Chapter 32
Harrison
The minivan smells like stale French fries, Christmas candy, and regret.
Which honestly feels pretty on brand for my life right now.
Nobody talks.
We’re all just existing next to each other.
Connor sits in the third row with his headphones on. Teenage language for leave me alone.
Every few minutes he wipes at his face and pretends he’s scratching his nose whenever he catches me looking in the rearview mirror.
Ollie’s pressed against the window watching Los Angeles blur past like maybe, just maybe, he’ll spot Ava running after us through traffic.
He’s already spotted her once. It took my heart a full two flippant beats to realize it wasn’t her.
Thank God for child locks.
Snooki clutches the tote bag Pix made against her chest with red-rimmed eyes. My little chatterbox hasn’t said a word all morning.
She breaks me most of all.
We stop at another light. If I ever bitched about Manhattan traffic, LA traffic is ten times worse.
I have to actively stop myself from laying on the horn.
And every damn light in Los Angeles suddenly takes forty-seven years to change.
I can’t wait to get the hell out of this city.
Good fucking riddance.
Snooki stares off at the Pacific Ocean, sniffling quietly behind me.
I pretend not to hear it because if I acknowledge it, she’s going to cry harder.
And if she cries again, I might throw myself right into the Pacific Ocean.
I’d rather eat shrapnel than have my kids like this a minute longer.
Think.
Fix it.
You fix things.
That’s what you do.
Except this?
This is a five-alarm emotional catastrophe, and I’m the asshole who started it.
I told her not to talk to the kids.
And the second the words left my mouth, I wanted them back.
I crossed a line.
And I don’t know how to crawl back over it.
Snooki hiccups. “Why did you have to make her cry?”
Straight through the chest.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
My tiny assassin.
Connor immediately chimes in. “Because he hates us.”
“You know that’s not true,” I say quietly.
“Then why did you let her leave?” Ollie asks.
“She was leaving anyway.”
“She was leaving for work, dad. Not us,” Conner fires back. “She was never leaving us. At least tell us why.”
Because the second I heard Iceland all I could think about was losing her?
Because I’ve spent my whole damn life surviving loss, and I want more than that for you.
Because I had my head up my ass.
Take your pick.
“Because…” I clear gravel from my throat. “You have to trust me. I know what’s best.”
Connor looks murderous.
Ollie looks confused.
And Snooki looks on the verge of tears again.
Congratulations, Evans.
Excellent parenting.
“She loves us,” Snooki whispers.
Fuck.
I nod once because speaking suddenly feels impossible.
I look down at the tote bag clutched in her lap.
The one Pix made for her.
Purple stitching by hand. Little book patches. Snooki slept with the damn thing last night.
And I told the woman who made it to stop talking to my kids.
It doesn’t matter that I wrote a dozen different texts to Pix.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean it.
I love you.
When she didn’t read them, I erased every last one.
Her phone was off or she blocked me.
Either way, fate was a ruthless bitch.
“And we love her,” Snooki says, pouting.
She’s not alone there.
I force out, “It’s complicated.”
Connor snorts softly through tears. “That means adults are being dumb.”
Fair enough.
“I’m hungry,” Ollie finally mumbles.
Relief nearly knocks me unconscious.
An emotion.
Any emotion.
“Yeah?” I clear my throat and paste on a grin. “What do you want?”
He shrugs without looking at me.
Normally that kid has the dietary standards of a tiny drunk raccoon.
Pizza.
French fries.
Mozzarella sticks.
Occasionally carrot sticks because Pix convinced him vegetables prevent scurvy or some shit.
Now?
He doesn’t care.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
I’m tempted to hand him a green smoothie loaded with raw eggs and kale. I bet he’d give a damn then.
But then I take a breath and remember I’m the adult.
And they’re all heartbroken.
“There’s plenty of restaurants at the airport,” I offer helpfully. “We’ve gotta wait at the main terminal anyway, so you’ll have your pick.”
Somewhere behind the scenes, the poor baggage crew is probably loading roughly one thousand pounds of Christmas presents onto the jet.
“How does that sound?” I ask, like maybe food can somehow solve emotional devastation.
Connor nods stiffly. “That’s a great idea, Harrison.”
Not Dad.
Harrison.
He’s doing it to get under my skin the way teenagers instinctively know how to do.
And you know what?
It’s working.
“Isn’t that a great idea, Ollie?” Connor nudges him.
Ollie immediately joins the mutiny.
“It sure is, Harrison.”
Jesus Christ.
“Or maybe he prefers Harry?” Connor asks innocently, knowing I hate it.
Everybody knows I hate that.
Apparently, being demoted to a first-name basis with my own kids isn’t ending anytime soon.
Not while they’re glaring daggers at me every chance they get.
My grip on the wheel tightens hard enough the leather creaks.
Must stay calm.
I pretend it rolls off my back. “Why don’t you guys decide where you wanna eat?” I say through a clenched grin. “We don’t have to eat at the lounge. Pick anywhere.”
Then I glance in the rearview mirror.
“Check your phone, Connor. See what looks good.”
“Sure thing, Harrison.”
Could he at least say my name like it’s not a curse word?
After another half hour of the silent treatment, we finally reach the airport.
It feels like we’ve been driving for three days, and I can’t stop thinking about Pix.
A jet-black Benz suddenly cuts in front of me hard enough that I have to tap the brakes.
“Fudge,” I mutter.
Tinted windows.
Sleek as hell.
Driven by a complete douchebag.
Well.
If this asshole wanted my attention, he got it.
His vanity plate says it all.
WRONG1.
Oh, you and me both, pal.
The engine revs as if we’re about to drag race.
Clearly, this guy has the world’s tiniest dick.
And as much as male testosterone makes me want to road-rage his ass into next week, I’ve got three devastated kids in this minivan who definitely do not need another reason to hate me forever.
Then, without warning, a news van cuts me right out of my daze and nearly runs us off the road.
Motherfucker.
I swerve so fast the tires squeal.
The kids jolt.
“Sorry,” I mutter immediately. “Everybody okay?”
The kids nod quietly.
The rest of the drive passes in uneasy silence. At the terminal, I pull up to the curb where a valet waits holding a sign.
EVANS FAMILY.
Family… minus one.
The boys drag their backpacks behind them while Snooki sleepily holds my hand as we head inside.
The private lounge is on the opposite end of the terminal, which gives us time to check out the restaurants before settling on lunch.
The place is packed.
Wall-to-wall people.
And I keep an extra close eye on the kids the entire time.
“Can we go there?” Connor asks suddenly.
He points toward a burger place with a retro arcade attached to it. Old-school racing games. Claw machines. Vintage Sega stuff.
“Sure.”
We grab burgers and drinks while Connor and Ollie collapse into oversized bean bag chairs.
Snooki curls beside me underneath one of my hoodies like a tiny depressed burrito.
More silence.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Manhattan number.
I almost ignore it.
Then I worry it might be Mark calling from the office.
I answer. “Evans.”
“Mr. Evans, this is Patricia calling on behalf of Mr. Henry Bloom.”
My eyes slide shut.
Of course.
Because apparently my life isn’t enough of a dumpster fire today.
Here comes the divorce I’ve been expecting.
I flew to Los Angeles to win back my girl.
Instead, I’m just another victim of a Hollywood divorce.
“One minute,” I say into the phone.
I glance toward the kids. “I’ll be right back. Just grabbing coffee.”
Nobody even looks up.
I head toward the espresso machine, keeping the kids in sight the entire time.
I press the phone tighter to my ear and fix a cup. “What is it?”
“Mr. Bloom is requesting an in-person meeting regarding a sensitive matter.”
In person.
Translation:
You’re not getting out of this one, fucker.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “When?”
“How’s Friday morning, if possible.”
Friday…
Five more days of pretending my life isn’t actively circling the drain.
I glance toward the kids.
They all seem lost in their own little worlds.
Connor and Ollie quietly stare down at Connor’s phone while Snooki scoots beside Ollie, her wide eyes fixed on the screen.
“Yeah,” I say tiredly. “I’m out of town right now, but I’ll be back tonight. Send me the details.”
“Wonderful. Mr. Bloom appreciates your flexibility. I’ll send the calendar invite shortly.”
The call ends.
I exhale slowly and take a sip of the coffee.
It goes down like barbed wire.
Bleh.
So this is where jet fuel goes to die.
Two men with press badges brush past me and nearly spill the battery acid all over my shoes.
They rush off without so much as a sorry or even a New York-style Hey, watch it, buddy.
And suddenly I’m back in that airport in New York.
Pix barreling into me at full speed and shoving me into that elevator like a tiny angry hurricane.
Her body slamming into mine.
A smile sneaks up before I can stop it.
I force it away.
What’s wrong with me? My life was perfectly fine before her.
Normal.
Simple.
Boring, my mind sings.
Shut up.
Then Pix collided into me, and nothing’s been the same since.
Like somebody flipped on a bright neon sign inside my chest.
Beautiful.
Electric.
And so fucking faulty it burned my whole goddamn world to the ground.
Disgusted with myself, I grab the coffee and head back toward the seating area.
And stop cold.
The food’s still there, but the chairs are empty.
My pulse kicks up.
Their backpacks are gone.
They’re gone.
My kids. Are. Gone.
Panic detonates through my bloodstream so violently my vision constricts.
“Connor?” I bark.
Loud enough to shut down phone calls, meaningless fucking conversations, and every streaming video in the terminal.
“Ollie? Snook!”
Travelers stare at me now.
Good.
The more eyes looking for my kids, the better.
Adrenaline crashes through me swift and brutal.
“Have you seen three kids?” I demand wildly, rushing from person to person. “Two boys and a little girl?”
Immediate heads shake.
Sympathy flashes across strangers’ faces.
No one has seen them.
No.
No no no.
My heart starts hammering in bursts like an AR dumping rounds downrange.
Where are they?
I shove through the terminal crowd, dialing Connor.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
My pulse detonates into pure fucking terror.
“Connor!” I roar into the terminal.
Heads turn toward me before people immediately go back to their lives.
I break into a full sprint toward the nearest airport cop.
“My kids.” The words come out savage and clipped. “Did you see three kids leave the area?”
The officer instantly straightens, grabbing his radio. “We’re going to find them, sir. Describe them.”
My years of SEAL training go right out the fucking window. “Two boys.” My voice cracks violently. “And a little girl.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Connor’s thirteen. This tall.” I hold a shaking hand near my shoulder. “Ollie’s sweet and funny and—”
The oxygen vanishes from my lungs.
“And my little girl. Sophia.” My voice breaks apart. “But she goes by Snooki.”
The officer immediately raises his radio.
“Possible missing children. Two juvenile males. One juvenile female. All under thirteen. Last seen in the east terminal. Alert all units and lock down exits.”
My pulse goes nuclear.
The officer places a steady hand on my shoulder. “We’ve got every available officer looking for them, sir.”
I grab him by the front of his uniform before I can stop myself.
“You don’t understand. I can’t lose them.” The words rip out of me broken and savage. “They’re my whole fucking world.”