THIRTY-SEVEN
HAYDEN
MICHIGAN
MARCH
"Pippin Sawyer, stop taking your brother's food, please. Merry, wait, I will have your bowl in a second—I'll have no greedy kittens!"
Emerald thinks she's scolding, but it actually sounds like cooing to those spoiled brats. She's powerless when they look at her with those big eyes and soft purrs.
Huh. I guess we're in the same boat, considering Emerald has honed her whole big green eyes and pouting lip when she wants something. She's gone undefeated against me there, and I'm a very happy loser.
"Hayden, dinner will be ready in ten!" Emerald calls, and my stomach rumbles in anticipation. Emerald's beef stew, Linda's old family recipe. That's something I've really grown to love, eating home-cooked meals again.
No more regimented meal plans. No more 5AM workouts with the team.
I still go to the gym to stay in shape, but that's for my enjoyment.
It's been fun to go with Emerald. We part with a kiss as she heads to the yoga studio for her class—heavily encouraged by her therapists to get back to doing what she loves—and I head to the weight room.
We've even gone ice skating, just for fun, holding hands and giggling like teenagers again.
I'm rediscovering what it means to do things just for fun.
"Thank you, baby," I murmur, standing from my crouched position once the fire is to my satisfaction. Tim taught me all about building a perfect fire years ago, and I think this one would make him proud.
I glance around the living room of our rental and smile widely.
For the past month we've been here, we've transformed this place into a warm, cozy home. There isn't an inch of this space that doesn't have Emerald's touch, such a stark contrast from our sterile, beige Boston apartment.
Color and patterns and life. Silly knick-knacks we've collected over the years of traveling cover the bookshelves Tim had built for Emerald.
We pulled some of our old furniture from our storage unit—her old antique lamps from her favorite thrift shops, patterned rugs, tables, and chairs made from real wood, not that glorified cardboard.
And pictures.
Emerald has me covering every wall in pictures.
Through the years, from two teenagers falling in love to the married couple still mending some fractures, but moving toward something even stronger than before.
As Emerald's humming reaches my ears, I sigh in contentment.
This feels like home.
The doorbell rings, and it's like someone flipped a switch.
Emerald's humming abruptly cuts off, the energy in the house turning cold and tense.
I glance toward the door, seeing a shadowed figure through the curtains. It's too dark outside now to see who it is, but they're tall and broad.
My stomach twists, not in fear, but dread.
Because somewhere down, I think I know who's there.
What's worse is that I can practically feel my wife's fear growing.
Through therapy, she’s grown more comfortable in public spaces. She’s also less tense around men she doesn’t know.
When she's out with me—at dinner, grocery shopping, or on walks—she tenses if men approach from behind. But, as she and Ruby always say, coddling won't manage the issue.
So, she leans into me, and we keep walking.
But this is our home. Our home has already been invaded once by Britney without us knowing.
Any outsider is going to feel like a threat for a while.
"Hayden?" My wife's voice is quiet, and she peeks around the kitchen doorway.
"Probably just UPS," I say, trying to soothe her.
Emerald nods her head in agreement, even though her face is unsure. My brave wife sighs and smiles, her voice a little wobbly.
"Must be those frames I ordered. Could you put them upstairs?"
"You got it." I wink, her cheeks flush before she vanishes. Her humming resumes just as the bell rings again.
My smile drops as I walk to the door and pull it open.
And see a ghost from the past.
"Hayden."
I want to slam the door closed. My arm even goes to do so, and for some reason, I stop myself.
Maybe it's because of how worn and pathetic he looks standing in front of me.
The titan who used to wear Tom Ford suits like armor now wears a rumpled black jacket, jeans, and snowboots to shield his feet from this Michigan winter.
His skin is pale, his cheeks sunken in, and there are dark circles under his eyes .
He shifts from foot to shoot, dull eyes holding my gaze.
"Can we talk for a minute?" he asks, using the same quiet tone he used on the phone.
I glance back toward the kitchen. Emerald is still humming happily as she finishes the beef stew, and I step outside, pulling the door shut behind me.
"You have some fucking nerve coming to my home."
He flinches— actually fucking flinches —and I frown.
Ten years ago, I'd be bleeding from a split lip if I had spoken to him like this.
"I know," he mutters quietly.
"How did you even know where we live—" I start, before sighing. I guess I can't be mad at the PI for doing his job and following the money. "Wyatt."
"I'm sorry," he says. "I knew you were back in Ann Arbor, but I just wanted to see where."
He glances up around the outdoor space, the flower pots we picked up, the porch swing Emerald wanted, and the little cat welcome mat Linda and Tim bought for us. "It's nice."
"Why are you here, Hal?"
"I wanted... I wanted to see my son."
I can't help it, I bark out a harsh laugh.
The sound is so mean, it even takes me off guard for a second. It feels wrong. This isn't who I am.
"What makes you think I'd ever want to see you?" I step into his space, anger sharp in my chest. I hiss, "You said I was dead to you. Right after you called my wife a cunt."
"I know!" he snaps, before squeezing his eyes shut.
Yeah, there he is. There's Hal Sawyer. I wait for the rest of his barrage so that I can kick him off my property, but he whispers under his breath, counting down from ten.
Then he opens his eyes, all frustration gone.
"I know. I'm so incredibly sorry for that, Hayden. "
"You think one apology will change anything?"
He's here because I owe him now. The plane. The Private Investigator bill. God knows what else.
"Whatever I owe—plane, Wyatt, whatever—just send a bill."
He shakes his head, his face so miserable it almost makes me feel bad.
"I'm not here for payment, Hayden."
I frown.
He takes a deep breath, looking like he's bracing himself.
"I was wrong."
I don't respond, just cross my arms over my chest and wait for him to clarify.
"About you," he says, before nodding toward the house. "About her. About... a lot. I... had a heart attack. About five years ago."
That startles me for a moment, a brief, fearful jolt in my heart. Then anger because even still, even now. I don't understand why the thought of him dying would cause me any pain. I should celebrate that news.
"After that..." he shrugs, scoffing at himself. "Your mother and I finally ended it."
News of their divorce barely moves me. Their marriage was so messed up, I’m just grateful I never followed their behaviors.
It was normal seeing my father's girlfriends at our vacation houses, dripping in the gifts he gave them, while my mother was halfway across the world with her own men on the side.
I could have been just like him—wife at home, girlfriend in every city.
The thought of it makes me sick.
"And what does that have to do with me?"
He looks at me for a long moment. "Something like that makes you start looking at your life and the choices you've made."
Eighteen years of bruises and insults and being made to feel small rise like acid, and I open my mouth, ready to spit it all at him.
Then I stop.
Because I do know what he means.
I know what it means to have something terrifying happen that makes you look at the choices that landed you there.
Jace's broken face. Samantha's wariness. It all could have been us.
"Listen," I say, voice flat. "I appreciate the plane."
"It was the least I could do," he nods.
Silence hangs between us, and I feel the need to crush the growing hope on his face.
"This doesn't change anything."
"I know," he says, and there's a small smile on his lips. I blink, not even remembering the last time I saw him smile. "I understand, Hayden. I just wanted to do what's right. I'll... be in town. For a while."
"Why?"
"There's a new rink going up, over on Valley Road," he says, his voice soft. "It's my project."
I just stare at him. "Why?"
"Because... you love this place," he shrugs, eyes drifting past me and to the house. "I want to understand why."
"You never cared before. "
"I'm sorry I didn't then. I'm sorry for... a lot, Hayden," he says. "More than you know."
◆◆◆
"Are you sure you're okay?"
Emerald sits at her vanity in the bedroom, brushing her hair. I toss my clothes into the hamper, leaving me in my boxers. As I pass by her on the way to the ensuite, I pause and lean down to press a kiss to her forehead.
"I'm fine," I assure her, heading into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Emerald's eyes follow me, full of concern. When I walked back into the house, after my father left awkwardly, Emerald asked who was at the door. I don't lie and hide things from my wife, so I told her.
And watched the color drain from her face, before she asked if I was alright. As always, her first concern is me. I'm fine. Really. His presence took me off guard, but not enough to dim my mood. I wouldn't allow him to. Unfortunately, Emerald seemed more shaken than I was.
We ate dinner in silence, Emerald pushing around her food more than eating it, and I repeated everything my father said. She had looked contemplative ever since, throughout her nighttime routine.
After rinsing my mouth, I set my toothbrush down. Emerald appears in the bathroom doorway, twisting her hands together.
"Are you okay, baby?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.