Chapter 29
Reed
As I pulled away from the school, I did a mental checklist of “things I might have fucked up this morning.”
Lunch: A glorious SunButter and grape jelly swirled sandwich. I finally mastered the swooping spoon thing Abi insisted made it taste better.
Socks: My rushed delivery of at least twenty pairs of socks—rainbow, unicorn, puppy, panda, and other creatures.
Yesterday, she skipped over the rainbows and unicorns and went absolutely apeshit over some pink-and-purple T.
rex pattern. Go figure. Who cared? Sock crisis averted—and yes, I ordered a dozen more T. rex socks as backup.
On time: Well, that one had been easy all week.
The more on-time I was, the more time I got to spend saying goodbye to Abi—which took a whole thirty seconds.
But while I lingered like all the helicopter parents around me, I got sneaky peeks and blushes and the occasional discreet touch.
Along my arm, across my back, delicate trails that carried to my toes, hitting all the other places in between.
God, if I thought I was head over heels for this girl while cruising along the Baja coast, it was nothing compared to her effect on me now.
I never thought I’d be so thankful for a lost stuffed-animal meltdown.
I patted and passed a knowing wink at the freaking fox daily.
That fluffy little friend gave me a day with two beautiful ladies.
With a fist bump against the steering wheel, I turned up the music and let the prideful moment fill up the car.
Until a few miles later when it all came to an abrupt stop as I entered the courthouse parking lot.
Today was the day. I was there. And no matter how much I nailed the parenting this morning, this was a crude reminder that it could all be inconsequential after this meeting.
After cruising the parking lot mindlessly, I pulled into a spot and death-gripped the wheel, nearly digging my nails into the rubber. With a deep inhale that I let it out on a sigh, I puffed my cheeks, gearing up.
Movement in my rearview mirror caught my attention, and there they were—my parents.
No. My mother and the monster she married.
Standing and staring at the building. Bruce looked like an idiot, scratching his head, looking up and around as if a multilevel courthouse was mystifying.
My mother brushed her hand down his arm, and he snatched it away, swiping through something on his phone.
Her shoulders tensed, then sagged, and then she simply stood there.
He finally pulled his head out of his ass and nodded toward the main entrance.
Sitting for a moment longer, I gathered my cool so I didn’t explode before I was even face-to-face with them.
After a minute or two, I walked in and went through the metal detectors, then spotted my mother and Bruce waiting behind a flock of people in front of the elevators.
Opting for the stairway, I hoofed it up a few floors to the Child and Family Welfare department.
After checking in with the receptionist and grabbing my guest name tag, I strode down the hall to wait.
I stood, leaning against the wall, trying to find a rabbit hole to lose myself in on my phone so I wouldn’t seem approachable.
At all. They wouldn’t dare. But then again, I thought they wouldn’t dare show their faces after not attending their own daughter’s funeral.
I was halfheartedly listening to my favorite vlogger doing an unboxing video on a new camera model when the elevator dinged, snapping me right back to that musky hallway.
Their presence hung in the air; years of avoiding and staying under the radar gave me that awareness.
The clomp of his shoes still sounded the same, accompanied by the tap of my mother’s heels trying to keep up.
He’d never meet her stride halfway, let alone slow down for her.
My jaw clenched, but I immediately swallowed the tension.
They would not get a hint of emotion from me.
This was about Abigail and getting this shit done as quickly and easily as possible.
Watch out, Bruce. Here comes the swift kick out the door.
Don’t let it knock you on the ass as hard as I did years ago.
That escalated quickly. I forced down another slow swallow. Tone it down, man.
A text popped up on my screen with a little bloop. Perfect timing. I turned my phone on silent, giving the receptionist an apologetic look, then opened my message.
Cici: I might have shooed the class out to recess five minutes early so I could hide in the women’s restroom and send you this text. I hope you get it on time. Good luck today. You’re the greatest uncle (and boyfriend) in the world. Abi is so lucky to have you. Xoxoxo
Cici: Boyfriend? Smh, damn autocorrect. This phone is awfully presumptuous. Ignore that.
A laugh burst from my lips, drawing the attention of the receptionist. Again.
But I couldn’t hold it in if I tried. As confident and sexy as her flirty lip bites and coy winks had been the last few days.
As much as she took the initiative and climbed onto my lap last weekend, that awkward, nervous girl who tapped my shoulder months ago was still inside there.
Labels had never been a thing in my world. Never had a reason for them. But it’d be a cold day in hell before I’d let her feel anything but 100 percent mine and me 100 percent hers. Whatever that was called in her mind, I was all hers.
The giddiness traveled through my fingertips as I typed out, “Boyfriend? I’m m—”
“Reed.”
I hadn’t registered the tap on my arm, but the sound of my name pulled me from the blissful escape of Cici.
The next thing my brain recognized was the scent.
Far too much rose and a hint of jasmine.
The perfume was ingrained in my brain, beyond even the most tangible memories of my childhood. My mother.
With the tiniest glimpse her way, my heart splintered.
She wore a mask of love and concern, and her hand on my arm momentarily took me back to when that was all I needed for the world to feel okay.
But then I snapped back to reality. This was fake.
This was the bullshit she was going to pull in that mediation room, and I would not let it start now.
My gaze turned to a glare. All the repulsion I could muster flared in my eyes. And clearly, the message was loud and clear because the gentleness fell from her face. “Don’t.”
Her hand fell to her side. Down the hall, a voice called out, “Mr. Marsh?” A woman with a file in hand waved me over to her door. Pushing off the wall with an exhale, I brushed past my mother. She could save her motherly bullshit for the mediator.
In the office, the mediator flipped around her file, asking me for the occasional confirmation, and each time I gave a statement or clarification about Abigail and her—our—situation, it reaffirmed my purpose for being here.
This wasn’t about resentment, vengeance, or processing my own feelings about my relationship with my parents.
This was about Abigail and protecting her future.
With a countdown from ten, my racing pulse settled, helping me pull my emotions back from the surface, knowing I’d be head-on with the two of them again.
When it was time for the mediation session, I straightened my collar and schooled my features, then stepped into the room. Across the way, my parents shuffled in from another door. Every sound bounced around off the walls of the empty room, but the silence was unsettling.
I met Bruce’s stare, his usual snarl replaced with a cool demeanor.
My mother led, and he gently guided her into the room, his hand on the small of her back, ever the doting husband.
As if he’d ever let her lead. He wouldn’t slow for her in the hallway, and yet now he followed close behind her.
The bullshit was potent from the start. No surprise there.
My focus shifted to the nearest chair, and I took my seat, bracing my forearms on the table, ready, set, go.
The mediator flipped through her paperwork and then stood at the head of the table.
“Welcome,” she greeted in a warm voice. “I want to start by commending you on taking this step. It makes things much easier on both parties if you work through mediation and come up with an agreement on your own.”
Silence. Absolute silence. I nodded and smiled.
“First I’ll go over the steps of this meeting.” She listed some things, but my mind merely hummed as I prepared to make my case.
The mediator read the basic information from our file. Names, relations, addresses.
“1667 Winterspring Court, Kelly Grove,” Bruce answered.
What. The. Fuck. Are you fucking kidding me?
He must have read my confusion because he cleared his throat and added, “We have rented a three-bedroom home in the Dunsmere neighborhood to support visitation during this transition.”
Transition. Screw you. The only transition that would be happening was their transitioning back the fuck home. The home across the country.
The mediator continued her note-taking, not acknowledging this information that was blowing my mind. I thought, at most, they were staying in a hotel. But a house?
The mediator turned to me. “And Abigail’s residence is 1112 Cedar Creek Drive, Kelly Grove?”
“Yes, the home she has been in since birth,” I stated, trying hard to keep a neutral look on my face. “With me.” I couldn’t resist adding that obvious tidbit.
She made a few more notes and then looked up, clasped her hands on the table, and leaned in toward us. “Let’s talk a little about the number one reason you’re here—Abigail. I’d love to kick off this session by sharing about her.”
“Well, she’s five,” Bruce chimed in immediately.
To my delight, the mediator’s lips pursed as she reminded him, “Yes, we went over the basics. Tell me about her.”