by Mara Wells
“Of course.” Carrie plunked her credit card on the table. “My treat. It’s been quite a week, Lance.”
Lance frowned at the card, and she could see the thoughts cross his face. He wanted to fight her for the check. “Let me get it.”
“My treat means my treat.” She covered the check with her hand. If he paid, it was a date. If she did, it was a thank-you for bringing her in on the Dorothy. She wasn’t so tipsy that she didn’t realize how relaxed the mimosas made them, how blurry the friend zone boundaries looked through the bottom of a champagne glass.
“Fine.” He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll consider it payment for the work at Kristin’s.”
“I was planning to pay you. With money.” Her fingers played with the stem of the champagne flute. She left the last few sips at the bottom of the glass. She’d clearly had enough.
“No need. If you take a hit on the job, it impacts Oliver, right?” Lance’s posture relaxed, hands dropping to the table to fiddle with his napkin. “Knox and I both volunteer our time. For Oliver.”
“That’s so nice.” Against her better judgment and probably because of the mimosas, she reached across the table for his hand. “Thank you, Lance. For the work. For being so understanding. I’m really glad you’re in Oliver’s life now.”
Lance stared at their entwined fingers as if mesmerized, then turned his slightly tipsy gaze to hers. “You should’ve told me.”
Carrie’s teeth ground down on her lower lip. “I know.”
“I want to be his dad.” His fingers tightened around hers, almost painful now.
“You are.” She tugged her hand free. “He already talks about you all the time.”
If anything, her words made Lance fiercer. “You have to tell him, Carrie. Tell him I’m his father.”
The number of times Oliver asked why he didn’t have a father were few and far between, and he always accepted her explanations. At some point, though, he’d make friends his own age and learn that divorce didn’t mean daddies moved away even though they loved their sons very much. It wasn’t really a lie she’d been telling Oliver all these years, but it wasn’t exactly the truth, either.
She forced a smile for the waiter who came to collect her credit card and hardened her mimosa-softened heart. “When it’s the right time, but not until then. I don’t want to upset Oliver’s whole world.”
“But you had no trouble ripping holes through mine.” Lance’s eyes turned glacially blue, ice spears pinning her in place.
Whether he referred to her leaving him or her keeping Oliver a secret, or both, didn’t matter. He was right. Every step of the way, it had been her decision. She nodded, sucking on her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood.
“Jesus.” Lance ran a hand along the stubble on his chin. “You’re not even sorry.”
Carrie was. She was so sorry, and she’d said so. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of their lives apologizing for her mistakes. She straightened her spine, leaning forward to tell her arrogant ex-husband a thing or two when the waiter returned. She tipped generously—it wasn’t the waiter’s fault her fruit salad sat rock hard in her stomach. She signed the check and stood, her indignation giving her perfect posture.
“I hope this doesn’t affect our work together.” She clipped out the words, hating that she felt the need to say them, but a lot of her pending income was dependent on him. She couldn’t believe that once again, she’d let herself become dependent on Lance Donovan. It was a mistake she wouldn’t make again.
“I’m not the one who backs out of commitments.” He snorted. “And I’m perfectly capable of keeping the personal and professional separate. But make no mistake. If you don’t tell Oliver who his father is, I will.”
She swung her purse onto her shoulder, so agitated that she put too much muscle into it and bashed the person sitting behind her on the head. After a quick apology to the young man she’d surprise purse-bombed, she turned her ire on Lance. “You won’t talk to my son unless I say you can.”
Lance launched to his feet, shoving back his chair with enough force to rock their table. “You don’t get to make those decisions by yourself anymore. I want custody.”
And there it was. The ugly C-word, the word she’d been so afraid of, thrown up between them, thick as a load-bearing wall and just as immovable. She was suddenly and stunningly sober. Oh, her eyes were opened alright.
“That’s what this was all about.” She swept her arm over the table, taking in the dishes that still hadn’t been cleared, the treacherous mimosa pitcher. “I should’ve known. I see right through your stupid Donovan power play.” For all that he claimed to have left behind everything related to his father, blood will tell, as her mother would say. The connection she’d felt growing between them, their sweet little catch-up session, the babysitting, hell, even that kiss in Kristin’s elevator that she was stupid enough to replay every night as she fell asleep—all of it calculated on his part to wear her down, make her forget all the bad between them so she’d soften and hand over custody of her son. She’d had nightmares about this since Oliver was born, and she’d decided long ago when Lance could have custody. Never.
She clenched the long strap of her bag until her knuckles whitened. “Nice try, but I’m onto you now.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Lance took a step toward her, his face contorted in innocent confusion she knew was fake.
“You want to fight over Oliver like your parents fought over you?” She lowered her voice, conscious of their very public setting. If he wanted it spelled out, she was only too happy to oblige. “Dragged back and forth between two households, neither one of them every truly a home? I won’t have it.”
“At least my parents cared enough to fight for me.” Lance steadied himself on the back of his chair, fingers clutching at the top rung like a lifeline. If he’d ever been tipsy, he was dead sober now. “My dad didn’t give up on me like yours did on you. At least my father wants a relationship with me.”
Carrie blanched, literally felt all the blood drain from her face and straight to knuckles that wanted to punch Lance in his smug mouth. “At least my father’s not a criminal.”
“No, just criminally neglectful.” He smirked. Smirked!
“Get him, girl,” the man she’d bonked on the head with her purse earlier stage-whispered at her, and Carrie’s blood reversed its retreat, flooding her face until her cheeks felt sunburned from the heat. A quick glance over her shoulder showed their avid audience, two of whom were openly filming the scene.
Carrie licked her lips, breathing as deeply as she’d been taught in her birthing classes. “This is why we broke up.” She folded forward a bit, the heaviness of her words weighing her down. “You can’t hide who you really are forever, not in a real relationship. And deep down, you and me, Lance? We’re terrible people.”
“Ouch.” The man behind her whistled. “You tell him.” His friends offered similar encouraging remarks, but they only made her feel worse.
Although their audience was clearly rooting for another round, Carrie didn’t stick around for act two. That was what divorce meant. She didn’t have to listen to his accusations or justifications. She ran as fast her heels allowed, purse bouncing against her side, and cut down Michigan Avenue so no one had to see the tears streaming down her face.
* * *
“Sir? Don’t forget your card.” The waiter stacked the dirty plates on a tray, making it abundantly clear that Lance should get going. He lurched away, unsteady on his feet even though his anger had burned off his mimosa buzz. He ignored Carrie’s fans, the ones trying to wave him down from the next table for details. He might’ve just enacted a scene from a reality show, but he had no desire to be recognized for it. His hasty exit took him to the meandering koi pond in front of the movie theater, and he stood for a moment studying the orange-and-white fish before taking a
seat on the rock ledge.
Lance held Carrie’s abandoned credit card in his hand, staring at the letters that spelled out her name like they were in a foreign language. He wasn’t completely sure what had just happened; all he knew was it felt an awful lot like the last few months of their marriage—flash-in-the-pan arguments that escalated so quickly he almost never remembered what he’d said, although it was usually whatever he knew would hurt her the most. Not that she ever held back either. They were excellent at destroying each other. One such argument, one he barely recalled the content of, was the reason he’d ultimately agreed to the divorce. Why live with someone who could eviscerate you with a few well-chosen words? Maybe Carrie was right about them being terrible people. Lord knows, he certainly felt terrible right now.
He’d made a dick move, bringing up custody. It’d been on his mind, of course, since the day he found out about Oliver. But he knew he wasn’t ready for full- or even part-time fatherhood. He’d thought he’d have time to ease into it. Hell, in his most idiotic moments, he’d even imagined getting back together with Carrie, creating their own little perfect nuclear family. She’d made him so mad, not wanting to tell Oliver who he was when every time he was with his son, it became harder and harder not to tell him. He wanted to introduce Oliver to his brothers, hell, even his grandfather. He wanted Oliver to be part of his life.
And now he’d blown it. No way would Carrie let him anywhere near Oliver without a court order. So be it. That was the risk she took with keeping her secret. He’d get a lawyer, take the legal route, let a judge decide what he and Carrie so clearly couldn’t decide for themselves. Right now, though, he needed to get to work. He shoved Carrie’s credit card in his pocket, figuring walking a few blocks before calling for a ride would help blow off some steam.
It didn’t. Luckily, a text from Mendo alerted him that all hell had broken loose with the Dorothy’s plumbing. Lance rubbed his hands together, thankful that the distraction was both huge and ill-timed. He’d handle these runaway emotions his favorite way: not at all.
Chapter 21
“Idiota!” Mendo smacked Lance on the back of his head, mumbling more unflattering things under his breath. They stood outside the Dorothy, shoes sinking into the mud created when they’d dug up the main drainage line. Lance was reattaching the sections, restoring water to the building.
“Hey, I found the clog. Nothing idiotic about that.” Lance rubbed his hair and winced for dramatic effect. Mendo’s slaps were more attention-getting than painful. They’d spent the past two hours snaking the main drain out to the street line, trying to solve the mystery of why all the first-floor bathtubs had a couple of inches of brown backflow in them. It finally paid off when they fished out a mop head with hundreds of used condoms stuck to it.
The discovery left Lance with many questions. Who flushed a mop head down the toilet? Like, how did that even work? Secondly, wasn’t this a fifty-five-plus building? Because that was a lot of condoms for a building full of people who couldn’t get pregnant anymore. It must’ve taken years for the mop to capture so many condoms, enough to block all drainage to the city sewer line.
“I’m talking about you getting a lawyer.” Mendo shook his head, winding the drain snake back onto its coil. “Nothing good will come from that. You need to apologize to Carrie. Work it out between the two of you.”
Lance cleaned his hands on his jeans, leaving long streaks of mud down his thighs. “Not gonna happen. I don’t think she’ll ever talk to me again.”
Mendo placed a fatherly hand on Lance’s shoulder. How Lance wished Mendo really were his father, instead of the crappy one the genetics lottery had landed him. Whatever Mendo was about to say, he would listen. He would do it, no matter how crazy the advice, because Mendo was a good man, and if Mendo had raised him, maybe Lance would be a good man, too. He’d start right now, this minute. Whatever he said.
“What should I do?” Lance knocked one work boot against the other, shaking dirt loose, afraid to look at Mendo and see disappointment in his eyes.
“Grovel.” Mendo shook Lance’s shoulder, emphasizing his point. “I’m talking on your knees, flowers and candy, hire a skywriter, organize a flash mob kind of groveling. It’s your best shot.”
Lance stiffened. “She said awful things, too. Why do I have to be the one to grovel?”
Mendo clapped him on the back. “Because you have the most to lose.”
Dammit. “Couldn’t I start with something easier? Like a text?”
“Don’t be such an idiota. Go now.” Mendo gave him a shove in the direction of his truck.
Right now. Whatever Mendo said, Lance had to do it because he was trying to be a better man than he was raised to be. He got out his keys and checked the balance on his bank app. He had a feeling groveling wouldn’t be cheap.
* * *
Carrie took one last swipe at her smeared mascara before putting on a big smile. “I’m home!” she called, dropping her bag onto the couch and slipping out of her heels. The sooner she could take off her stupidly optimistic flared skirt, the better. Beckham skittered to her side, the nails on all four of his feet painted with green glitter.
“How was it?” Addison hurried into the living room, her hair in an intricate braid with a zigzag part. Oliver burst into the room a second later, his nails also painted with green glitter.
“Beauty day, I see.” She hugged Oliver, perhaps a bit too tightly. He squirmed out of her grasp.
“We’re matching!” He held up his hands for her inspection. “First Addison, then Beckham, then me.”
“Lovely. You all look gorgeous.” Carrie collapsed onto the couch, and Beckham jumped up beside her.
“You look…” Addison cupped her hands over Oliver’s ears. Sure enough, her nails sparkled with glitter, too. “…like you did not have a good time.”
“It was fine.” Standard answer. She was not getting into it with Addison.
Addison pursed her lips. “Oli? Do you want to draw your mom a picture?”
Oli jumped in place, fist pumping in the air. “Yes!” He streaked to his room. “I’ll give you glitter nails, too, Mama!”
“Wonderful.” Carrie propped her feet on the ottoman and took out her wallet. “Let me give you a bit extra for being available so last minute.” She pulled out some cash, noticing the blank spot where her credit card should be. “Oh shit.”
Addison giggled. “You don’t have to give me extra if you don’t have it.”
“No, not that. You earned this.” She handed over the cash. “I must’ve left my credit card at the restaurant.”
“What happened?” Addison sat on the floor and drew her knees to her chest. “Was he mean to you?”
“You know what?” Carrie felt around in her purse for her phone. “He was. He was really mean.”
“And that’s why you were crying and left your credit card behind?” Addison nodded, like she could picture the whole thing in her mind. Maybe she didn’t have to imagine. Maybe the whole thing was on YouTube now, thanks to their overly interested table neighbors.
Carrie called the restaurant, and they tracked down her waiter, who assured everyone that the gentleman had the credit card. Carrie hung up, frustrated. She’d have to talk to Lance again if she wanted it back. Maybe she didn’t. She had other cards. She could live without it.
“At least you don’t have to cancel your card.” Addison tended to see the bright side of things, a trait many people said Carrie possessed as well. Today, though, it was all dark skies, gloomy clouds, and thunder in the distance. Not a rainbow in sight.
“It’d be easier if that were my biggest problem.” Carrie shoved the wallet back in her purse, tears starting up again in her eyes. She tried to blink them back, but she wasn’t fast enough. A few escaped.
“What happened?” Addison rocked in place, obviously upset that Carrie was upset. “Was it bad?”
<
br /> Carrie couldn’t believe she was confiding in a fifteen-year-old, but the story came pouring out.
“Oh no!” Addison moved to the couch and put her arm around Carrie’s shoulder. “Oli talked about Lance a lot today. He loves that guy.”
“I know. I’ve made such a mess of things.” Carrie leaned into Addison’s sideways hug. “Lawyers are so expensive.”
“You don’t need a lawyer.” Addison soothed a hand down Carrie’s arm. “You need to apologize.”
Carrie stiffened in shock. “What? He said he wanted custody. Of course I need a lawyer.”
Addison turned to sit cross-legged on the couch. “Look, he’s not wrong. Not completely. He is Oli’s dad. You did keep them apart for Oli’s entire life. He has a right to be a little paranoid, don’t you think?”
Carrie did not want to think about Lance’s side of the story. “I apologized. He said he understood.”
“Still.” Addison fidgeted with the end of her braid. “It sounds like you were saying he couldn’t be Oli’s dad, and maybe he got scared that you’d keep them apart again.”
Carrie stilled. The fifteen-year-old had a point. If Carrie hadn’t been so scared herself, maybe she would’ve understood that Lance was scared, too. She had cut him out of Oliver’s life; it made sense that he’d worry she’d do it again. Maybe getting legal custody was the only remedy he could think of to make sure he was always connected to his son. When she thought about it like that, their whole argument took on new dimensions.
“You’re pretty smart, you know that?” Carrie leaned over to hug Addison. “I do owe him an apology. Thanks for listening.”
Addison grinned. “No problem. I love Oli, too, you know.”
Carrie’s eyes welled with tears for the third time that day, but these were the good kind. “I do know.”
Oliver stood in the hallway holding up a large white paper. “Look, I put everyone in the picture.” He pointed to various squiggles and configurations of lines and circles. “Here’s Beckham.” The shortest circle. “And Mama. Gamma. Addison.” All the circles had green hair. He pointed to the tallest one. “Lance! And that’s me next to him.”