16. Chapter 16
sixteen
“Okay. Emergency.” Mercy busts through the front door in her usual flourish of chaos, slamming her purse on the bar. “You need to make plans to be at the next school board meeting. Hey, Dabbo. How are you feeling?”
Dad growls from his recliner. “Fine.”
She turns to me, sitting on the floor, and tilts her head at Dad. “Not in a good mood?”
“Hasn’t been since the doctor told him he has to give up fried food and Mom’s following doctor’s orders.”
“Oh, man. No fun.”
“I’m right here. I can hear you talking about me.”
Mercy makes her oops grimace.
“Hey, Aunt Mercy.” Bowie looks up from his spot on the floor, where we’re working on a puzzle. “Where’s Uncle Tanner?”
“As a matter of fact, I just left him and Calder.”
“Dust Devil, I assume.” Mom taps the puzzle. “That goes right there, Bowie.” She helps him slide his piece into place.
“Yes. Calder’s going before the school board to tell them they need to spend the money on a new football stadium. Ray asked him to. Said maybe the school board might listen to Calder over him.”
Dad looks over his shoulder. “I told them years ago we’d finance a new stadium. But instead, they built a gym. Hell, that stadium’s the same one I played football in.”
“Wow. That old?”
Dad shoots her a look. “Watch it.”
“Same one,” Mom says. “When we came back here—when you girls were what, ninth grade? I was so glad to see Longhorn Field hadn’t changed. Something about the limestone fence around it feels so homey. You know, it was there when I was in elementary school.”
“Shit, it is old.”
“You owe me a dollar.” Bowie stands, holding out his hand. “Potty word.”
Mercy hikes her brow. “When did that start?”
“Grammy’s rule. Pop-Pop says too many.”
“Hey! Whose side are you on?” Dad leans over the arm of his chair. “Remember? Us men stick together.”
Bowie’s shoulders slump. “Sorry, Pop-Pop. But Mercy can’t say bad words, either. No one can. Grammy’s rule.”
Mercy digs in her purse and slaps a five-dollar bill in Bowie’s little hand. “Put that in your piggy bank for future transgressions.”
“Future what?”
“Transgressions. Sins.” She waves her hand in the air. “Whatever. Future potty mouth words. I get four more.” She turns to me. “So, you’ll be there?”
Calder was there for me. “Sure. Bowie can come, right?” I grab him, pulling him to me.
“I guess they let kids go to school board meetings.”
“He can stay with me,” Mom says. “Are we going to finish this puzzle?”
“I need a piggy bank.” Bowie’s lost interest in the puzzle, staring at his money. “Do I have one?”
“Get him a Mason jar, Callie. Be good for him to learn to save. I’ll be glad to contribute.”
“I take it puzzle time’s over.” Mom is slow getting up from the floor. “Fine. Who wants ice cream?”
Not thirty minutes after he finished his bowl of homemade vanilla with chocolate syrup—which ended up in his hands, hair, and clothes, and required a quick bath—Bowie fell asleep in my arms. Ice cream does that to my son.
Mom and Dad were right behind, Dad dozing off in his recliner. Mom had to wake him up to get him to bed. Maybe ice cream is a sedative for them, too. Or maybe they’re still exhausted from what we all went through the other night. Especially them.
How terrified Mom must have been.
After tucking Bowie in, Mercy and I are sitting in the den, something on Netflix neither of us is watching, scrolling through Facebook or Instagram or TikTok—when my phone vibrates.
A text. Unknown sender.
Junk.
I start to delete it when something stops me—a churning in my stomach. I frown and tap the text.
A single photo fills the screen, and my body freezes.
It’s Calder in the hospital hallway with Tanner sitting on his arm, one hand spread wide across Bowie’s back—holding him like he’s something breakable and precious. The way Calder’s looking at him makes my heart stop.
Then my breath catches. Who sent that?
Mercy leans in. “What is it?”
I turn the phone toward her.
She goes still. Absolutely still—something rare for Mercedes Bennett.
My heart thunders in my ears as Meredith’s words come back to me—Grant probably has someone in Ladera watching you right now.
Oh. My. God.
“Laurel,” Mercy whispers, “Who sent that?”
“Unknown sender.”
Another buzz. Same unknown sender. A second photo, a different angle.
A third buzz, another photo. Me and Calder in the parking lot.
Mercy’s eyes widen. “Oh, hell.”
I may throw up.
“It’s Grant. It has to be. He filed a motion that Bowie can’t be with an unrelated male.”
Mercy rests her hand on my arm. “Laurel, this isn’t good.”
“No kidding.” I bite my lip, staring at the picture like it might change if I blink.
Calder’s face. Bowie’s little hands holding his carton of chocolate milk, looking completely comfortable in Calder’s arms.
And the way Calder’s looking back at him with that crooked smile, amused—I love it.
Then a chill runs down my spine, realizing who I lived with all these years. Grant Prescott is so much worse than I ever knew. I always thought he was a lot like Dad—invincible, in command, in control of everything.
But my father would never do anything like this.
“Laurel…”
“I don’t know what to say.”
Mercy grabs her phone. “I’m calling Tanner.”
“Why?”
“Because Calder needs to know about this.” Her voice is low, fierce. “And because it’s better he hear it from his best friend.”
“I don’t want to drag Calder any deeper into this than he already is.”
“He should know.”
She’s right. I don’t stop her.
I just sit there, staring at the photos, feeling the ground shift under my feet.
The doorbell rings. I half expected it, which is why I haven’t gone to bed. Why I didn’t put on night clothes after Mercy left.
When I open the door—Calder stands there, hands shoved into his pockets. After the hospital parking lot, I’ve come to think he does that to be sure he doesn’t touch me.
He looks at the ground, then into my eyes. “I’m sorry I took him, Laurel. I had no idea that’d be a bad thing. Tanner said he’s not supposed to be with an unrelated man.”
I take his hand, pull him inside, and close the door. Screw Grant’s private eye. He can’t get pictures inside my parents’ house.
“You were just comforting him. We all knew that.”
We stand in the foyer, just… staring at each other for what feels like an eternity. The house is so quiet that I hear the grandfather clock ticking in the dining room.
Calder’s jaw flexes. He looks wrecked. Guilty. Terrified. And something else I can’t name.
“I’m sorry Grant dragged you into this.”
“Grant. That’s his name?” The way he says it sounds dangerous.
“Calder, you can’t—”
He stops me with a show of his palm. “I won’t.”
Then he shoves his hand through his hair. “I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have—” His voice breaks off, low and rough. “Laurel, I can’t be the reason you lose him.”
“You’re not.” I step closer without thinking. “I have a good lawyer. I won’t lose him. I’ll give Grant everything if I have to, but I won’t lose Bowie.”
He lets out a breath like it hurts. His hands are back in his pockets, shoulders tight, whole body coiled like he’s holding himself together by threads.
“Calder.” I step into him, resting my hands on his chest. “Look at me.”
It’s a full thirty seconds before he does. I know. I count the ticks on the clock as his eyes roam the air above me.
When he finally brings his eyes to meet mine—something in him snaps.
“Laurel—” His mouth is on mine, his hand fisting my hair, tilting my head back as his tongue passes my lips and he consumes me. Everything in me melts into him, those powerful arms around me, holding me against his chest. No space between us.
My God, I’ve never been this wet this fast in my life, my nipples pebbling.
His hand slides under my blouse, under the bra, cupping my breast, his thumb stroking my nipple and I moan, kissing him back with the same desperation, my hand at the back of his head, pulling his mouth heavier over mine.
It’s us, again—more feverish than we ever were before—everything I’ve wanted.
I slide my hand down the front of his jeans, cupping his erection, and a growl comes from his chest. Calder straightens, pulling me off the floor and into him as he leans against the door.
His hands move down my back to my ass, lifting me, pulling me tighter into him—the only thing separating us is fabric. He’s so hard against me I ache for him.
“Oh, God, Laurel,” he breathes—
And he stills.
His chest heaving, he slowly sets me on the floor. “I shouldn’t have… I… Laurel, I’m sorry.”
“Calder—”
He shakes his head, fumbling with the door handle, his eyes wild with something that looks like fear. “If you lose Bowie because of me, you’ll hate me. I can’t live with that. I… I have to stay away. For all of us.”
As the door clicks shut, the aching moves from my core to my chest, everything in me a knot of want and heartbreak so tight I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.