I attempt to revise history in my mind, trying it on like clothes in a store fitting room. What if she had taken me with her? I’d’ve grown up with her, a stepdad, and a half sister. My mom, who left my dad because she wanted much more from him than he was able to give, most of it of a material nature. Somehow I doubt a person like her could be happy, regardless of the comfort her husband could afford to keep her in.
“I don’t think it was much of a loss, Pop,” I say then, because I know in my gut that it’s the damned truth. I’m so fucking grateful he kept me, and I’m even relieved he scared her away for good, because if she’d had any part of our lives, there would’ve been nothing but drama and misery.
I still wish he’d told me the truth sooner.
Suddenly, Baldwin pushes up to his feet and comes strolling over to me, where he sits down, resting his head on my leg. His big brown eyes stare up at me, and with a small, involuntary smile, I pat him on the head and scratch behind his ear.
“You know, it’s been hell for me, watching you make a lot of the same mistakes I did,” my dad says. “And knowing a lot of your problems with Paige can be traced back to me.”
I shake my head. Because, no. He’s not to blame for that, at least. My marriage falling apart was all me. I’ve owned that shit for a while now.
“I don’t know what to do,” I confess miserably. “I think it’s too late. She’s gone.”
Mouth twisting, my dad says nothing, only watches me with pity, and I know that he’d give anything to be able to fix it for me. He’s shown time and again that it’s his mission in life to fix things for me. This time he’s clearly at a loss, though.
“What would you do?” I ask him, because why not?
Pop releases a bark of laughter, a bitter and incredulous sound. “You’re asking me for relationship advice, after all the shit I just told you?”
I heave my shoulders in a shrug. “Twenty-twenty hindsight?”
He scoffs, a derisive humph. Then he schools his expression, clearly pondering.
“I think…” His cheeks puff, and then, with the air coming out like a gust of wind, he pins me with a somber stare. “Whatever you do, it has to hurt. You’ve gotta show what she’s worth to you. Show her you’re willing to bleed for her.”
While I stare at him, nonplussed, he pushes out of his chair, and immediately Baldwin stands up, too. On the way past me, he squeezes my shoulder, and I put my hand on his, patting. Which I guess is our way of saying we’re good. He’s fucked up in the past. So have I.
As he disappears inside the house with the dog at his heels, though, his words stay with me.
Show her I’m willing to bleed for her? What the hell does that mean?
Sitting there to the sound of the cicadas in the bushes and feeling the air slowly chilling, I’m wondering if that’s the wisest or the dumbest thing he’s ever said to me.
Chapter 31
Paige
I see the familiar gleaming silver sedan as soon as I turn off the street by my house, and automatically I slam on the brakes, making my seat belt lock up, pinning my torso to the seat.
God dammit.
It’s Logan’s car, parked next to Mike’s SUV, and both vehicles are occupying my driveway—though still leaving enough room for me to get into the garage.
Which is thoughtful of them, isn’t it? The McKinley men, always so solicitous and considerate toward me, having my best interests at heart. Snort.
I’m not ready for this. After his barrage of angry texts last night, I figured Logan had made good on his promise to come over, which didn’t matter to me, since I wasn’t here. Guess I shouldn’t be too surprised he still is, though. The man is nothing if not tenacious. Gah.
I could just leave again. Maybe go to a coffee shop or something, then send my father-in-law a message saying I’m not coming back until he gets his son the hell out of my house.
Can’t avoid him forever, though. And it’s not like waiting will make it any easier. Besides, I acknowledge as I hit the button to open the garage door, I’m actually a lot less on edge this morning. A day of self-indulgence—as well as an evening focused on nothing except what made me feel good—has worked wonders.
So, yeah. Pretty sure I can face Logan today without losing my mind.
Pulling my car into the garage, I press the button again, this time to have the door slide down behind me. I turn off the engine, climb out, tugging my bags with me, and after walking up to the door that leads into the house and testing the handle, I dig out my keys and unlock it.
Two steps inside and around a corner, I see there’s only one person in the kitchen: Mike, sitting at the breakfast counter with a newspaper and a mug of coffee. He and my dad are the only people I know who still read actual printed newspapers anymore. That's about all they have in common, though.
Catching sight of me, my father-in-law sets his cup down. “Morning.”
Since I’m still mad at him, I figure I’m exempt from politeness, so without responding, I cross over to the counter where he’s sitting, slapping my bags down on the granite surface. “Where are they?”
He tilts his head toward the French doors. “Backyard, playing with Baldwin.”
I march over there and pull the built-in blinds up, revealing almost the whole yard with its deck and grass and trees and kids’ play set. And there they are, in the middle of the lawn. Logan, Abi, and Freya form a triangle with Elliott and Baldwin in the middle, and they’re playing a monkey-in-the-middle type game, where Logan and the girls kick a soccer ball to each other and the toddler and the dog try to intercept it.
Dammit. I’ve told Logan before I don’t like that game, because Baldwin doesn’t realize how big and strong he is and how easily he could knock Elliott over and hurt him.
“Did Logan stay here last night?” I ask, watching them with clenched jaws, restraining the urge to go out there and stop them. Where did calm and peaceful Paige go?
“Yup.”
I turn to eye the older man, crossing my arms. “Then why did you stay?”
“Because you asked me to,” he answers easily.
I release a snort-laugh. “A little late for loyalty, don’t you think?”
Mike’s chin dips as he presses his lips together, and he lets out a sigh. “You know,” he observes quietly, thoughtfully, “I hoped that if I did that one thing for him, he’d finally let it all go.”
“Oh, I have no doubt you were just trying to help,” I comment bitterly, and though I know he’s talking about the surveillance, it occurs to me that the same words could apply to a lot of stuff his son has asked him to do, including the search for Rose. Logan can be such a shit.
“Well,” my father-in-law says, watching me gravely, “in any case, I’m sorry. I should’ve refused.”
“No shit.” I intend for it to be another angry retort, but for some reason, I don’t manage to put much bite into it.
“He’s one of the good guys, Paige,” Mike points out, his face softening, and then he adds with a wry smile, “Defending criminals aside.”
I swallow past a sudden constriction in my throat, a wobbling emotion that I write off as unwelcome weakness. “You’re biased.”
“Yeah, but I know you know it.” He sits back on the barstool, bracing his palm on his thigh and looking so much like the cop he used to be, all starched and authoritative. “I could tell the first time I met you. He’d had other girlfriends, but you were the first one he introduced me to. Then it turned out you were already married and having a kid, and I always assumed if he ever told me he’d knocked some girl up, I’d be disappointed, angry.”
He glances down for a second before pinning me with a gaze that seems to compel me to listen carefully and believe him. “After talking to you for just a few minutes, though, I knew you’d be the best thing that ever happened to him.”
My chest feels like it caves in. He needs to stop. I don’t have to listen to this; it’s discombobulating, distressing. “Are you done?”
I purse my mouth at him, unamused.
The French door opens, and the girls spill inside first, followed by the dog. Logan enters close behind, carrying his son, and as soon as he notices me, his whole body freezes—until Elliott squirms, wanting to be let down. Which Logan does, and then Abi happily yells, “Mommy!” and before I can blink, I have three small people rushing at me.
Kneeling on the floor, I’m hugging and kissing them, asking how they’ve been doing, and listening to one non sequitur after the other, trying to follow their disjointed storytelling and their kid logic. And I’m so focused on them and how they make my heart so full it feels like it’s going to burst that for that short space of time I forget there’s anyone else in the room.
Mike brings me back to reality with a small cough. “How about I take the kids out for some ice cream?”
Freya jumps up from the floor, gaping at her grandfather. “Before lunch?”
“Yeah, why not? It’ll be an appetizer.” My father-in-law raises his eyebrows at me, clearly waiting for me to object, and I’m thinking I should, mostly because his intentions of leaving me and Logan alone are so blatant and annoying.
But I just give a short nod. Because I’m tired of being the villain. And because avoiding confrontation is not a habit of a self-sufficient, intelligent, functional adult.
While he herds the squealing, bouncing children out with impressive efficiency, having enough wherewithal to grab the diaper bag off the counter by the doorway, where he must’ve left it yesterday after picking them up, I realize I don’t have it in me to be mad at him anymore.
Mike is Mike. He’s always there for his son and his grandkids because he loves them all fiercely and will do anything for them. And yeah, he cares about me, too. I’ve never doubted that.
After I hear the front door shut, a sigh escapes me. I look sideways at Logan, who’s just standing there with his hands on his hips, watching me.
So let’s get this over with then.
“Before you say anything,” he says, holding up his palm, “I need to make a phone call.”
Uh.
What?
Blinking, I watch him walk over to the breakfast counter, put his phone down, and start tap-tapping around on the screen. Is he making the call on speakerphone?
My question is answered by the hum of quiet ringing sounds that grow louder as Logan presses the volume button. There’s a quick pop, and then a man’s voice fills the room, saying, “What do you want?”
It’s Hammerness. I’d recognize that gravelly timbre anywhere. But why is Logan calling him? Frowning, I wait for the answer.
Bracing his hands on the counter, his shoulders hunched, my husband says, “I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I’m leaving the firm, and I thought I’d offer to let you buy me out.”
I feel my jaw go slack. He’s doing what now?
“Yeah, that’s hilarious,” the man at the other end growls. “I’m on the green right now, and if I don’t putt this ball in one shot, I’m gonna lose. Why are you wasting my time with this shit?”
“I’m serious, Charlton,” Logan says, and I have to cross over to the counter and take a seat on the barstool across from him, because my legs feel like they don’t want to support me anymore.
What the hell is he doing? And why?
“What the fuck?” Hammerness barks, echoing my disbelief. “Why?”
Logan brushes a hand down the sides of his mouth, which is covered in gold-blond scruff. “Necessary changes.”
Dead silence on the other end. Then an explosion. “It’s that wife of yours, isn’t it, you pussy-whipped son of a bitch?” the older man yells.
Oh, nice. Guess some things never change, and Charlton Hammerness III will always be a tactless jackass.
His expression taut with distaste, Logan answers, “No, man. This is all me.”
“Bullshit,” his business partner snaps. “Why do you want her back so badly, huh? Does she have a magical cunt filled with rainbows and unicorns or something?”
What? My cheeks flame and my eyes bug out, and even Logan looks stunned, pushing off the counter to stand up straight, his eyes meeting mine in alarm.
Ugh. The Hammer is such a disgusting old pig. Knowing exactly how to get to him, though, I lean across the counter and chirp loudly, “Hi, Charlton. How are you?”
This time it takes him even longer to respond, and when he does, it sounds like thunder. “Am I on fucking speakerphone?”
Amusement ambushes me, and I press a fist against my mouth, a snicker rasping in my throat. Logan’s eyes are on me, laughter dancing in their depths as he answers, “Uh-huh.”
“You’re supposed to fucking warn people about that, Logan,” Hammerness snarls.
“Don’t worry,” my husband says. “Paige knows you too well to be shocked by anything you say.”
Ain’t that the truth? I let out a quiet huff.
“So are you going to buy me out? If not, I’m sure Vic will be interested.”
Hammer releases an aggravated breath. “What if I could guarantee your name on the door within the year? ‘Stevens, Hammerness, and McKinley.’”
I inhale sharply. Wow. That’s a huge offer and exactly what Logan’s been chasing for years. Is he really going to turn that down? Can he?
My husband blinks, his mouth pressed tight. Is it indecision that flickers across his face? He has to be at least considering it, right?
“I’m gonna have to pass,” he says at last, and the words hit me like a kick to the gut.
Who is this man? He doesn’t even look upset. Just resolute.
“Have you been calling clients already?” the Hammer demands through the phone speaker. “You’d better not try to take anyone with you.”
“Listen,” Logan fires back, obviously exasperated. “There’s no animosity here. You know I could take clients. Stuart Garnett, for example, would follow me off a cliff if I asked him. But I’m just leaving, not trying to pull a move.” His lips twisting, he adds, “Loyal to the end.”
“Fine. I’ll buy you out.” The older man is speaking too quickly, too staccato, and it dawns on me he’s genuinely upset. Obviously it’s hard to lose your Golden Boy. Puffing out air, he appends, “And fuck you very much.”
Rolling his eyes, Logan says, “See you Monday.” And then he taps aggressively on the screen, disconnecting.
I sit there, staring at him with my head buzzing, not sure what the hell just happened. “Well, you made sure his associates will be on the phone with clients all weekend, to make sure they don’t abandon ship with you,” I tell him, feeling dazed.
“Yup,” he says, a shrug in his voice.
“I can’t believe you quit your job.” I shake my head in wonder. “Why?”
“I’m getting my priorities straight.”
Squinting at him, I ask, “What does that mean?”
Sighing under his breath, he rubs the back of his neck. “It means that whatever happens with us, if we get back together or not, I’m gonna be closer. I’ll help out and be more involved. I’ll sell my condo, and if you decide to stay here, I’ll find a place nearby. And if you move up north, so will I.”
My pulse skitters and jumps. Is he for real? Just like that? No warning, no bargaining, no ultimatums. He abandons his career, one of his biggest passions and sources of pride, just like that?
“What about your dad?” I question in disbelief. “You’re okay with taking the kids away from him?”
“Up to him.” He replies at once, like he was anticipating it. “He could move, too. Might be good for him to finally get out of the house where he lived with my mom.”
Sure. I guess so. But—
There’s a centrifuge in my mind. It’s spinning and spinning, every thought blurring into one, and I can’t make it stop. What does this mean? How do I feel about it? What has ch
anged?
I zero in on one thought, though, and I have to air it. “I never asked you to quit your job,” I state firmly, because that needs to be clear and never up for debate.
“I know.” His reply comes easily, casually.
I can feel him hacking away at it, the cage I spent yesterday erecting around myself. Every concession, every breath of sacrifice, every calm and reasonable statement tears out another chip. It shouldn’t be this hard to hang on to resentment.
“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” I ask in an attempt to fortify the cage. If he says yes, I’ll have reason to grow livid all over again. If he says no, I can try to convince myself he’s lying.
“No,” he says with a slow shake of his head. His expression full of sorrow, he adds, “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
God. I drop my gaze, not wanting to see his remorse. It cuts me, leaves me vulnerable. “You really hurt me,” I choke out.
“I know,” he repeats. So ashamed. So penitent.
Fine. I’ll be the one to confess, then. Let’s see how calm he can remain. Raising my eyes to him again, I say, “So yesterday I decided to hurt you back.”
His eyebrows draw together slightly. “What?”
Bending sideways over the counter, I grab my briefcase and haul it close enough that I can open the front pocket. I’m not sure why I stuffed the business card back in there—for no reason, probably—but it’s still there, and I pull it out and set it down, sliding it toward him.
He picks it up, examines it. “What is this?”
“The guy I had drinks with in Tahoe. The guy I kissed.” Instant pallor in his cheeks. It emboldens me. “I called him yesterday.” While his eyes flash darkly, I deliver the final blow. “I called him to ask him to meet up so that I could fuck his brains out.”
Nostrils flaring, he pushes away from the counter as if burned. Oh, yeah. Not so chill anymore now, is he?
“I don’t believe you,” he grinds out.
“Check the credit card statement. There’s a hotel charge.” I narrow my eyes on him, smiling coldly. “The Presidential Suite at the Hilton. It was really nice. Oversize whirlpool tub. A wet bar. Comfy king size bed. No idea if it’s good for actually sleeping on, though.”
Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 38
