TWENTY-EIGHT
HAYDEN
BOSTON
DECEMBER
"I can't believe you called me. I... I heard what happened to Emerald," Hal says, his voice softer than I've ever heard. "I'm sorry. Is she alright?"
Frowning, I pull the phone away from my ear for a moment, just to confirm that I called the correct contact. Harold Sawyer. He's been blocked in my phone for about seven years now, ever since the night of my twentieth birthday.
I always remembered my father's voice like a battering ram, dripping with condescension that he had mastered over twenty years of negotiations with powerful men.
Now, he sounds... empty.
"I need Wyatt's number."
There's a long pause before he asks, "...Wyatt?"
"Yes," I grit out, my grip tightening on my phone. "I need his phone number."
"Son, what's going on—"
"Don't call me that!" The snarl tears from my throat before I can stop it. "I'm not your son. That's what you said, remember?"
"I..." he trails off, his voice breaking, breath hitching. I frown. Is he crying?
"You don't even know the depth of regret I feel for the way I handled... everything."
And that unlocks the anger that's been sitting inside of me for years.
"—and I don't really give a shit about your regret, Hal," I growl, my voice low and mean. "The only thing I want from you is Wyatt's number. Then you can go back to pretending you don't have a son, and I can go back to my life without you in it."
That's not really that true though, is it? Because Hal Sawyer is like a coffee stain on a white shirt. You can bleach it and scrub it, and it never fully comes out. Even when it's convincing that it's gone, you look at it in certain lights, and it's still fucking there.
In my ugliest moments, Hal Sawyer still bleeds through me.
And I let it.
Just like Ruby said, it was up to me to carve him out. I didn't.
Look what happened.
The shower shuts off in the bathroom. I sigh and step out onto the bedroom's balcony, gently closing the door, not wanting Emerald to hear me. The cold January air cuts through the hoodie I'm wearing, but I don't even feel it.
"Hayden, I've... a lot of things have changed in the last five years..." he seems like he wants to say more, but thinks better of it.
I don't care that he's changed; that age has made him look at his life and see how empty it is. All I want is the number of the man who can track down Rick Fox.
Hal clears his throat and sounds more like how I remember him when he speaks again.
"I haven't spoken to Wyatt in a while. I'll need to find his number again, but I'll send it to you as soon as I do."
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth .
"How's Emerald?" he asks, his voice quiet.
My jaw clenches.
Remembering the vile names he called her at that dinner, the way he spoke to her, makes my blood boil.
And for some reason, I open my mouth and tell him.
Because I know that Hal Sawyer won't give an inch unless he gets a mile in return.
"She's recovering. We're trying to get home."
"Ann Arbor?" he asks, sounding like he's proud that he remembered that.
"Yes."
"When do you fly out?"
"Hopefully Friday," I admit, a little reluctantly.
The curtains on the balcony door shift, and Emerald's face appears, looking concerned when she sees me on the phone. Damp hair pulled into a braid, my hoodie over her head, legs in soft pajama pants her mother bought for her.
The sight of her makes me smile, and I nod, hoping to ease her worries.
Her expression softens, and she gives me a sweet smile that hits me right in the chest.
That reminds me that yes, I will ask anyone for help if it will help her.
Even the devil himself.
"One minute," I mouth to her, and she gives me a thumbs-up, before her face disappears once more.
The guilt hits hard after that. I should've told her first. I know that. I know what asking Hal Sawyer for help could mean—that I owe big in return.
It'll be worth it .
There's a long moment, and I hear Hal typing something on the computer.
"Okay," Hal says. "Let me find Wyatt's number, and I'll send it to you. I'll reach out and let him know to expect you. Just... tell him what you need," his voice goes very quiet. "Don't worry about paying him. I got it."
"This doesn't mean anything," I hiss into the phone, the anger prickling up my spine. "I just... want what you're useful for."
"I know," Hal says, his voice rough. "I know, so—Hayden. I know. But I..."
Hal sighs, and I don't know why I hang onto the line, but I do.
Half morbid curiosity, half because maybe there's some part inside of me that still craves this asshole's approval.
And that scares me a little bit.
"I was wrong about a lot, but..." Hal's voice cracks before he clears it. "I was especially wrong about Emerald."
I don't know what to say to that, and I hate that the words hit me hard enough to knock the air from me.
When I introduced Emerald as my girlfriend, all he saw was a distraction from the goal of playing professionally.
He told me I was stupid, that she'd ruin or trap me.
That if I wanted to get laid, I didn't have to make them my girlfriend.
That I would never make it professionally with her hanging on to me.
And she turned out to be the only reason I even made it to that level.
Her faith motivated me more than his cruelty ever could.
"Just send me the damn number. "
"Okay," Hal whispers. "I will, Hayden. You... take care. I'll handle everything."
My hands shake, and I feel a little nauseous as I hang up. There's no need for proper goodbyes. I got what I needed from him.
For a second, I just stand there, staring out at the morning sky. It's a cold, bleak January day. We're in a suburban neighborhood in Boston, and I hear the birds chirping, people coming out to warm up their cars, and school buses bringing kids to school.
It's all so normal, and it makes me ache. It makes me picture Emerald and me in this normalcy: me heading to work at some regular job, Emerald working from home. Would we have kids by now? Would we be living in a house like this one?
Can we still get that?
The door behind me softly slides open, and then I feel two arms slide around my waist from behind, a small body pressed against my back. It's like pieces slotting into place, the ease and relief I feel at this moment. I lay my hands over my wife's cold ones, hating the lack of ring on her finger.
Lifting her hand, I bend my head and place a kiss on the soft, healed fingers. Her doctors were impressed by how quickly her bones repaired themselves—her fingers and ribs.
I had joked that she excels at everything she puts her mind to, including healing body parts. Emerald gave me a smug look and winked.
"I called Hal," I confess, my heart thudding in my chest.
Emerald freezes, and her arms drop from around me. Turning, I meet her eyes, and the combination of anger and worry in them causes the guilt and shame inside of me to swell.
"I'm sorry."
Emerald reaches up to cup my cheek, and I lean into her touch, rubbing my bearded cheek against her soft hand. With her other hand, she holds up a thumb, her eyes asking the question her mouth can't.
Are you okay?
"Yes," I nod firmly. "I'm okay."
And I am.
Emerald's always been the one who grounds me.
Back in college, when I'd get off the phone with my father after he expressed his disappointment in the report he demanded from my coach every month, I would meet Emerald at her dorm.
All the tension that had accumulated in my body from his call would melt the second she smiled at me. She could sense that I had spoken to my father, that it didn't go well, and she would just open her arms. I would fall into them, the world would melt away.
Emerald searches my face, eyes trailing over my expression like she's checking for herself that I'm alright.
I nod and give her a small smile, and then the concern melts into anger.
From her throat, she lets out a frustrated growling sound and drops her hand from my face like my skin burns her.
She turns on her heel and stomps back into the house, sliding the door closed harder than necessary. I follow her into the room, closing the door and approaching her softly.
"Baby—" I start, but she huffs and turns, her eyes blazing bright green in her anger. The whiteboard is already in her arms, and she rips the cap off the marker and writes almost frantically.
Without talking to me first????
"I know—"
Why ?
My face heats as I tell her, "Because my dad knows people . Knows someone who can find Rick."
She shakes her head as she writes.
We don't need his help. Aisha is handling it.
"You heard Aisha. You heard what she said about how dirty this can get. There will be roadblocks if we wait for the official route. My father's guy can find him faster."
She throws up her hands, making small noises of frustration as she writes.
And then what? You find Rick and beat the shit out of him?
"No, but we put his ass in prison! For what he did to us."
Emerald looks worn down when she shows me what she's written.
What does that fix? What does that do for us?
"It keeps you safe!" I explode, not caring that it's still early in the morning, that Linda and Tim might still be sleeping. Emerald goes still, her eyes widening—startled, but not scared.
Hating that I let myself raise my voice, I take a few breaths and drag my hands through my hair, pulling hard.
"He has connections. What if he finds us in Ann Arbor? We've alerted the police about him; he knows he's being watched, and he's hiding, and I don't know what he will do. But... I can't just sit here and do nothing!"
Her hands fly across the board, marker squeaking. The words blur together, and I blink a couple of times to clear my vision.
No. You need to find him because he hurt your pride by taking advantage of you. You didn't listen to me, but you fucking listened to him! You can't fix that with your fists.
Emerald sighs, erasing that before writing, How can we repair our marriage if you're in prison ?
"I'm not going to prison."
She gives me a dry look.
You could have. If the man who assaulted me decided to talk, you would be in a cell next to him. And I would be here. Alone.
It's that picture, me behind bars in Boston, Emerald back in Ann Arbor with her parents.
Separated.
And my justifications just sound like every other time I've acted without thinking, without listening.
"This is how we ended up here," I admit, Emerald's eyes shimmering with tears that spill over, down her cheeks, down to her hoodie, down to the floor.
All the fight, all the fire drains from my body. I walk toward Emerald, and I fall to my knees.
Her eyes widen, and I hold out my hands in front of me, pleading, but giving her the room to decide.
After a few moments, she drops the whiteboard and places her hands in mine.
Sighing in relief, I bow my head, pressing my forehead to the backs of them. I breathe her in, feeling the sting of tears that I won't allow to fall.
"You're right. Rick hurt my pride and my ego. I thought we were untouchable, and that made me careless," the shame cracks my voice in half. "I hate who I am here. I hate who I allowed myself to become."
Emerald's eyes tighten, and more tears spill over to her cheeks. The sight of them is like a kick to the throat.
"Minnesota was great... but Boston? I felt like a fucking king," I scoff, disgusted at myself. "And I liked the attention—not from women," I say quickly when Emerald's beautiful face falls. "Never that. It's only ever been you, baby."
Emerald's face softens slightly, the fire still there, the anger lingering, but her eyes—they believe me.
"I liked knowing that they were jealous of me. That I was living the dream they desperately wished for. I liked making money and coming home to tell you how much we had now. I liked... I liked that Rick was telling me exactly what I wanted to hear."
I look up at her, my chest burning. "And you were telling me what I needed to hear, and I chose to listen to the wrong person."
Emerald's eyes drop, hurt flashing across her face.
"But with that money came the attention, came Britney, and her fucking minions. The pressure. The toxicity. I sold our souls for four million dollars."
She takes her hand from mine and points to the board, which I hand to her. I stay on my knees as she shows me what she's written.
No more decisions without me. If you do it again, I'm done. Do you understand?
The written words feel like they could slice me open, but I know that she's serious.
I nod. "I understand. It won't happen again."
She walks over to the bed, plopping down like she's exhausted. I stand from the floor and sit next to her, watching as she writes.
Are you sure you're okay after talking to him?
Her eyes are so soft as they trail over my expression. The knot in my stomach loosens slightly at that.
My wife.
"He sounded..." I frown, still shocked. "Regretful. He said... he was wrong about you."
Emerald's mouth twists, and she shrugs, whatever that means .
"He's going to give me the number to his PI. He can find Rick, and we can point Aisha in his direction," I vow, and Emerald nods. My hand gently cups her cheek, and her eyes lock onto mine. "Friday, we're going home."
Emerald grins at that.
I miss home.
"Me too," I say, "I missed us. Who we were back there."
Emerald nods, tapping her chest. Me too.
"Do you think we can get back there?" I ask, before quietly, "Do you want to try?"
Emerald looks at me for a long moment before she purposefully hides the board as she writes. My heart plummets to the floor, and my hand starts shaking, terrified of her answer.
Then she shows me.
Does a bear shit in the woods?
I can't help it. I burst out laughing at that, real, deep belly laughs.
The way only Emerald can make me.