Chapter 29 #3
The room fell silent, my words hanging in the air.
My harshness didn’t affect the mediator, surprisingly.
Empathy was apparent in her gentle features.
“I understand that when there is animosity, it is hard to dredge up the past and work through those wounds when the larger picture is dangling in front of us.”
I shifted in my seat. They did this on purpose. They knew they could drag my emotions into this discussion and play the victim as I unleashed.
Calm your shit, Reed.
As the mediator let her thoughts settle between us, I tried to chill, taking advantage of the silence and brief pause in intensity. Until my phone buzzed on the table once again.
Oh, fuck me.
Cienna’s name blinked on the screen, her contact photo, a selfie she and I took in Cabo after winning the couples contest, glaring back at us.
Seeing her name brought a mixture of calm and fear.
Bruce gave a knowing snigger, and my mom stared at the phone, her lips pursed but her eyes soft.
I didn’t even want to look down the table at the mediator.
As innocent as these back-to-fucking-back phone calls were, they only fueled my parents’ cause.
“Another neighbor, Reed?” Bruce waggled his brows, then addressed the mediator.
“Like I said, I believe one of the more important topics to put on the table is that of Reed’s personal life, which has always been… ” He paused. “Exuberant.”
I flopped my head back, groaning. “Clearly, we aren’t working through anything in this meeting. Hashing out the past and making offhand comments is not getting us anywhere. How do we proceed?”
The mediator clasped her hands on the table, leaning in. “If you wish to end our mediation session, the judge will take my recommendation and write up a new custody agreement.”
The word new buzzed in my head. “And what exactly is that?” I asked, already having to fight a slump of defeat in my core.
“Keeping full physical and legal custody with Mr. Marsh.”
My sigh of relief filled the room.
“And…”
Fuck, fuck, no and.
“I will honor Mr. and Mrs. Fosters’ visitation, to be organized by the social worker.” She peered down at her file, flipping a page. “Nina Clifton.” Looking back up, she continued, “We will revisit in sixty days, provided you do not come up with your own agreement in the meantime.”
With that, she pulled the file onto her lap. “If there are no more topics to discuss, you will have the final agreement shortly. You can wait in here or out in the hallway, and I’ll have you come back in to sign the documents.”
She stood and addressed us one last time. “Abigail seems like a beautiful, strong child. When dealing with grief, she needs her village, and I hope we can revisit this conversation again and find the best permanent solution for her.”
Bruce stood, arms crossed, and walked to the door.
In true form, he left my mother behind, who studied me for a moment.
Her purse hung perfectly, draped on her arm, and her shoulders were held high.
But her eyes. They held something completely different.
My own emotions combating my mind made it difficult to decipher her body language, so I just stared back for a moment, then turned to walk away. “Goodbye, Mother.”
With my back facing her, I nearly missed her soft, shaky voice as she said, “Goodbye, Son.”
After exiting the room, I beelined for the bathroom.
Pulling the stall door closed, I hadn’t decided whether I was there to hide away or pray to the porcelain gods.
My stomach was a ball of air being twisted and tied into balloon animals.
Noodles replaced my legs, and I dropped to the toilet, hunched over, bracing my arms on my knees, panting.
Each breath felt like it was being smothered.
I clawed at my neck to relieve the choke hold and found it was slick from sweat.
The stall was less suffocating than that entire spacious meeting room. The last thirty minutes were suddenly a blur. A blur that ended with one of my biggest fears coming to fruition.
Not only would Abigail be forced to meet her grandparents, she would also be spending time with them.
Would she be in physical harm? No. But emotional harm?
She had enough going on in her five-year-old world, and now her new normal was changing again.
What would they expect from her? What would they say to her about Caroline?
Visions flashed before my eyes. Abigail in a prep school uniform, her hair neatly pulled back.
All the fierceness gone from her eyes, just somber and obedient.
The bathroom door squeaked open, and familiar clomping footsteps echoed into the room.
I froze in the stall as the sink turned on, water gushing from the faucet before it stopped a few seconds later.
“It’s for her own good, you know.” Bruce’s voice echoed in the room, but I didn’t respond.
Instead, I held my breath. He knew I was there, but I would be damned before I let him goad me any further.
“We wouldn’t want our granddaughter to end up like her mother.”
My body stiffened in response, but I remained silent, clenching my fists and glaring lasers into the stall door.
“A failure, an addict, an absolute tramp.”
Fire ripped through my knuckles as I lifted my fists, ready to punch. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I was prepared to ignore it. My need to slam into him to make him regret his words consumed me. But then the phone buzzed again. Shit.
Loosening my fists, I sagged against the side wall.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I saw two reminders blinking on the screen.
The first memo: “Abigail’s first tumbling class, 5:00 p.m. tomorrow.
” And the second: “Return Abi’s library books.
” If I let the man outside this stall get the best of me, I’d never see Abigail master a cartwheel like she wanted so badly.
I’d never get to experience her reading me a book for the first time.
He wouldn’t win. I dragged my hands down my face with one more deep breath. My stepfather’s smug face greeted me when I opened the door, his arms crossed and his toe tapping. He was expecting a frenzy. But he wouldn’t get that from me.
Ignoring his presence, I strode to the sink and washed my hands. He flinched as I reached behind him for paper towels. Without another glance, I tossed them in the garbage and yanked open the bathroom door.
“You know I’m right. Your fists might be able to throw punches. But I don’t fight with my hands. I fight with lawyers, money, and any other resource it takes.” His steps sounded again. “And your own history doesn’t do you any favors either.”
Already turned away from him, halfway through the door, I squeezed my eyes shut, holding in everything I wanted to let loose. The door thumped as I closed it behind me. I’d be damned before giving him any more reactions or fodder.
Luckily, my name was called by the receptionist just as I started down the hallway. When I was handed my copy of the document, I stood and stared at it for a moment, then somehow made it to my car and collapsed in the seat.
Cool leather rubbed against my palms as I grasped the steering wheel and squeezed.
It was so tempting to punch it, but getting aggressive wouldn’t help anything.
I eventually found a steady breath and pulled my phone from my pocket.
All the missed calls. People who cared. Who were on my side.
With an inhale that finally filled my lungs completely, I released it slowly and let the comfort of that settle.
Cici’s name stared back at me from our last text exchange.
I didn’t have many options of people I could call in this situation, but out of everyone, it was her who I wanted to talk to most. Hell, more than talk.
I itched to curl my arms around her, smell her hair, and feel her nose nestled in the crook of my neck.
I clicked on her thread to text her to see if she could see me tonight. Even if she had to come over for a mac ’n’ cheese and Goldfish crackers dinner. But the text I meant to send prior to the mediation was still sitting in the text box, unsent. Shit.
Her last text. Autocorrect and boyfriend. She was probably freaking out. It was time to go see her and show her she could call me anything she wanted. I was all hers.