“I was about to put on my shoes. I’m always running late,” she says, laughing in a self-deprecating way.
“We have to go. I have . . . work,” I say, catching myself. I’m sure he’s figured out I got a contract to play ball. He’s not here to see his son, the accountant.
I grasp the door and lean toward the man, who, though we are the same height, is half my weight.
“I’m sorry I bothered you. Maybe if you have time later this week, or?—”
“Probably not.” I shut the door before he can utter another word, then rest my fist on the wood before letting my forehead fall against my hand.
My entire body is vibrating. I tried to visit him when he got locked up, and he had zero interest. I played baseball as a kid, hoping maybe I’d get his attention, that he’d come home and get straight. Other kids had dads in the dugout coaching them. Their moms were in the stands, waiting with orange slices and cold-water bottles. They wore shirts with their sons’ numbers. Nobody wore my number to anything.
I rode home with friends. I was invited to stay at their homes after games because their parents knew I didn’t have anyone to go home to. I didn’t get it when I was a kid, but looking back now as an adult, I see how they all took pity on me. I don’t resent them for it, either. I love every family that was kinder to me thanmy own. Hell, Hunter damn near saved me when we were in high school.
“Come on. You don’t want to be late,” Lindsey says as her palm lands on the center of my back.
“I need a minute. I don’t think I should drive right now,” I say, my eyes closed and my forehead still pressed against the door.
“I know. I’m driving,” she says.
I open my eyes and twist just enough to glance down at her feet. She put on shoes. She skipped the socks, but the sneakers are tied. My lip tugs up on one side, and I lift my gaze to her.
“So, that’s my dad.”
“Yeah, I pieced that together. Sorry I lied about Holly. I had a feeling you didn’t want him to know.”
I bring my palm to her shoulder and cup the curve of her arm.
“You read the room perfectly. I don’t ever want him to know he has a grandchild. He would just ruin that relationship. It’s better for Holly if she never knows he exists.”
Lindsey’s eyes hold on to mine for a moment, and the way they grow heavy, along with the downturn of her mouth, sends a wave of shame and guilt into my chest. I know how my words sound. But when you’ve lived through hell the way I have, you lose faith in second chances. Redemption is a fairytale.
“You should ride in the back seat, so you can watch her sleep.” Lindsey pats the center of my chest, covering the wild thump of my angry heart. “You want to have a cool head in the courtroom, even if this is just a formality.”
I drop my gaze a tick and nod. She’s right.
I take Holly and her carrier from her and follow her out the door to her van. She presses the automatic door button on her key fob so I can load Holly in while she starts the van and cranks the air. The summer heat is beginning its brutal reign. OnceHolly’s seat is locked in place, I slide into the one next to her. My gaze lands on Lindsey’s in the rearview mirror.
“Hey, Linds?”
She arches a brow in the reflection.
“You’re a great fuckin’ nanny.”
Her lips pull into a tight smile, and she drops her sunglasses down over her eyes before nodding.
“Damn right I am.”
She backs out of our driveway, and I give my focus over to the one thing that matters most in this world—Holly. But I save one percent for someone else, sparing a few glances back to the mirror every few miles. I shouldn’t have called her a nanny. She’s a friend. Probably my best one at this point.
TEN
LINDSEY
Brooks's custody petition was approved, the court handed over the unofficial copy of Holly’s birth certificate, and he hasn’t stopped staring at it. I’d tease him, but he seems so relieved and happy, I don’t want to ruin his euphoria. His father’s drop-by the other day really shook him. But once the judge signed off, his world seemed to center again.
“I’m thinking of framing it,” he says, craning his neck to keep the certificate in his view as he rounds the kitchen table in search of his compression sleeves. He left them on the back of the recliner in the living room before we left for his appointment, so I snagged them when we got home and have been holding them out for him to take for the past several minutes. He simply hasn’t been able to pull his attention from Holly or her birth certificate long enough to notice them in my hand.
I clear my throat after he glances my way without clocking the fact I have what he’s looking for. Finally, he pops his gaze up, and it sinks in. He laughs out a short “thanks” before snagging the sleeves and heading right back to the table to stare at the document. I’m not one hundred percent certain where my boys’ birth certificates, yet he’s framing his daughter’s.
