by Lexi Whitlow
“That’s good to know,” she says rising from the couch, clearing our dishes. Her tone is tight.
My senses peak, going on alert. I’ve missed something, but I don’t know what.
She clears our leftovers, stacking the plates in the sink, then she fetches a bottle of water from the pantry and takes a swig. I look at my whiskey glass and realize then that she’s drinking water, not wine or anything stronger.
“I need you to know this,” Bryn says, still standing in the kitchen with the bar top separating us, “As much as I’ve joked about it, I’m no gold-digger, and I’d never tie you down with a ‘snotty brat.’”
What’s she talking about?
She levels her eyes on mine.
“But as things have turned out, I’m pregnant.”
What?
She gives me a resigned, chilly smile.
“And you should probably go home now. I’d like to be alone.”
What?
How?
My thoughts spin off in every direction imaginable.
“I… I… I don’t understand,” I stammer, trying to wrap my brain around what she’s just said.
Bryn shakes me off, halfway scowling, showing some sympathy for my confusion. “The condom broke,” she says. “And I’m pregnant. It’s as simple as that.”
Not as simple as that.
My mind races to Samantha Benjamin and all those other women that Charles Pearson recruited to come after me. Bryn knows Charles ten times better than any of those girls. They worked together every day. They were friends. They were close.
That night after the Lottery Commission’s press conference, when I checked my messages on my old phone, she reached out to me. I didn’t pursue her. She applied for the foundation grant knowing I’d see it, and see her name on the application.
Is Bryn part of this whole thing?
Am I that easy a target?
She didn’t even hesitate when I asked her to come with me to New York. She was all over it.
Jesus Christ. How much is she in for?
“What do you want?” I ask, feeling the bleak weight of accusation in my tone. “What’s Charles Pearson’s cut? He sued for six million with Samantha in Columbia, but I bet this one—‘cause it’ll pass muster in court—is a hell of a lot richer. Double that? Triple?”
Bryn stares at me across the space between us.
“Go home Logan,” she says, her tone measured and calm. “Go home with the solemn assurance that I don’t want a damn thing from you. I’ll never ask anything from you, and I wouldn’t take anything from you if you tried to give it. I’m keeping the baby, but the baby doesn’t need to know you even exist. In fact, it’s probably better that way. Now get out of my house.”
“All right,” I say, gathering myself. A fog descends over me. My heart beats slowly, as if it might cease beating altogether. Maybe that’s what it feels like when your heart breaks.
I love this woman. I’d do anything for her. I should stay, but the way she’s looking at me makes it clear that I need to go. I don’t know anything anymore.
I place Tim’s card on the countertop in front of her. “Don’t file a suit,” I say. “We’ll work it out.”
Bryn lifts the card, tossing it at me angrily. “Fuck you and your lawyers,” she spits. “I don’t want your money. Go. Leave. Now.”
Chapter 25
Bryn
Sitting in my office at Legal Aid, unable to concentrate on a thing because I’m still so upset with the way Logan behaved last night, I’m thrilled when my desk phone rings.
Maybe someone needs something useful from me. Maybe my next life-changing legal case is on the other end of that line.
“Ms. Beckett,” the unfamiliar voice says. “This is Tim Dunigan, counsel for Logan Chandler. Do you have a few minutes?”
He had his lawyer call me? What an ass.
“Actually, I’m busy,” I reply crisply. “Make it quick.”
“Sure. I will,” he replies. “Logan shared with me the substance of your conversation of last evening, as well as his concerns. I’m interested in opening a dialogue with you to discuss how we can come to terms to everyone’s satisfaction. Logan is a reasonable person. He understands his obligation—”
“Logan is an ass,” I interrupt. “A self-important, paranoid ass. We don’t need to come to terms. In fact, at the moment I’m drafting a document that will allow him to relinquish all parental rights and responsibilities to me, solely. I don’t want him to have any role in this child’s life. And I sure don’t want anything from him. He made his position clear. I have no intention of pursuing his participation any further. Tell Logan to relax. He’s off the hook.”
There’s a long, heavily pregnant pause on the other end of the line.
“Ahm… okay,” he says. “Can you forward those documents to me?”
“Absolutely,” I reply. I get his email address.
“Your client may be worth a couple hundred million,” I add. “But by his own admission, he’d make a terrible parent. After this, I’m inclined to agree. We don’t need him. We don’t even want him.”
“Ms. Beckett, you’re an attorney. You do understand that—”
“I understand perfectly,” I interrupt. “I’ll forward the papers to you. Get Logan to sign them and he’s completely clear of any involvement or financial obligation in this child’s life. Mr. Dunigan, I don’t need the money. My grandparents left me plenty well-off with resources of my own, and my father is one of the most successful corporate attorneys in the South. Money isn’t a motivating factor for me, and I’m not interested in destroying anyone’s life. All I want is what’s best for me and the baby, and that appears to be a life without any connection to Logan Chandler.
“Watch your email. I’ll send the documents shortly.”
Two hours after that call, I get another call; this one from my father.
“Are you alright?” he asks without preamble. “I just had the strangest conversation about you with Logan Chandler’s attorney.”
Do tell.
“He was vague, but he kept circling back around to the notion that you and Charles Pearson have some kind of longstanding relationship. That maybe somehow you and he conspired together to tank your career here at the firm?”
I hear the incredulous tone in Daddy’s voice.
“I hope I disabused him of that notion,” Daddy says. “Bryn, what’s going on?”
“Let’s have dinner tonight,” I say to my father. “I’ll fill you in on everything.”
I’m going to have to tell him eventually, it may as well be now. I might have issues with how my father runs his law firm. I might have issues with his world view. But at the end of the day, he’s always been my backstop and my strongest advocate. Right now, I need him in my corner. He’s family—the only family I have. That means everything to me.
I know that Daddy will be shocked. Maybe even disappointed, briefly. I also know he’s going to be the best grandfather ever. I wasn’t blowing smoke up Tim Dunigan’s ass when I said I didn’t need Logan’s money. My father won’t let his grandchild go without. He may be a 19th century troglodyte, but he’s a trog who loves his family.
Chapter 26
Logan
“Yeah. I think you may be reading this all wrong,” Tim says. “How long have you known this girl?”
“A few months,” I admit, then add, “We knew one another in high school years ago.”
“I got her paperwork,” he tells me. “As drafted, it cuts you lose entirely. No physical demands. No financial demands. No nothing. She’s not looking for money or connection. You’re free and clear.”
How can that be?
“I talked to her father to feel him out on the Pearson connection. I got the sense that you’re entirely off-base on that idea. According to Beckett, she’s hated him since she joined the firm. Hate might be too gentle a term. Did you know Pearson filed a suit against her?”
Yeah, I knew that.
&n
bsp; “And by the way,” Tim ads nonchalantly. “I just got the analysis on the Benjamin DNA samples. She was trying to pass off your hair and nail clippings as belonging to her son. We tested both sets of samples. His came back with no match to you, so that one’s done.”
I’ve made an epic blunder. In my paranoid rage and frustration, I said terrible things to Bryn. I thought worse things. I let Charles Pearson accomplish his one true aim, which is destroying my confidence and any hope I might have of being happy—with Bryn. He’s lost all the bogus legal battles, but I gave him the war.
And now I have everything to lose.
Chapter 27
Bryn
Morning sickness is no joke. I’ve been reading up on this whole being pregnant thing, and it’s not for sissies. Hormone rushes, hunger, then waves of nausea. Lists of foods that I should eat, and other entire categories to avoid. So far, I think I’m getting off easy. The sick stomach feeling usually passes quickly, and after that I’m just thirsty and oh-so-hungry.
A cup of tea helps calm the queasiness I feel after the worst has passed.
I sit sipping, thinking about all that’s ahead of me. Daddy wants me to move back home. The idea of that has its appeal. The house I grew up in is large, with a big yard, and the country club community has a pool and playground. Plus, I wouldn’t be completely alone, trying to raise a child on my own. I never imagined doing that. I always thought that when the time came, it would be a team effort with my best friend and partner.
I wish things were different.
My contemplative reverie is broken by my phone ringing. It probably Claire. We’re supposed to meet later this afternoon to go shopping for maternity clothes. I know it’s too early for any of that yet, but retail therapy is my go-to when I’m down in the dumps.
It’s Logan.
I should just let it ring. If I do, he’ll only call again. Then he’ll text me. I know what Claire will say. She’ll tell me to hear him out so that—at the very least—we’ll have ended things civilly, instead of in anger.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Hey,” Logan says. I hear the surprise in his voice. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“What do you need?” I ask.
He hesitates, providing a long, awkward silence that begs filling.
“I’d really like it if we could talk about this,” he says. “I’d really like to be able to tell you in person just how sorry I am for everything I said, and thought, and how I—”
“Not necessary,” I interrupt. “I understand where you’re coming from, and I even—”
“Bryn, please, can I come over, so we can talk? I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I want to explain myself. And I need to ask you some questions.”
What questions?
“I don’t think—”
“Please, Bryn. Please.”
Not here. Not my place. “Neutral territory,” I say. “Meet me at Cup-a-Joe’s in thirty minutes.”
Men always want to explain themselves. They always want the last word. I’m not really interested in hearing whatever it is that Logan has to say in his defense, but there’s a part of me that wants to see him struggling. He’s left me with a hurting heart and a lot of trepidation. I want to see if he’s feeling anything close to the same thing.
I grab my bag and keys, slipping my phone in my hip pocket as I head out to the car. I’m about to open the door and climb in when I see a reflection in the glass of someone approaching from behind.
“Where you going, Bryn?” a familiar voice asks. He’s so close I can almost feel his breath on my neck.
I swing around, confronting Charles face-to-face. His expression is dark and cold, his eyes dead, without expression.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, seizing me by the arm, pulling me forward. “Ever.”
I’m paralyzed, unable to react or even speak. Then it occurs to me, he means to do me harm.
Summoning every ounce of strength I can muster, I wrench away from him, shoving him backwards, away from me. I launch into a dead run back toward my apartment door. I get the key in the door and open it, but Charles is on my heel. I run, as fast as I can through to the bathroom—the only door in the place with a lock on it.
I’ve lost my purse and my keys.
My phone!
I dial 911 as Charles talks to me through the door, telling me he’s going to break it down. The dispatcher takes my information. I’m frantic—probably incoherent.
“Open the door Bryn,” Charles shouts. “I’ll take it off the hinges.”
I text Logan.
Bryn: Charles here SOS hlp
That’s all I get before Charles begins pounding on the bathroom door, kicking it. I back up into the shower stall, terrified, shaking, crouching in the corner, huddled in a ball.
He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill both of us.
The door comes down in a shower of splintered wood with a loud bang!
“Get the fuck up,” Charles growls, grabbing my arms, hauling me to my feet. He drags me out of the bathroom, through my bedroom, then back out to the living room, shoving me onto the couch.
“Sit,” he insists, hissing between clenched teeth. “Sit down and shut up.”
Was I talking? I might have been. Begging him to leave. To please leave me alone.
“All I ever wanted was to have the time to work on you, to convince you…” Charles says, pacing around the room. “I just needed time to make you see we were supposed to be together.”
He’s got a handgun tucked into his waistband.
“The only reason I went to work for your father was to be with you. I knew you’d come back.”
He rambles on nonsensically about high school, and how much he adored me, and how crazy I made him with my flirting.
“You strung me along for years. I know you wanted me. I know you did, but then that shit head Logan wins the god-damned lottery and you set your ambitions higher…”
He’s completely delusional.
“My dad used to give me so much shit,” Charles meanders. “I’m a senior, riding the bench, while that asshole started every game. ‘Why can’t you be as aggressive as Chandler?’ he’d say, and ‘You’re bigger than he is, but you take hits like a girl. Chandler just rolls on and pops up like a jack-in-the-box.’”
Charles glares at me. “And you—you and all the girls on the cheerleading squad. Shouting his name and fawning over him. Fucking whores. Every one of you. I should have beat the shit out of you then for being such a teasing disloyal cunt.”
He stalks around the room, waving his arms, talking fast about Logan, and how he always got the easy breaks.
“I was never so happy to see a guy’s legs break in my whole life!” he laughs, cackling like a lunatic. “The way they just folded the wrong way. I watch that clip over and over again like porn. It gets me off. He’s such an arrogant shit. Even as a busted broke mechanic, he was an arrogant shit, swaggering, fixing your car like he was some swinging dick…”
Charles flies around, leveling his cold gaze on me. “And you, you just smiled and tried to shake his hand. Disrespecting me, spitting in my face like that. You won’t spit in my face anymore. You’ll never disrespect me again.”
He reaches down, slipping his fingers around the grip of the gun wedged at his hip. He lifts it slowly, keeping it pointed at the floor. I feel all the blood rush to my feet. Everything slows down. Everything gets cold.
“Bryn!” I hear Logan’s voice from a long way off, as if he’s deep inside a tunnel. “Bryn, are you in there?”
“Don’t you say a fucking word,” Charles hisses, his eyes falling to the front door.
Logan is at the door. He’s here.
“I’ll fucking kill you, and then I’ll kill him.”
Everything in my head goes quiet and calm. Some switch inside me turns on. I know, for certain, that something terrible is happening. I have to do everything in my power to make sure that something terrible doesn�
�t happen to me – or my baby.
I draw in a deep breath, filling my lungs. Without warning, I just shriek. My shriek is so loud that it frightens me. It also frightens Charles.
The next thing that happens is Charles yanking me up, smacking me in the face to silence me, attempting to haul me backwards toward the bedroom. I go limp, dropping like dead weight in his arms.