Chapter 16
LAUREL
I pull into our driveway after dark with my wedding ring back on my finger and the same suitcase I packed three days ago sitting in the trunk.
The house comes into view beyond the windshield, all pale limestone, black shutters, enormous windows, and perfectly trimmed hedges.
We bought it after Grant’s third album went platinum six years ago, back when spending two and a half million dollars on a house made me physically nauseous and Grant spent an entire Sunday trying to convince me that we were allowed to own things that didn’t come with somebody else’s cigarette burns.
The mortgage has been paid off for three years; Evelyn confirmed the old business-related lien was released two years after that, which makes the house one of the few major assets Grant hasn’t managed to braid into Mercer Records so tightly that separating it requires a forensic accountant and holy water.
My name is on the deed. His is too.
Our life sits behind those doors, preserved in all the details that make up a life together—the stupid ones, the painful ones, the moments we never thought we’d remember until suddenly they’re the things I can see most clearly.
I watch the whole life play out in front of me—the Christmas Dean got drunk and slept in the downstairs bathtub, the morning Mama called to tell me Daddy was dead, Grant carrying me from the garage after we had sex in the car and my knees refused to cooperate when I tried to walk, two failed plans to renovate the upstairs bathroom, and approximately four hundred Sunday mornings spent at the island arguing about nothing worth remembering.
I look at the house with its porch light on and see all of it at once, every version of us layered over the last, as though the walls have been keeping score.
I turn off the engine and sit there for another second, my hands resting on the steering wheel, until my phone pings.
Mama: If he says “we both made mistakes,” yours was marrying him and you are already correcting it. Don’t let that fool pass the blame around like it’s a church potluck.
A laugh escapes me despite how bone-tired I am. The two days at Mama’s had been the first time in God knows how long I’d forgotten to check my phone every five minutes.
Dean and Monica’s kids, Lily and Owen, took over the house, with Lily dragging me into the kitchen to help decorate cupcakes while Owen ran through the living room with a plastic dinosaur clenched between his teeth.
Mama cooked enough food to feed a football team before complaining that I looked too thin, and Monica refused to let me spend the entire weekend hiding in my own head.
Saturday afternoon, she pulled me out of the house and drove us through Savannah with the windows down, music blasting.
We stopped for ice cream and ended up sitting on a bench outside the shop, giggling like a couple of high school girls because a toddler at the next table had gotten more ice cream on his face than in his mouth.
Monica kept trying to discreetly point him out without his mother noticing, which made me laugh harder every time.
We wandered through a little antique shop after that, trying on ridiculous sunglasses and taking pictures we’d never show anyone, until Dean called to ask where the hell we were.
We laughed so hard on the drive back that I had tears running down my face.
That night, we sat on the porch with glasses of sweet tea while Dean told stories I’d heard a hundred times and still laughed at like they were new.
Mama kept interrupting him to correct details she insisted he’d gotten wrong, Monica threatened to record the argument for the family group chat, and I laughed until my stomach hurt.
For once, no one asked me about Grant. No one needed an explanation from me.
I could just sit there with my family and exist.
On Sunday, we drove into town for lunch, stopped by the little bookstore I used to love, and spent half the afternoon wandering around Savannah with nowhere we needed to be.
Monica talked me into buying a ridiculous pair of gold earrings from a little shop because she said I’d look good in them, and I let her fuss over me without arguing.
I slept late. I laughed. I let Mama feed me like I was twelve again.
For two days, I got pieces of myself back—the version of me who could sit at a table without wondering what Grant was doing, the version who didn’t feel like she was carrying a fucking crime scene around in her chest. And now I’m back, and every piece of me I managed to find feels like it got lost somewhere along that stretch of highway between Savannah and Nashville.
I wipe the corner of my eye, grab my purse, and step out of the car.
∞∞∞
Grant has staged the kitchen like a hostage situation run by Hallmark; the gardenias are fresh, the coconut cake Celia gave me the recipe for over a week ago—the one Grant used to love as a kid—sits beneath a glass dome on the island with one slice missing because emotional ruin apparently gives my ex-husband an appetite, and our wedding album is beside it, along with the snow globe.
That fucking snow globe. Cheap plastic base, fake Kentucky snow, little blue barn crooked inside because Grant dropped it the week after our first anniversary and glued it back together.
We bought it at a gas station after our van died outside Bowling Green; he had eleven dollars until payday and spent seven of them on something I laughed at so hard I cried, then spent the next decade telling everybody it was the most romantic anniversary gift I’d ever received.
Grant is standing beside the stove in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, sleeves tight around his muscled arms, bare feet against the hardwood, looking tired enough that another version of me would already be crossing the room.
He’s shaved, his hair still damp, and there’s chicken in a skillet. Burned chicken.
I stare at it. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
His mouth twitches because he knows exactly what I mean. “You remember.”
“I remember eating cereal afterward.”
“You said the chicken was good.”
“I loved you. That was different from having functioning taste buds.”
The smile reaches him and dies before it can settle; good, this whole thing is already grating on my nerves.
Grant comes around the island and stops several feet away, studying my face, then my hand—the ring. His shoulders loosen, just a tiny movement, but most people would miss it; I spent over a decade learning his body better than song lyrics.
“You came home.”
“I said I would.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Neither was I.”
That part is true, or close enough to wear truth’s clothes. I’d planned to ruin whatever peace he thinks he has sooner or later.
His eyes move toward my suitcase. “Are you staying?”
“Yes.”
Another small release crosses his face, and Christ, watching hope work on the bastard you plan to leave is damn satisfying, but the pain in my chest won’t budge no matter how hard I try to force it out.
It’d be easier if Grant were cruel every minute, if he had spent fourteen years kicking puppies and insulting waiters; I could carve him out of myself with a butter knife.
He walks to the cabinet, takes down the green mug I prefer for tea, and warms it with hot water first because I once complained that cold ceramic ruins Earl Grey; he puts it in front of me without asking what I want.
Asshole.
“I ended it with Sloane,” Grant says, turning off the stove.
I sit on the stool nearest the island, letting my expression soften. “You did that?”
Grant nods, turning toward me. “I told her it was over. I made it clear there’s no future there.”
I lower my eyes, worrying my thumb over the edge of my wedding ring. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He comes around the island, stopping a few feet away. “I know I fucked up, Laurel. I know I hurt you. But she’s gone. It’s done.”
I look up at him, letting the silence stretch until he fills it with whatever he wants to believe. “You really ended it?”
“I did.” His jaw works. “I removed myself from her project too. Tessa pulled tomorrow’s press. The single is frozen until the rights issue is resolved, and I’m assigning her album to Marcus.”
Oh, this should be good.
“You’re punishing her for me?”
“She knew I was married, but she decided being ambitious mattered more than having any fucking boundaries. She threw herself at me because she wanted more of what I could give her, and I fell for her greedy antics. I’m not letting her wreck what we built because she wanted more than she was entitled to. ”
I let the right amount of hurt move across my face. “You make it sound like she did this to you.”
“Of course she did. She knew exactly what she was doing, fucking with my head, pushing every button she knew would get me to give her what she wanted.”
“And you didn’t?”
His expression hardens. “I’m not saying I had no part in it.”
“No?” I let out a small, wounded sigh. “Because that sounded an awful lot like you were explaining why this is her fault.”
“Her project is compromised.” Grant reaches for his beer, thinks better of it, and sets the bottle down unopened.
“There are photographs. Reporters are sniffing around. Sponsors are asking questions. Her entire campaign is built around being America’s fucking sweetheart.
Do you think radio wants a married-label-president scandal attached to their lead single?
” He shakes his head, like the answer should be obvious.
“It isn’t just about punishing her. I have to protect Mercer.
I have to protect the artists on our roster.
One stupid affair doesn’t get to drag half the company into a fucking circus. ”
Stupid affair. I scoff into my fist to hide the irritation boiling to a stepping point in my veins.