Chapter 12 Grayson
GRAYSON
Dr. Okafor's office has a clock on the wall that I've been staring at for forty-seven minutes.
"You're quiet today," Dr. Okafor says.
"I'm processing."
"Processing what?"
"The fact that I've been coming here twice a week for eleven months and I still can't explain why I forgot my wife's birthday."
"What do you think the reason is?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm paying you."
"I'm not here to give you reasons, Grayson. I'm here to help you find them yourself."
"My father never remembered birthdays. Mother's. Ours. He used to say remembering was for people who didn't have important things to think about."
"And you believed that?"
"I believed it for thirty-five years. I'm trying not to anymore."
"What changed?"
"I saw what I was turning into. I didn't like it."
"You cancelled the next phase of the Europe expansion. The week she left."
"Everything we hadn’t committed to yet. We’re honoring the signed client deals. I paid to exit the proposed office leases, and the rest is on hold."
"That was a significant business commitment."
"It was two years of planning. My board thought I was having a breakdown. Maybe I was."
"You also returned Richard's investment. Stepped back from the CEO role."
"Theo handles the day-to-day now. I delegated.
Started showing up less, listening more.
The company didn't collapse. Turns out I wasn't as indispensable as I thought.
I asked him about Delaney after the gala.
He denied being involved. I let a denial stand in for an answer because I wanted to believe someone at the office was still dependable. "
"Do you believe those changes earn her forgiveness?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because earning forgiveness isn't... it's not a transaction. I don't get to stop the next expansion phase and return her father's investment and suddenly everything's fine. That's not how it works."
"How does it work?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm here."
"You've been coming here for eleven months."
"Eleven months of learning how much I don't know."
"That sounds like progress."
"It sounds like admitting I was wrong for a very long time."
"Were you?"
"Yes."
"About what specifically?"
"About everything. About thinking that working more meant loving more. About thinking that building something meant being present. About thinking that she should just know how I felt because I was there, even when I wasn't really there."
"Tell me more about what 'not really there' means to you."
"It means I was in the room but I wasn't in the room. I was thinking about deals, about numbers, about the next thing and the thing after that. She'd be talking to me and I'd be nodding but I wasn't listening. I was somewhere else. Always somewhere else."
"You mentioned the elevator before. You said you felt unworthy because of your panic attacks."
"Did I say that?"
"You said that your inability to control your fear in elevators made you feel like you weren't the kind of man who deserved a wife like Abbie."
"That sounds about right."
"Do you still feel that way?"
"Some days. Most days. The panic hasn't gone away. I still sometimes take the stairs. I still feel my chest tighten when I even think about getting into one of those things. And I used to think that made me defective. Like I was broken in some fundamental way that couldn't be fixed."
"And now?"
"Now I think the panic isn't the problem. The panic is just a thing that happens. The problem was how I responded to it. I responded by working harder, making more money, closing more deals. Like if I could just prove I was successful enough, powerful enough, the fear wouldn't matter."
"Did that work?"
"What do you think?"
"I think you know the answer."
I meet her eyes.
"No. It didn't work. It made everything worse.
It made me absent. It made me unavailable.
It made me the kind of husband who would stand on a stage while his sister-in-law accused him of fathering her child and say nothing.
Because I was so used to being somewhere else that I didn't even know how to be present in my own crisis. "
"That's a significant insight."
"It's an eleven-month insight. Very expensive insight. Should probably get it framed."
"You use humor when you're uncomfortable."
"I'm aware."
"Is this uncomfortable?"
"All of this is uncomfortable. Every single session is uncomfortable. Talking about this is uncomfortable. But I keep coming back."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know how to be different without help.
And I want to be different. Not for her...
I mean, yes, for her, but also for me. I want to be someone who can be still.
I want to be someone who can be present.
I want to be someone who doesn't need to prove anything to anyone, including myself. "
"What about the house? The cabin in Topanga?"
"What about it?"
"You bought it two months after she left. You've been renovating it yourself. Learning woodwork. Cooking."
"Is there a question in there?"
"I'm wondering what the house represents to you."
"I don't know. A project, I guess."
"Another project."
"That's not... I see what you're doing."
"What am I doing?"
"You're suggesting that the house is just another way to avoid sitting still. Another work thing dressed up as a healing thing."
"Is it?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Probably."
"What would it mean if it was?"
"It would mean I'm still doing the same thing I've always done. Just in a different location. With a hammer instead of a phone."
"And if it's not?"
"Then it means I'm trying to build something for a life that might actually include stillness. A place where I could just... exist. Without the pressure. Without the performance."
"With or without her?"
"I don't know. That's not up to me."
"What is up to you?"
"Being ready. Being different. Actually different, not just pretending to be different long enough to get her back and then sliding into old patterns."
"Do you think you could slide back?"
"I think I could slide back very easily if I'm not careful. I think the work thing is a compulsion, and compulsions don't just go away because you recognize them."
"So what do you do?"
"I keep coming here. I keep being honest about when I'm screwing up. I keep trying to sit with the discomfort instead of running from it."
"And the house?"
"The house is... I want it to be real. I want it to be a place where I could actually live, not just another achievement to point to. But I also know that wanting something doesn't make it true."
"One more month until the year is up."
"I know."
"What happens then?"
"She may want to speak to me. She might not want to."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then she doesn't. And that would... I won't lie, that would destroy me. But it would be her choice. And I have to respect that. I have to respect that she might look at all of this, all the changes, all the therapy, all the cabin renovation, and decide it's too little too late. That's her right."
"And if she does reach out?"
"Then I listen. I don't promise anything. I don't make big speeches. I just listen to whatever she has to say and I try to be present for it. Actually present. Not planning what to say next, not thinking about how to fix it, just there."
"That sounds different from the man who came to see me eleven months ago."
"That's because he was an idiot. Charming, but an idiot."
"Still using humor."
"Still uncomfortable. Probably always will be."
"Tell me about the house."
* * *
The house is in Topanga Canyon. I bought the old cabin in month two, when I couldn’t bear staying at Trousdale. No glass walls. No elevator. No panic pressing in from all sides.
I'm rebuilding it with my own hands.
"You're going to nail that too deep." Luis, the foreman, points at the board I'm measuring. "Quarter inch off. You see it?"
I squint at the mark. He's right. "How do you catch that every time?"
"Thirty years of practice." He takes the board from me, adjusts my mark, hands it back. "You're getting better, though. Six months ago you would've nailed right through the wall."
"I did nail through the wall."
"I remember. Took me two hours to fix."
This week we’ve been replacing laminate with butcher block. Abbie would love it. I cook now. Badly at first, but I've gotten better. I eat at the small table I built myself and wonder whether she's eating alone too.
Her wedding ring lives in my nightstand. My own ring is still on my hand. Has been every day since she left. But hers sits in the dark, waiting for a future I'm not sure I've earned.
I keep it safe until she decides what she wants done with it.
* * *
Delaney's been trying to reach me for months. New numbers, unread emails, a letter forwarded by my assistant. I know exactly what to do with it. Nothing.
But then another article drops.
Valentine Baby: New Source Says "Everyone Knows He's the Father" sourced to a "family friend close to the situation." The same anonymous source that's been feeding stories since this whole thing started. The same careful phrasing designed to imply without confirming.
Constance Montgomery. It has to be. I'm in Theo's office before I can think better of it.
"We need to talk."
Theo looks up from his laptop. He’s been acting CEO for eleven months.
"Grayson." He stands. "I didn't know you were coming in."
"I wasn't planning to." I close the door behind me. "There's another article. Her mother is feeding this, and I can't answer it without making it bigger. Every denial just becomes another headline."
"I know." He loosens his tie. "I've been trying to get ahead of it, but—"
"Theo."
He stops. His hands won’t stay still.
"The baby's yours," I say.
It's not a question.
He sits down hard. "Gray—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Don't lie to me. I saw how you looked at each other when I fired her. I have suspected it since then. Tell me the truth."
"It's complicated—"
"It's not complicated. You slept with her. She got pregnant. And she decided your name wasn't big enough, so she went after mine."
He doesn't deny it.
"I was scared," he says finally. "When she told me... I panicked. I didn't know what to do. And then she said she had a plan, and I just—" He looks down at his hands. "I let her."
"You helped her humiliate my wife."
"I didn't think it would go that far. I thought she was just... I don't know. Getting attention. Being dramatic. I didn't think she'd actually—"
"Stand on a stage in front of the whole industry and tell them I was the father?"
He flinches. I want to hit him. My hands shake. But I don't hit him.
I need his testimony. Keeping him in charge is a separate decision, and one I can’t keep making alone.
"You're going to sign an affidavit," I say. "Today. Stating that you're the father. That you've known since she was pregnant. That you allowed her to imply otherwise."
"Gray, I can't—"
"You can. You will." I step closer. "And when I need you to, you're going to say it out loud. To whatever reporter or lawyer or judge needs to hear it."
"If I do that, my career—"
"Your career should have ended eleven months ago when you let my wife walk out of an awards show thinking I'd lied to her. This is you starting to fix it." I straighten my jacket. "My lawyer will have the paperwork by end of day. Sign it. Don't make me ask twice."
I leave his office without looking back.
Before I leave the building, I request an emergency board meeting.
Theo’s confession goes on the record; his discretionary authority and bonus are suspended, and the search for a permanent replacement begins.
He’ll stay only for the supervised handover. It should have happened sooner.
* * *
Several weeks later
The Topanga house is quiet tonight. I've finished the kitchen countertops. The cabinets are next. Luis says I'm getting better at not rushing.
Dr. Okafor says the same thing about healing. I eat dinner at the small table, looking at the copy of Theo’s affidavit, signed the day he confessed. After dinner I wash the dishes by hand. Delaney has so far refused the request for a witnessed sample from their son. My lawyer keeps pursuing it.
I'm drying the last plate when I see the calendar. It's hanging on the wall by the refrigerator, with a photo of mountains above the dates. Tomorrow's date is circled in red.
The circle went up the day I hung the calendar. I copied the anniversary from the separation agreement. A full year, just as I promised her. One year to the day. Tomorrow.
I stand there looking at that red circle. A year, and I still don't know whether she'll want to see me. I don't know if I'm better. But I know I'm different.
And I know exactly what I'm going to do tomorrow. I open my contacts. Her name is still first. But the year is up.
Tomorrow, the terms expire. Tomorrow, I can reach out without breaking my word. Tomorrow, I get to find out if any of this mattered. I put the phone down.
I go to bed and lie there until the window goes pale.