“Okay, lay it on me. How bad is it.” I brace my palms on the table and study the grain in the wood.
“It’s not bad at all, Lindsey. He’s withdrawing his custody request.”
I lift my gaze as he slides an updated parenting plan across the table, and my first observation is how short it is. Two pages, to be exact.
“What is this?” I scan it, looking for the trick. There must be some language in here that catches me in agotcha.
“It’s yours. It’s what we filed originally. You get primary custody, and he gets every-other weekend, with a contingency to avoid weekends he has to travel for work. I mean, it does put a burden on you, but?—”
“Take it,” I say, popping my head up and meeting his eyes.
“You won’t have guaranteed weekends without the boys,” he explains, but I already get it. How is that any different than what I signed up for when we had kids?
“I know. I agree. Sign it. Stamp it. Tell his lawyer, or whatever we need to do.”
My dad pats my knee and says, “Hot dog!”
I shake my head and start to laugh when I meet my father’s gaze.
“How is this happening? I mean, I usually say that when shit falls apart, but for once . . . and how?”
My dad laughs, and our straight-faced lawyer even gives in with a chuckle.
“You’re due some good luck. Maybe we all are,” my dad says.
I have to agree. Between his strokes, then broken leg, and my mom and him throwing my sister and me for a loop with their weird-ass marriage, he’s already built a bank full of good fortune that should come our way. And that’s not even touching my own bullshit. A cheating husband, a contested custody, being held at gunpoint.
Meeting the perfect man, and the universe not letting me have him.
I sign the document where my lawyer taps his finger, then he shovels it back into the envelope. We filter out of the meeting room and head to the elevators. We manage to snag an empty one, and once the doors close, I ask for one more reassurance that this is really going the way he says it is.
“Unless they pull something out of a hat when we get in there, it’s a done deal. This should be a short and sweet trial. I hope you have something to do for the rest of your day.” He chuckles, and I shake my head, still in disbelief.
“I don’t. I don’t have a thing. And that’s okay, too.”
My father’s hand weaves into mine, and he gives my palm a squeeze.
“Why in the world would he do this?” I say as we step out of the elevator. I’m not really asking anyone in particular, but my lawyer answers.
“Hard to say. Sometimes it’s a financial thing. Maybe it’s work-related. Hell, I’ve even seen it where the other party is suddenly expecting a new baby, which changes all kinds of plans.”
I come to a hard stop right outside the courtroom doors, and my father stops alongside me.
“Holy fucking shit,” I mutter.
My lawyer looks at me with a hint of concern, his brow drawn in tight. I smirk on one side of my mouth, though, then glance to my dad.
“He knocked her up,” I say.
My father’s head falls back with a roaring laugh, and I immediately cover his mouth with my palm.
“Shh!They’re going to hear you,” I say, struggling to contain my own manic laughter.
“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. Let him,” my dad says.
“Can we go in now?” Our lawyer is ready to get this over with.
I place a hand over my chest and measure my breath, stifle my amusement, and once my giggles are under control, I nod. We step inside, and the courtroom is rather empty. Everyone in my entourage rode up in the elevator with me. On Brandon’s side is a petite blonde I recognize from last year’s faculty holidayparty. Oh, and from the photos I had a private investigator take of her at dinner and checking into a hotel with my then husband.
