is in Ryder’s best interest.
Surely— surely —this is a mistake. Standing, I tug my phone from my pocket and dial Larry’s number. A quiet accountant, he’s always had a good head on his shoulders, even when Constance’s loudly stating her opinions.
The phone rings once, twice, three times.
Voicemail.
Nope. I hit redial. Again. And again.
Finally, the ringing stops, and Larry clears his throat on the other side of the line. “Jordan.”
“Larry, please tell me this is a joke.”
The man sighs, and I can picture him running his thumb and middle finger along his thin brow. “Afraid not.”
“But…” I mean, what do I say? As I pace back and forth along the store porch, the wood creaks beneath my weight. “Why?”
Another sigh. “Look, son. It’s nothing personal?—”
“It feels a little bit personal.” I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself. Spouting off and getting angry won’t solve this problem. I may hate confrontation, but I won’t let anyone take my son from me. “Sorry, this was just a surprise. I thought we were doing okay—me letting you see Ryder as often as you’d like, you helping me out when I need to work. I thought it was a win-win.”
A muffled voice in the background—which sounds an awful lot like Constance—fills the space for a moment. Then Larry finally answers me. “Well, see, Constance recently found Georgia’s will when she was cleaning out her house. It says she wanted us to have custody of Ryder if anything ever happened to her.”
“Okay.” I mean, I guess I get that. But I’m his father. And I’m still here. “I can understand how that would be upsetting?—”
“Upsetting?” Constance’s shrill voice banks in my ear, and I have to pull the phone away for a moment. “Yes, it’s quite upsetting when your only child dies, Jordan.”
I close my eyes. “Constance?—”
“No, don’t Constance me. Our daughter’s dying wish was for us to take care of her child—a child you rarely see because you’re a workaholic. He’d be better off with us, and our attorney agrees. Don’t contact us again. We won’t answer.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “But what about Ryder? Are you going to shut him out too?”
“Well, no, of course not.” She seems to falter there. “Fine, you can text us about watching Ryder, because of course we want to see him. And I pray you’re not cruel enough to keep him from us.”
Me , cruel? The irony.
She continues. “But we will not talk to you about this court petition. The court date is in five weeks, and we can discuss it then. Good day.”
The phone goes dead. I pull it away, stare at it in my hand. Run my hand down my face. My breathing hitches, and my palms go sweaty. What am I going to do?
My response is automatic. I pick the phone back up and text the one person I know will be here in a matter of minutes.
SOS.
The phone rings almost immediately. Marilee’s picture—one I took of her baking something in my kitchen, adorable, with her hair up and glasses falling down her nose, unaware I was taking a photo—pops up on the screen. “Hey, Lee.”
“Jordan?” I can hear the noise of the bakery, the steady stream of classical music Marla Thompkins keeps playing, eking into our conversation. “Hang on.” The noise suddenly stops. “Sorry, I had to step into the kitchen. What’s going on? Where are you? Are you okay? Who do I need to beat up?”
She says the last part jokingly, and it is rather laughable to think of sweet Marilee Moffitt beating anyone up with her petite frame and kindness that wouldn’t harm a fly. But then again, she has no idea why I’m SOS-ing her.
“Um. Sorry. I didn’t know you were working today.”
“Don’t apologize. Lexi had an appointment, so Marla asked me to fill in up front. But she actually just got back, so it’s good timing.” A pause. “Where are you?”
“At work.”
“K. I’ll be there in five.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I said I’ll be there in five, Jay.”
I smile at the nickname she gave me in high school after I first called her Lee. She said it was only fair that if I got to shorten her name, she got to shorten mine. “Let’s actually meet on the beach.”
“Okay.”
I don’t even have to tell her which spot—she just knows. It’s the spot where we always go, down past the Pink Rose, south of most of the major Main Street buildings, where a path diverges down to the water and there’s a grassy bluff always sporting a spray of flowers, even in the winter.
After I pop inside the store to let Mandy know I’ll be gone a bit longer than usual, I head to the place where the boardwalk ends, and Marilee’s already waiting there for me, two white pastry bags clutched in her fist—because of course she couldn’t come empty-handed.
“Hi.” She tilts her head, studying me from behind her black-rimmed glasses. Today she’s got on jeans, red Converse sneakers, and a white cable knit sweater with a large, green Christmas tree on the front. Her long, brown hair is tied loosely back in a low ponytail pulled over one shoulder—a different look than her high bun, but it’s still enough to give me a view of her graceful neck.
What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.
“Hi.” I stop in front of her. “Thanks for coming.”
“Duh. You sounded…”
“Panicked? Yeah. A bit.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Let’s go sit.”
“Please tell me now. I’m really worried, and don’t think I can last an extra minute.”
I glance away, toward the waves flicking up against the sand. Ebbing and flowing, no matter how much my own world is imploding. “Constance and Larry are trying to take Ryder away from me.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“It’s true.” Reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, I pull out the letter and hand it to her. She sets the pastry bags on the worn but sturdy wooden planks under our feet. Her fingertips skim mine as she reaches for the letter. Opening it, she reads. Huffs indignantly. Her mouth falls open, and her glasses scoot to the tip of her nose.
Finally, she looks back up at me. “I can’t… What…?” The hand holding the paper flies to her hip, effectively crumpling the page in her fist. “Just who do they think they are? They must be crazy.”
Marilee never speaks out against anyone, so under normal circumstances, I’d find her indignation cute.
But these are not normal circumstances.
I stuff my hands into my pockets. “I dunno. Maybe they’re right. I’ve worked a lot lately?—”
“Because you own a business. Would they rather you be a bum? I mean, you’re setting a great example for Ryder, showing him that hard work pays off.”
“Yeah, but is it too much? Am I gone too often? I’ve had to rely on the Comers, and on you, so much.”
“You know I don’t mind.”
“I know, but you’ve got your own life.”
“Jay, look at me.”
I do. Marilee is usually soft spoken, but right now, her voice is firm. Reaching out, she touches my arm. “When I help with Ryder, I’m right where I want to be. I love you guys, okay? I don’t mind helping you out one bit. Goodness knows you’ve helped me.”
I’m guessing she means after Donny left—since then, we’ve grown even closer. There were days I literally (and lovingly) dragged her out of bed. Between me and Lucy, we kept her going. Kept her drinking water and eating, until she had shaken off the mantle of despair that creep left on her shoulders.
But that’s just what best friends do.
I only wish when she said she loved us that she meant…
No. That’s not what this is about. I shake my head. “I don’t even know a lawyer, Lee. How am I going to fight this, however ridiculous it is?”
“Don’t worry. I know someone.”
“You do?” Surely she wouldn’t recommend that terrible attorney who represented her during her divorce proceedings. The guy met with her a grand total of one time, charged a ton, and didn’t even get Marilee retribution for what Donny stole from her. Meanwhile, Donny had a great attorney—one he was clearly sleeping with, if the way they couldn’t keep their hands off each other outside of the mediation proceedings were any indication.
“Yep. One of my dad’s college roommates works in San Luis Obispo.” Marilee grins, and it’s like all the clouds in the sky suddenly run scared and poof—disappear. That’s what her smile does to me, to my world. “I’ll call him up and see if he can meet with us tomorrow.”
“With us ? Lee, you don’t have to?—”
“Stop it right now. If it involves helping you, I’m there.” For a moment, she frowns. “Unless you don’t need me there. Which is totally fine, but I just want to support you however I can.”
Her hand starts to drop, and I catch it before she can pull away completely.
“Honestly, I couldn’t do it without you, Lee.”
“Good. Because I won’t let you.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she steps forward, arms outstretched, and I wrap mine around her. Tilting her head, she looks up at me. “We’re gonna figure this out, Jay. I promise. I won’t let anyone take Ryder from you. We’ll do whatever we have to, okay?”
Words burn in my throat, so I just nod. She burrows into me, pulling me tight, and I place my chin on the top of her head, taking the first deep breath since I read the court’s summons.
“It’s gonna be all right,” she says.
And somehow, I kind of, almost, believe her.
* * *
“Daddy, do you think if I eat too many carrots, my face will turn orange?”
I blink away the thoughts that have been looping in my brain since receiving the court summons just over forty-eight hours ago and glance down at Ryder. His little hand is tucked in mine, and he’s wearing his favorite green dinosaur backpack since I just picked him up from preschool. “What’s that, bud?”
“Carrots. Miss Angie says that we should eat a lot of ’em because they’re crunchy and delicious. But Evan told me that if you eat too many, you’ll turn orange.” Ryder scrunches his freckled nose up at me. “And I think that would be really cool, because my hair is already kinda orange.”
“You would look pretty cool with an orange face.”
“I know.”
This kid. His confidence, his swagger, his sweetness. He’s everything cool, and I don’t deserve him. But somehow, he’s mine.
And I have to do whatever it takes to keep it that way.
A breeze blows dead tree leaves down Hillside Drive, a road that overlooks downtown. Most of Hallmark Beach’s residents live in the neighborhood that spreads out to the east, including me and Ryder. My parents are only a few blocks away, as is Miss Angie’s in-home preschool where Ryder’s attended regularly since Georgia died.
I worked this morning at the office as best I could and then headed home to throw on some slacks and a button-up shirt since I’m guessing my normal joggers and Henley aren’t appropriate fare for meeting with an attorney. But what do I know about that? Georgia and I never met with attorneys when we had Ryder. We were able to amicably split custody and responsibilities without a third-party mediator.
But now she’s gone, and I suppose I can’t take anything for granted anymore.
As I walk Ryder to my parents’ house—where Marilee will meet me in a few minutes—my whole body feels like a twig blowing in the wind, risking a snap at any moment. I just don’t know when the breaking will come.
“So, Daddy. Is it true?”
“What?”
He huffs, as if my ignorance is the silliest thing he’s heard all day. “About the carrots! I mean, Evan lies a lot, so I don’t think he’s probably telling me the truth. But I kinda want it to be true. So maybe I just pretend?”
How do I answer him? I don’t want to steal his innocence, that special spark of light he’s got. Don’t want to tell him that pretending doesn’t make something true.
I’ve pretended in my own mind enough times that Marilee, Ryder, and I are a family. And look how that’s turned out.
But I just squeeze his hand and smile at him. “I don’t think there’s ever anything wrong with dreaming.”
His tiny-toothed grin—which I know will someday soon have gaps in it—is a balm to my soul. “Oh good. Because sometimes the impossible comes true.”
What’s the saying? From the mouth of babes?
Yeah.
I ruffle his hair. “Never stop dreaming, Ry.”
“You too, Daddy.”
Ah, geez. This kid.
We approach my parents’ small white home with green trim, where they’ve lived since settling in Hallmark Beach fifteen years ago. The grass in front is dead, and not just from the winter. The paint is in desperate need of a fresh coat, and the weeds borne of the winter rain we’ve gotten have overtaken the rocky side yard. A huge mesquite has a cracked branch that should have been taken care of weeks ago, but I haven’t had the time to come over and do anything about it.
And Dad… Well, Dad’s not been in any shape to do much of anything for a long time.
Senior year, I tried telling him what I’d seen his alcohol consumption do to him. To us. Tried to ask him to get help, to deal with his PTSD in a healthier way.
That’s when he told me he thought it’d be best for me to go away for college.
Ryder darts away from me and runs up the front porch steps, flinging open the door and shouting, “Grandma! Grandpa!”
Thank goodness that, despite my dad’s lack of emotional engagement with me, he’s at least decent to my son.
I follow after him, shutting the door behind me. The house smells like burnt toast and coffee. It’s dark despite the afternoon sun, since the light can sometimes give Mom a headache. I duck into the living room to find Ryder up on Dad’s lap in his trusty, battered recliner. He’s got a can of Bud Light in one hand, the remote in the other, and some Western is on the television.
Ryder’s chattering away, and I can’t tell if Dad’s listening to him or to the TV, which is set to low volume.
I pick up Ryder’s backpack from the middle of the floor where he left it. “Hey, Dad.”
“Son.” He doesn’t even glance at me. From here, I can see he’s wearing his favorite Dodgers cap over his balding head, and a white T-shirt is pulled snug over his beer belly.
“Where’s Mom?” When I called to ask if she was feeling up to watching Ryder today, she assured me she was fine. But if she’s not, maybe Lucy or Chloe would be willing to take a few hours off to babysit.
“Bathroom. She’ll be out in a sec.”
“Okay.” I glance down the small hallway. The carpet’s been freshly vacuumed, a sign that maybe Mom is past her last flare-up. The bathroom door’s closed, but the light’s on underneath. I settle on the edge of the brown couch and wait. Look at the clock mounted above the TV. Marilee should be here soon.
I glance back at my dad and Ryder, who’s fallen silent against his chest, asleep in minutes. Preschool must have worn him out today.
Gaze still steady on the television, Dad lifts his can of beer and shakes it. “Grab me another, will you?”
I want to say absolutely not, but I know he’ll just ask Mom when she gets in here if I don’t. So I trudge into the small galley kitchen, where I see the black toast in question sitting on a plate, strawberry jelly spread in a thin layer over top, one singular bite removed. Opening the fridge, I grab another beer from Dad’s daily six-pack. There are only two left.
“Go ahead and grab yourself one too,” Dad calls from the living room.
I shut the fridge, the single can of Bud gripped in my hand, and rejoin him, holding the beer out.
He finally looks at me, squints in the dim light. “You didn’t want one?”
“Thanks, but you know I don’t drink, Dad.” After seeing what alcohol did to him, I never have.
Except that one night—the one when I met Georgia in a bar, just as lonely after a breakup as I’d been. Alcohol and my own heartache were the reasons I made a choice to be that guy I never wanted to be.
And I’ve never touched a drop of the stuff since, not even socially.
Dad shrugs, takes the can, and pops the crisp top. Takes a swig and turns up the volume on the TV.
“Jordan, you’re here.” Mom’s sweet voice floats into the room, and I turn to find her coming down the hall in her slacks and sweater, her gray-blonde hair styled around her shoulders in soft curls. She looks like she’s headed out to church instead of spending the afternoon watching her five-year-old grandson. Other than the bags under her eyes and the fact she’s lost weight over the last few months, I wouldn’t know Lydia Carmichael had anything wrong with her. She’s a strong woman and a saint, my mother.
“Hey, Mom.” I pull her into a quick hug. “Thanks again for watching Ryder today.”
“It’ll be fun.” She gestures for me to follow her into the kitchen, which I do. There she pulls a pot from beneath a cabinet and fills it with water, setting it on the stovetop. A box of mac and cheese sits nearby. “I still just think this whole thing is ridiculous. Did you already fill the attorney in on everything?”
“I sent a copy of the court summons, and he asked for an extra day to dig into things so he could give advice when Marilee and I get there.”
Mom looks slyly at me from the corner of her eye as she flicks on the burner. “It’s nice of her to go with you.”
“It is nice.” I grab a water bottle from the fridge, twist off the lid. “She just wants to support me.”
“Of course she does. She’s a special woman, that one.” Mom cocks her head as I take a swig of water. “So, when are you finally going to tell her you love her?”
I inhale the water down the wrong pipe and sputter, coughing.
Mom just stands there, looking unconcerned. “Well?”
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I set the water on the counter and avert my eyes. “I don’t?—”
“Don’t you dare deny it, because I’m not blind, Jordan Carmichael. And I’m not getting any younger, you know. I’d like to see my only son happily married. Maybe with more children while you’re at it…”
“Geez, Mom.” Not that I haven’t dreamed of the same things. “Are my feelings that obvious?”
“They are to me. You’ve loved that girl as long as you’ve known her.”
“Maybe. But she’s never been interested in me.”
“Only because she was with her ex when the two of you met. That man kept a hold on her for a while.”
“Exactly. And even though she’s divorced now, he still has a grip on her, in a way. She’s not really healed from it all.”
“Who better to help her heal than you?” Mom pats my arm. “A good man, who loves her for who she is.”
“It’s complicated.”
“I know. You’re best friends. You don’t want to mess that up. You don’t want to lose her.”
“It’s not just that. I mean, yeah, sure, I’d worry things would change between us, but that’s the point. Marilee’s lost so much already—first her parents, then her marriage, then her inheritance.” I shrug. “She’s told me how much our relationship is a comfort for her, and I don’t want her to lose that too. And if I tell her I love her, and she doesn’t feel the same way…”
Mom’s face softens. “I think that’s unlikely. Are you sure you’re not staying quiet for your sake just as much as for hers?”
My lips press together. Hard. “Are you saying I’m being a coward, Mom?” I don’t know. Maybe I am.
“No. I just think sometimes you don’t say what you need to say because you’re worried about rocking the boat. But change can be the catalyst for some of the best things in life.” Mom gives me her look—the one that tells me she means business. “Jordan, perhaps it’s time to tell her how you feel, before someone else sweeps her up.”
The thought snaps something inside of me.
The water on the stove starts to bubble. Soon it’s a rolling boil.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start. If I say something and scare her off, I’ll never be able to forgive myself. I’d have ruined one of the best things in my life.” I almost ruined it nearly six years ago, when I finally told Marilee what I thought about Donny.
And she rejected my advice—rejected me —for saying my piece.
“I know it might seem scary, but this living in limbo isn’t healthy for either one of you.” Mom tears open the box of pasta and pours it into the pot. “Because if she doesn’t love you back, maybe it’s time to let her go, so you can move on and find someone who does.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I push a hand through my hair just as the doorbell rings. It’s a stark reminder of why I’m here in the first place. Of where I’m headed. “But right now, I’ve got to focus on Ryder. He’s what matters most.”
But as I answer the door, give Marilee a hug, and say good-bye to my parents, taking off for the attorney’s office, I can’t help but think about what my mom said. About how impossible it all feels.
But also, about what Ryder said earlier too— “Sometimes the impossible comes true.”
First things first, though.
I’ve got a fight to win.