by T. K. Leigh
I storm down the narrow corridor past rows of cubicles and tiny offices, then round the corner, halting in the doorway of Brooklyn’s office. I could have found my way here blindfolded, her familiar aroma of lavender flowing from the room.
She shoots to her feet when she sees me, blinking repeatedly, her eyes darting from me to the receptionist and back again, confusion wrinkling her brow. “Drew?”
“I’m sorry. I tried to stop him,” the receptionist apologizes. “I can call security.”
“Please...,” I manage to say through the lump in my throat, my anger turning back to despair, to desperation.
Brooklyn’s gaze narrows on me as she surveys my disheveled appearance. My eyes are red and full of worry, distress covering every inch of me. My expression is slack as I plead with her to help. This woman has seen me at my highest of highs and lowest of lows. But I doubt she’s ever seen me so distraught, so out of sorts. She can’t refuse me. It’s not in her nature to turn away someone in need, regardless of how much I’ve hurt her.
When she remains silent, seemingly still uncertain about the reason for my presence, I throw the papers in my hand onto the desk in front of her. “I need you,” I beg, my tone shaky.
She studies me with curiosity, then looks down at the papers, instantly flinging her shocked gaze back to mine once she reads the caption. The same questions I had when I received this earlier are written in the lines of her face.
Her jaw grows slack as she shakes her head, struggling to say something. I know exactly what she’s going through. I was there an hour ago. Hell, I’m still there.
In an instant, she flips the switch and becomes the social worker I know her to be, spine straight, composing herself. “Natalie...” She returns her attention to the blonde. “There’s no need to call security.” She looks back at me, a peaceful air about her. Right now, I need to feel her soothing presence. It’s the only thing giving me hope. “Drew’s a friend who needs my help.”
“Of course.” With a smile, Natalie starts to close the door when Brooklyn calls out to her once more.
“And please rearrange my schedule for today. I won’t be able to make any of my appointments. Do what you can to reschedule them for later in the week, even if it means after hours.”
Natalie shifts her eyes to me, then back to Brooklyn, curious. “I’ll update your calendar.” She closes the door behind her.
“A complaint for custody?” Brooklyn presses once we’re alone. Her expression is long, a slight tremble in her chin as she swallows hard.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, the ache in my throat becoming more painful. Hearing those words validates it, reminds me I’m not dreaming, that this is my reality. My crazy ex is trying to take my girls from me. And that’s not even the worst of it.
“What am I going to do?” I tug at my hair, pacing, unable to hide my emotions any longer. It’s a miracle I made it all the way here in one piece when everything around me seems to be spinning out of control. How am I going to pick up Alyssa and Charlotte from school today and pretend everything is okay? How am I going to smile, laugh, and play with them without my heart breaking over the idea I might lose them?
“It’ll be okay, Drew.” Brooklyn’s voice is strong, assertive, a complete one-eighty from the sorrow filling me. “We’ll fight this. You took care of those girls after she abandoned all of you. There’s no way you’ll lose custody. If worse comes to worse, you may have to share custody.”
I fall into a chair, burying my head in my hands. “What about Charlotte?” I slowly lift my glassy eyes to hers, my stare distant and empty, a vice squeezing my heart.
“What about her?” Her tone is cautious, as if she doesn’t want to hear the answer.
With a defeated sigh, I sit forward and shakily point to the second paragraph of the pleading. Brooklyn’s hesitant but eventually lowers herself to her chair, scanning the paper. After a few seconds, she sucks in a quick breath. Her gaze shoots back to me, her chin quivering, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Words seeming to escape her as she processes what she just learned, what I just learned, she silently pleads with me for an explanation. I wish I had one.
“She claims I’m not the biological father. That Chase...” I trail off. Parker had warned me when we met for drinks on Saturday. I didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to think it could be true. I guess I was wrong.
She covers her mouth with her hand, but it does nothing to hide her sadness, her pain. It matches my own. It’s in this moment I realize I’m not the only one affected by this. We all are. Those girls are as much Brooklyn’s kids as they are my own. She helped raise them — changed diapers, put them to bed, bathed them, sang to them, played with them. This isn’t just my struggle. It’s hers, too.
Brooklyn’s lips form a tight line as she continues flipping through the pleading. Then she stands from her desk, heading toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Go?” I peer at her through forlorn eyes. “Go where?”
“To see a friend of mine. A lawyer. She’ll know what to do, how to fight this.”
Without giving me a minute to protest, she grabs my hand, yanking me from the chair and pulling me down the hallway. I should be thinking only of my daughters, but damn if her skin on mine doesn’t cause a subtle jolt of electricity to course through me. She’s by my side again. Even if the circumstances that brought us together are tearing me apart, I find comfort in the small victories.
When we emerge outside, she spies my motorcycle parked in the lot and scowls. “Didn’t the doctor advise you against riding that thing? It could cause irreversible brain damage if you got in an accident!”
“I needed to see you, and the bike is easier to navigate through traffic.”
“That was stupid, Drew. You’re worried about losing your girls to Carla. What if something happened to you? They’d lose you. We all would.”
“You’ve never liked that bike,” I comment.
She stops walking as we approach her car. “No, I haven’t. I don’t like the idea of you speeding down the highway with little to no protection.”
She unlocks the car and I head around to the passenger side. “Duly noted,” I say before lowering myself into her car. It’s a small sedan, so my long legs and large physique seem to take up the entire compartment.
As she sits behind the wheel, she glances at me, her eyes hard. “If you’d followed doctor’s orders and refrained from riding that deathtrap on two wheels, we could have taken your car and you wouldn’t be squished. So don’t even think about complaining.” Her tone is clipped.
“Okay. Okay. I get it. You don’t like me riding the bike.”
“I can tolerate it when you’re in your neighborhood.” She inserts the key into the ignition and starts the car, carefully navigating through the parking lot and merging onto the street. “You’re a good driver, but I don’t trust any other drivers on the road.” When we come to a stoplight, her eyes briefly lock with mine. “You’re special to me, Drew.” A strange expression washes over her features, almost as if having a realization of sorts. “I can’t lose you.”
I swallow hard, the way she peers at me hitting me deep in my soul. I’m still not sure where we stand, but I don’t care about that right now. I just need to feel something real again, something that grounds me. Brooklyn’s always been my anchor.
Reaching across the console, I squeeze her hand in mine. “You won’t. As long as that’s what you want.”
Her gaze darts to our joined hands and she quickly withdraws, freeing herself from my touch. As the light turns green, she returns her turmoil-filled eyes to the road and grips the wheel with both hands, something she never does.
“I don’t even know what I want anymore.” Her words are soft, contemplative, spoken in a way that makes me think she’s saying them for herself, not me.
I could press her, make a case for why she should choose me. Why she should take a risk. Why she should give me one more chance to prove I’m not the person
she assumed I was when I disappeared from her life without saying goodbye. Instead, I remain silent throughout the drive toward the Back Bay in Boston. I’m unsure how she would react to the truth of why I stood her up. Her father’s the only family she has left. I can’t be responsible for destroying that, too.
Chapter Three
Drew
A woman I estimate to be in her early forties looks our way the instant we cross the threshold into a small office in a revamped brownstone. “Brooklyn, so good to see you.” Her smile is heartfelt and kind. “I’m finishing up with another client.” She gestures to the gentleman standing beside her. “Go ahead. I’ll be with you two shortly.”
“Thanks, Alice.” Brooklyn leads me from the reception area, which was probably a living room before they refurbished this space into offices. “This way.” She gestures down a narrow hallway. I follow her into a room at the end. The ensuite bathroom to the left gives the impression this was once the master bedroom.
We sit across from a vast desk piled high with briefs and files. Diplomas and awards hang on the walls, and a large bookcase displays what appear to be dozens of legal books. It’s not as stuffy as some of the law firms I’ve been to, though. There’s a touch of familiarity, personality...warmth. In addition to all her achievements, this woman proudly showcases family photos. I hope the love she has for her own family will translate into helping me keep mine.
I catch Brooklyn studying me, her eyes analytical and penetrating, revealing nothing. I offer her a tight smile, hoping to crack the armor she wears when around me now. “Thank you. When I received that request for custody modification, I didn’t know what to do, who else to turn to.”
She straightens her posture, sitting rather formally, hands folded in her lap, back stiff, eyes forward, legs crossed at the ankles. “You came to the right place. I’ve dealt with custody issues for years now. Granted, mine usually deal with the termination of parental rights, but—”
“No. That’s not what I mean.” Drawing in a breath, I moisten my dry lips. “I didn’t come to you because you have contacts in this area. I could have called the attorney who handled my divorce. I came to you because there’s no other person I want by my side through this.” I lower my voice. “Through everything.”
“Drew...,” she cautions.
“I know.” I throw up my hands in frustration. “I’m an idiot.”
She tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing into slits. Then she laughs, the soft sound like music to my ears after the morning I’ve had. “That may be the understatement of the year. Hell, the century.”
“And I don’t blame you for avoiding me. But things aren’t like they seem.”
“I’m not avoiding you. I just—”
“Do you know what I’ve always admired about you?”
She shakes her head.
“You don’t trust easily, but when you do, you do so unequivocally. I ruined it by betraying your trust in the worst way possible, of taking advantage of your compassionate nature.”
She looks down, avoiding my gaze as she fidgets with her hands. I notice her fingernails. They’re usually manicured with a light shade of pink. Not today. She’s been biting them, something she does when she’s stressed.
“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t know. Anyway, it was years ago. I’ve moved on.” She seems to shrink into herself, then chews on one of her nails.
“Have you?” I press. Everything about the way she’s acting gives me the impression she’s only saying that to convince herself of the validity of the words. She hasn’t moved on any more than I have.
“I—”
“Brooklyn, sweetie,” a voice cuts through and Brooklyn stands, breaking the moment.
“Alice. Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice.” They briefly shake hands before Brooklyn turns to me. “This is my friend, Drew. I mean, Andrew Brinks.”
I stand, my frame dwarfing Alice as I hold my hand toward her. She has a pleasant disposition, her eyes bright, expression kind. Her blonde hair is cut to right above her shoulders. She’s not dressed in a suit, as most attorneys I’ve worked with have been. Instead, she wears a belted dress and boots that come up to just below her knees. It’s unusual, but I don’t care, as long as she can help me. If Brooklyn insists this is where I need to be, I have to believe I’m in good hands.
“Not the same Andrew Brinks who—”
“One and the same,” Brooklyn replies, cutting her off.
“Well, shit.” She beams, shaking my hand even more enthusiastically, all the professionalism she tried to exude waning when she realizes who I am. “Alice DeMico. I barely recognized you without the beard and hair.”
“I usually stay somewhat clean-shaven these days.” I run my hand along my jaw, a bit of scruff covering my skin. “My daughters like it better. They call me Grizzly Adams when I don’t shave for a week.” My expression immediately falls.
“Which is why we’re here,” Brooklyn states, taking charge of the conversation when she notices the sudden change in my demeanor.
“So, tell me...” Alice steps behind her desk, sitting down. We mirror her movement. “How can I help?” She fishes a notepad and pen from underneath a file and scribbles down the date along with my name.
“Drew received this earlier today.” Brooklyn hands her the request for custody modification.
An unnerving silence falls over the room as Alice flips through the pages, making a few notes every so often. My leg bounces as I constantly clench and unclench my fists, my eyes darting around. The wait is killing me. I just want to know my chances at keeping both girls.
Suddenly, a hand grabs onto mine, my head snapping toward Brooklyn, who offers me a reassuring smile. The sympathy I see relaxes me. Without uttering a single word, she pacifies me, convinces me everything will be okay. I expect her to pull her hand away once my anxiety has diminished, but she doesn’t. I run my thumb along her knuckles, relishing in her soft skin against my fingertips. It’s known and familiar, exactly what I need right now. She’s always exactly what I need.
“Okay.” Alice looks up, addressing me. I rip my eyes from Brooklyn, devoting my full attention to Alice, although I keep Brooklyn’s hand in mine. “First, do you consent to Brooklyn being here?”
“I’ll leave if you’d rather,” she says to me, pulling away her hand. “I don’t mind. You need to speak with her openly and honestly.”
“No. I want her here. She knows everything about me. She always has.” I say that more for Brooklyn’s sake than Alice’s, a desperate attempt at reminding her what’s at stake.
“Very well. We won’t be getting into the nitty-gritty right now anyway. What I’m going to do is order a paternity test immediately.”
I lower my head, nodding. I knew this would be the first step, but the idea of confirming the truth weighs heavily on my heart.
“For both girls.”
I whip my head up. “Both girls?”
“I understand it’s not what you’d like to hear, but I find it’s best in these situations. It’s imperative we confirm the assertions she’s made in her request for custody, which include verifying that Alyssa is your biological daughter. You don’t want any more surprises.”
I swallow hard. It never even crossed my mind that Alyssa also may not be mine. The mere thought of Charlotte not being my biological daughter wrecks me. Losing Alyssa, too? I won’t survive.
“How will that work? You’ll need my DNA and...”
“Your daughters’. It’s just a quick swab of the mouth. They’re used to routine pediatrician visits, correct?” She lifts a brow and I nod. “Most of my clients who have had to do paternity tests told their kids it was the doctor making sure they were healthy. I’m assuming you don’t want to inform them about any of this until you’re certain one way or another, right?”
I stare ahead, blinking. “I haven’t even thought about how or what to tell them.”
Alice gives me a reassuring smile. “One step at
a time. We’ll get the paternity test taken care of. Your ex-wife may just be playing hardball. It’s a common tactic. Go big to convince the other party to settle in the middle.”
I look away, not saying a word. In my heart, I know this isn’t a ploy. Maybe if Parker hadn’t implied that Carla had been sleeping with Chase all along, I wouldn’t be thinking this way, but I know the truth. It’s too much of a coincidence.
“Now, Ms. Gale alleged she came to you requesting occasional visitation with the kids, correct?” Alice jots a few notes on the pad.
“Yes. About two weeks ago.”
Brooklyn shoots her eyes to me, surprised by this news. I hadn’t told anyone about it. I didn’t think anything would come of it. I underestimated Carla.
“And you separated when?” Squinting, she flips through the pleading, turning to the appendix, which contains copies of birth certificates, as well as our divorce agreement, detailing custody and spousal support.
“Almost six years ago.” I do my best to answer all her questions without involving any of my emotions regarding the past. “Charlotte was only six months old. I was forced into retirement because of an injury, and Carla decided she didn’t want to be with me if I was no longer the hockey celebrity she thought she married. So she left without a word. A month later, I received her request for divorce.”
“And the agreement signed by the court attached to this pleading is the one that’s still in effect?”
I nod. “Yes. We went through the standard mediation required before a divorce. She gave me full physical custody of the two girls and requested no spousal support. My lawyer encouraged me to take her offer and run, considering I’d been playing professional hockey when we met and had quite extensive assets.”
Alice looks over the rim of her dark glasses. “I would have advised the same. Now, after your divorce, how often were you in contact with Ms. Gale?”
“Never. I tried reaching out to her, but her phone had been disconnected. A few months later, I learned she was no longer with the guy she’d left me for. In all these years, she never sent either of the girls so much as a card on their birthday or for Christmas.” I glance at Brooklyn and reach for her hand, my fingers intertwining with hers. “Then last month, Brooklyn and I took the girls to the science museum. We ran into her there. My girls had no idea who she was.”
