43. Chapter 43
forty-three
My bag slips off my shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud as everything in me goes still—breath, heartbeat, thought.
No. My heart’s not still.
It’s pounding as I stare at Grant standing in the middle of my parents’ den. Holding our son. Bowie’s arm is looped around his father’s neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It used to be. It’s not anymore.
Grant smiles—like nothing ever happened. “Hey, Laurel,” he says softly. “Surprise.”
“Surprise, Mommy!”
Oh, God. Bowie is beaming, looking between me and Grant. “Daddy’s gonna stay!”
As I’m still too stunned to answer anyone, Mom steps to my side. Pulling me away, she whispers. “He just showed up. Bowie was so excited to see him, I didn’t know what to do.”
I still can’t find my tongue. And then I do. “What are you doing here, Grant?”
“I wanted to see my son. And my wife.”
I shake my head. I can’t deal with it. “We’ve been dealing with evacuees all day.” My heart’s clogging my throat. Calder. What will he think? What will he do?
“I saw the sky driving in,” Grant keeps talking like he’s just home from work. “Listened to CNN on the radio. They said this is one of the biggest wildfires this year. Hope everyone’s okay.”
He sets Bowie’s feet to the floor and walks to me, leaning close. “We can fix this, Laurel.”
I draw back, looking up into his eyes. Grant. Here.
He looks like he just stepped out of Brooks Brothers, his black hair freshly cut, that clean, polished style he wears to court. Not one hair, not one thread out of place.
“Daddy!” Bowie pouts, tilting his head back, putting his arms up for Grant to grab him.
Grant doesn’t look at his son.
He stares at me, saying, “Not now, Bowie. Laurel, please, let’s talk.”
Ass.
I step around him, picking up my son, settling him on my hip, accepting the reality that he’s here. “We’ll talk in a minute, Grant. Let me change clothes. Bowie? You want to help me?”
“No! I want Daddy!”
Grant takes him, settling him in his arms. “You want to ride your trike while Mommy changes?”
“Yes!”
I walk into the bedroom as they head outside, close the door, text Calder, and drop onto the bed.
What am I going to do?
I change into jeans and a shirt, wash my hands and face. I swear, I smell like smoke, too.
Check my phone. No response from Calder.
I know him. He read my text and wanted to throw his phone at the wall. But he didn’t. Because that’s who he is.
But maybe he hasn’t seen it. Maybe he went home and crashed. I wouldn’t blame him.
The news said the fire broke out a little after 2 a.m. He was up, battling it, until this afternoon, running on fumes. That’s it. He hasn’t seen it yet.
My gut tightens. What if he comes over here? What if he and Grant stand face to face? I’ll thread my arm through his and look Grant in the eyes.
Mom corners me on my way out the door, whispering, “Is he planning to stay here?”
“How should I know? Not in my room, that’s for sure.”
“Your father’s on his way home. He got tied up at the office.” She hands me a glass of fresh iced tea. “Grant’s been… actually, surprisingly… attentive. With Bowie.”
“He should be, Mom. He’s his father,” I hiss.
She stares at me, so conflicted. I think she’s weighing everything. On one hand, my mother never believed in divorce. She wants Bowie to be with his father.
On the other hand, she knows what his father has done.
She surprises me when she grips my arm. “I don’t want you to go back.”
“Mom. I’m not.”
But it’s my doing. I married him. I left him. Everything happening here is on me.
Stepping outside, Grant asks, “Is there anything to drink?”
“Iced tea.”
“Is it sweet?” he asks.
“Are you in Texas?” I try to keep it light.
“Thanks, I’ll pass. You know how I feel about sugar.”
Yes, I know that too well.
“What about something stronger? Bourbon?”
I stare at him long and hard. “Are you kidding me? You want me to fix you a drink? After everything you’ve done?
He glares and turns to Bowie. “Mommy buy that for you?”
“No. Calder.”
Something flickers across Grant’s face.
“And I rode a horsie! Midnight!” Bowie prattles on, stretching his legs as he pedals around the patio.
“Mm-hum. Who’s horse? Let me guess.” Grant cuts his eyes.
“Calder!”
Grant’s gaze narrows. “Guess I need to meet this Calder.”
“He’s my friend, Daddy! Him and Aunt Mercy and Uncle Tanner!”
“I went to high school with all of them.”
Bowie has stopped the trike in front of Grant, who doesn’t even see him. He just keeps staring at me. “Bowie, will you do me a favor?”
“Huh?”
“Will you ask your Grammy for some… juice. Let Mommy and Daddy talk?”
“Aww.” Bowie’s shoulders slump.
“Go ahead. We won’t be but a minute.”
His gaze on the concrete, Bowie trudges to the big glass door, which I get up and open for him. I pick him up, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “We won’t be but a minute.”
“O…kay.”
I turn to glare at Grant. “You haven’t seen him in months. Maybe you could give him a few more minutes.”
“Maybe you could stop spoiling him. I’ve been here all afternoon, Laurel while you were at… work. Is that where you were? Or were you with this Calder?”
I can’t help but shake my head. “You can’t be serious. After the pictures I have, you’re going to question anything I do?”
He takes a step closer. “I’ll question everything you do. You’re my wife.”
“Not much longer.”
He closes his eyes. “Please, Laurel. For Bowie’s sake. Let’s work this out. I’ll quit. I’ll sell out my part of the firm. I’m willing to move back to Texas.”
“Why? You don’t love me.”
“How can you say that? You’re my wife. Of course I love you.”
“Didn’t look like it in those pictures.”
“Think about it, Laurel. You haven’t wanted me to touch you since—”
“Since you cheated on me the time before, Grant. You can’t blame the first two times on my disinterest. If I were to go back, it would happen again. You know it will.”
He scrubs his hands over his face and brings his gray eyes to meet mine. “I’ve changed, Laurel. This has changed me. I can be the man you want me to be.” His gaze narrows as he stands. “But before we put all of this on me—this Calder. He was your high school boyfriend, right?”
Did I tell him that? My mind roils. “How—”
“I got a phone call.”
“From who?”
“Don’t know. A woman telling me what’s going on.”
My stomach is in my throat. Darla? How could she find Grant? If not her, then who?
“Nothing’s going on—”
“He was holding my son in the fucking hospital.” He tilts his head back, chuckles, and sneers. “I have my own PI’s, Laurel. Took a page out of your playbook. You want to throw dirt? You want to see my pictures?”
My heart pounds in my ears. “Anything I’ve done was after I left you. After I filed for divorce.”
“The divorce isn’t final. Separation doesn’t make it right. You’re not as pure as you’d like the world to think. Now. Can we at least try?”
“Trying can’t make me feel what I don’t feel.”
“You’re willing to throw it all away—take Bowie away from the father he obviously loves.” He snaps his fingers. “Just like that?”
And it comes back to me. The actor he is in court.
“You don’t love Bowie for who he is. You don’t even know him, Grant! You would’ve denied him, never seen him again—if that test had turned out different.”
He straightens, as tall as he gets. “Damned right I would’ve. How the hell am I supposed to raise a kid that isn’t mine?”
Just like that—I hear Calder in my parents’ living room… he’s the greatest gift anyone could have.
“Where are you staying?”
Grant exhales, and for the first time since he walked in, something in him… drops. Not the polished attorney. Not the man who weaponizes charm. Just a tired man standing on my parents’ patio, staring at the concrete like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“Laurel,” he says quietly, sitting back on the sofa, “I miss reading to him at night. I miss his little feet running down the hall. I miss you making fun of my terrible coffee. I miss… home. Our home.”
He looks up, eyes glassy, and for a split second, I see the man I married. The one who held my hair when I was sick. The one who cried when Bowie was born. The one I kept hoping I could love the way I loved when I was young.
He reaches for my hand—not grabbing, not demanding. Just… offering. “I know I screwed up,” he whispers, his thumb caressing the back of my hand. “But I’m trying, Laurel. I’m really trying.”
“The drugs?”
“One stupid moment. Strung out on you taking Bowie and running away. It won’t happen again.”
And damn it, for half a heartbeat, I believe him.
Almost.
Then Bowie’s laugh carries from inside—pure, bright, untouched by any of this—and the spell snaps. Because he didn’t look at his son when he wanted to be held. Because he sent him away so he could get everything off his chest.
His needs will always come before Bowie’s. Because he said he’d have walked away if the test had gone the other way… when he’s known Bowie since his first breath. He doesn’t love Bowie for who he is. He loves him because he’s his son. A possession.
Like his wife.
Calder Boone, covered in ash and exhaustion, would never hesitate to love a child who wasn’t his.
I pull my hand back and the mask slides right back over Grant’s face.
In his courtroom voice, he says, “I’m planning on staying until I take you and Bowie home. He’s my son. The test proves it.”
He didn’t get what he wants. And Grant Prescott always gets what he wants.