Checking my seat assignment, I move toward the line beginning to form outside the door to the jet bridge.
Ten minutes later, I’m settling into my first class window seat, paging through an in-flight magazine filled with all kinds of fascinating junk everyone wants but no one will ever use. The woman in the aisle across from me begins to power down her cell phone, and I figure I may as well follow suit. We’ll be airborne soon anyway.
Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I hover over the power button before opting to send a quick text to Mari.
* * *
I’M SORRY I LET YOU GO.
* * *
I wait a moment, but she doesn’t respond.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
I’ll see her soon enough.
Thirty-Five
Mari
* * *
“You did the right thing.” Isabelle sighs into the phone. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay?”
“I’m trying not to. I was so sure of everything until he called. And then he sent that text.” I roll to my side, pulling my covers up to my shoulders. It’s only two o’clock in the afternoon but I’m already gearing up for a hibernation-worthy nap.
“Of course he’s sorry he let you go,” she says. “He knows he doesn’t deserve you and now he’s going to try to get you back. It’s cool and all that he’s over the pregnancy thing, but it doesn’t change the fact that he lied to you. He got you to sign a contract under false pretenses. I’m not even sure that’s legal.”
I groan into my pillow. “Isabelle, I don’t even know what to do anymore. Or what to think. All I know is I knew better. I damn. Well. Knew better.”
“Hey, I was thinking I’d come out and see you next month?” she changes the subject. She’s good at doing that when my self-loathing grows too tiresome.
“I don’t want to subject you to that,” I say. “You’d be bored out of your mind here. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“But at least I’d be bored with you,” she says, and I can almost hear the sweet smile in her voice. “I miss my best friend. Like crazy.”
“Me too.”
“I’ll look at flights as soon as we hang up.”
“Awesome.” I yawn. “I’m taking a nap as soon as we hang up.”
Isabelle laughs. “Good for you, Mama. Get that shut eye while you still can.”
Hanging up, I reach toward the Target bag on the floor. My mom insisted on buying a gender neutral lamb onesie. She said it would help me get excited about this whole baby thing and forget about Hudson for a while. I kind of feel like her logic is a little faulty there, but it is freaking adorable.
I run my fingers over the fuzzy lamb wool and the cashmere soft fabric before bringing it to my cheek. Eyes closed, I drift away, seeking temporary refuge from the shit storm that has become my life.
Thirty-Six
Hudson
* * *
I don’t expect to be greeted with open arms—or a smile for that matter. But the look on Abel’s face when he opens the door sends a chill down my spine.
“Hudson.” He steps outside, pulling the front door closed behind him. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to speak to Mari.”
His arms fold across his barrel chest. “I’m sorry. I can’t allow that.”
I half-chuckle. “You can’t allow that? She’s a grown woman. I wanted to apologize to her in person. I came all this way because that’s how much she means to me.”
“I’m sorry, Hudson. I’m sure she means a lot to you, but she’s my daughter, and she means a lot to me too,” he says. “You broke your promise to me. You said you wouldn’t hurt her, but you did. For that reason alone, I can’t let you see her. Plus, you lied to me. You came here saying you were in love with my daughter and you wanted to marry her. Turns out you were just using her.”
“I respect your feelings, Abel, and you’re not incorrect. You have every reason to despise me and everything about me,” I say. “But please, if I could just see her for a minute. I just want to apologize, and then I’ll never bother her again.”
Abel’s mouth forms a hard line and he pushes an impatient breath through his bulbous nose.
“Look,” I say. “I’ve never been good at taking ‘no’ for an answer, and that’s what got the two of us into this mess in the first place. I’m trying to make things right.”
“I appreciate persistence, Hudson.” Abel cocks his head. “But I’ve got a hell of a lot more of it than you. I can go all night with you if you want, but I’m still not letting you see my daughter. Now, stop wasting my time and yours. Go back to the city where you belong. We don’t share your values. Not here.”
“Fair enough.” I sigh, never feeling so defeated in my life. “Can you just tell her I’m not mad at her, and I never had a right to be?”
He says nothing, but the answer resides in his cold, unfeeling gaze.
Turning to leave, I climb back into my rental car and pull out of the Collins’ driveway, heading north up the hill we once walked together one balmy spring night.
Passing the Queen Anne and the European Romantic that Mari used to pretend was her castle as a child, I turn the corner and spot a dilapidated Frank Lloyd Wright prairie-style house with a bright red FOR SALE sign in the front yard.
It’s a shame anyone let this masterpiece fall apart like this.
And I can’t, in good faith, leave this historical piece of art to disintegrate even further.
Pulling into the weeded driveway, I take my phone from my pocket. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve dialed the number on the sign.
“Alexa Lowell speaking, First Class Realty,” she says.
Thirty-Seven
Mari
* * *
“You’re getting good at these.” My mom’s friend, Terri, sips the turtle mocha I whipped up a minute ago and pats my shoulder. “Well done. I’ll be in the office if you need anything. You and Jaime have the front, right? Morning rush should be over.”
I’ve been home a week and already my parents lined me up with a job. This is like college all over again, but I’m grateful to have something keeping me busy. Moping around the house and ruminating on everything is only making me feel a thousand times shittier.
The bells on the door jangle and a woman walks in. Jaime calls her by name and asks if she wants “the usual.”
A couple of guys from the phone company walk in next, so I hit the register to take their orders while Jaime fusses with the cappuccino machine.
“Small coffee,” the first one says. “One cream. Two sugars.”
I ring him up and he takes his change, sparing none for the clearly marked tip jar mere inches from him. The second guy orders a large coffee with two shots of espresso, no cream or sugar, and tips two dollars. Just eyeballing the tip jar, I think we’re at somewhere around fifteen bucks for tips, and we’ve been open the last four hours. At this rate, I might be able to buy myself a half tank of gas by tomorrow.