The Ex Files

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  She was stuck where she sat—even after he slammed the door.

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  ASIA

  She was from Compton.

  A single mother who gave birth to her child out of wedlock.

  And she had never worked a day in her life.

  He lived in Bel-Air.

  With his refined wife who shared a middle name with some of the Kennedys.

  And he was worth megamillions.

  Asia knew that not even her aunt’s clout would be able to fight Bobby’s fame and fortune.

  Those had been the thoughts that had kept her tossing for two nights now, and once again, she was grateful for the prayer meeting and Sheridan. But when Asia arrived at the Learning Center, she was shocked to find that she was alone. She glanced at her watch. Sheridan was never late.

  Maybe I should call Kendall, Asia thought, just as Sheridan rushed through the door.

  “Sorry, girl. I just got back.”

  “Really? I thought you were going for a couple of days.”

  “Turned into more than a week. What’s up?” Sheridan asked as they hugged.

  “A lot. I’ve been dying to call you, but I didn’t want to bother you on your vacation.” She paused, every one of Bobby’s words rushed through her. “Bobby’s really upset about what happened with CPS.”

  “He’ll get over it.” Sheridan waved her hand. “He’ll realize that you had no choice after what Angel said.”

  “He thinks I put Angel up to it.”

  “Oh, please. Why would you do that?”

  It was the same question she’d been asking herself. “He’s taking me to court. He wants custody of Angel.”

  “Get out!”

  If she didn’t feel like her heart was being torn from her chest, she would have laughed at Sheridan’s use of her vernacular.

  Sheridan said, “Did he really say that?”

  Asia nodded. “I’m worried. He has a lot of money.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything to the courts.”

  “And his home may look more stable than mine.”

  Sheridan took her hand. “The courts look at the entire picture. Yes, you’re single, but you have a terrific support system. Tell me the name of one judge who is going to look your aunt in the face and say anything about taking Pastor Beverly Ford’s great-niece away.”

  Asia nodded slowly, thinking.

  Sheridan added, “And you have all of your friends.”

  Asia didn’t bother to say that if Noon Thursday Jones stood up for her in court, she would surely lose Angel.

  “And you have me. I’ll testify for you and so will my mom.”

  Asia pressed her lips together to stop them from quivering.

  Sheridan said, “Asia, listen to me. It’s not going to come to that. Once custody is established, it’s very difficult to get it changed.”

  That was probably true in most cases, but this was no ordinary situation. If any part of the truth came out—about what she’d done with Angel, about the lies she told to Bobby, about how Angel was born in the first place—she shuddered, not able to think.

  Sheridan said, “Have you told your aunt?”

  “No, I didn’t want to upset her with all that she has on her plate.”

  “She’s never too busy for you, but if you don’t want to talk to her, you always have me, okay?”

  Asia nodded because she couldn’t speak. From the girls in school to the women she’d met over the years, she didn’t need all the fingers on one hand to add up the women she could call friends. But now she had Sheridan—and probably Kendall and Vanessa too, if life had been different.

  “I think tonight we should spend a lot of time in prayer. We can both use it.”

  Together they bowed their heads. But even Sheridan’s comforting words didn’t calm the shifting in Asia’s stomach, the churning that told her not even God was going to be able to stop Bobby Johnson with his plan for revenge.

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  ASIA

  “Angel, are you ready?” Asia yelled.

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  Asia smiled. She could hear the excitement in her daughter’s voice. It had been weeks since she’d been able to spend some time with her Auntie-Grammy and she was going to spend the night.

  Angel barreled down the stairs. “I had to get my new book for Auntie-Grammy.”

  “Okay, grab your suitcase.”

  Asia opened the door and jerked when she saw the man in the suit standing in the hallway.

  “Who are you?” she demanded to know, not giving thought to the fact that she should be afraid.

  “I’m sorry to startle you, ma’am. Are you Asia Ingrum?”

  She pushed Angel behind her. Glared at the man in the Kmart suit. “Who wants to know?”

  He gave her a half a smile, then handed her a packet. “You’ve been served.” As quickly as he came, he was gone.

  Her heart pounded as she slammed the door, but it wasn’t from fear of the man. She shook because she already knew what was in the envelope.

  With every passing day, Asia had started to believe that Bobby had just been hurt and angry when he came by. He’d never take her child away. Once two weeks had passed, she was sure she was safe. This morning, she’d even thought about calling Bobby, letting him know that Angel was out of school, and arranging a time for them to get together—all in an attempt to let bygones go on by.

  But now, as she slipped the papers from the envelope, she knew nothing was going away.

  It was difficult to read through the water that filled her eyes. But she was able to see the heading at the top.

  Petition for Change of Custody.

  It was a half scream, half cry that pushed through her lips.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  She’d forgotten Angel. With one hand she pulled her daughter closer, while she sifted through the rest of the document.

  Only a few lines stood out: substantial change in circumstances…in the best interest of the child…moral misconduct…parental alienation.

  She didn’t have a clue as to what all of those words meant. Just knew that it added up to one thing—she was going to lose her child.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?” Angel repeated.

  “Nothing, precious,” she squeaked. She tossed the papers on the foyer table, fell to her knees, and squeezed her daughter tight. She wouldn’t be able to live if she lost Angel.

  Angel wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck. “I love you, Mommy,” she said, as if she knew those were the words Asia needed to hear.

  Asia sobbed. “I love you too, precious.”

  They held each other until Asia stood up. Wiped her eyes. This was not over. If Bobby wanted a fight, he would get one.

  “Okay, Angel,” she said, adjusting the collar on her daughter’s shirt. “Let’s go to Auntie-Grammy.”

  Angel nodded; her eyes, which just minutes before had been filled with glee, were sad now. “Mommy, maybe Auntie-Grammy can help you. And I can help you, too.”

  Asia only smiled to reassure her daughter. “You can?”

  “Uh-huh, because I’m a big girl now.”

  “Yes, you are, precious,” she said as she took her daughter’s hand. A big girl. Her big girl. And she would do anything she had to, to make sure that her big girl stayed with her always.

  Chapter Eighty

  SHERIDAN

  It was amazing the way God brought clarity.

  All of this time, she had been so sure of the man she wanted. But over the days as she’d prayed and studied, somehow Brock’s questions had become hers. Did Quentin have a special place in her heart?

  She’d closed herself to him on that day when he told her he was in love with a man. But now, she wondered if God had changed him? What if her prayers for him had been answered? If that were the case, could her heart be open once again?

  The questions made her lie awake for long hours while she listened to the ocean’s gentle hum every
night. But then, last night, it was over. Because she had clarity.

  When she’d come home, her mother hadn’t asked a single question. Beatrice just hugged her and said that she hoped she’d found peace.

  She had.

  Sheridan blocked her telephone number and then made the call.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She clicked off the phone.

  He was home.

  She was ready.

  “Sheridan!” Quentin exclaimed when he opened the door. “I thought you were away.”

  She nodded, stuffed her hands deeper into her pocket. “I was, but now I’m back.” She paused. “I need to talk to you. I need to talk about us.”

  He grinned, opened the door wide. Wore a smirk, as if he’d expected her all along. “Let’s go in here.” He motioned toward the living room.

  She followed him into the bright white space, kind of art deco with a retro feel. She almost asked if he’d had an interior designer, but then she looked at her husband and remembered who he was.

  Her body melted into the butter-soft skin of the sofa. “This is nice,” she said.

  He stood over her for a moment before he sat on the ottoman facing her. “Whatever you want to talk about has to be serious because I’ve tried to get you to come home with me a couple of times.” He chuckled. “For a while there, I thought you were afraid to be”—he leaned forward, closer—“alone with me.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Quentin.”

  “So, you want to talk…about us.” There was his smirk again.

  She looked down for a moment, said a quick prayer, and then began, “Brock—”

  “Ah ha, this is about your man.” He seemed amused.

  She ignored him. “A couple of weeks ago you asked how were things between Brock and me.”

  “And you said fine, but that wasn’t the truth.”

  “We’ve had problems for a while.” She paused, waited for him to say something. “My problems with him were because of you. You and me.”

  He raised his eyebrows but let her continue.

  “Brock thinks there’s something between us. Something that’s never gone away.”

  “Well,” he began slowly, seriously, “for once, I agree with him.” This time, when he leaned forward, he cupped Sheridan’s hands inside his. “We never lost the love.”

  She looked down at their hands together.

  “Sheridan, what are you afraid of? We have more than twenty years of love.”

  She nodded. Kept her eyes on their hands for a bit longer before she pulled away. “We had, Quentin. The operative word is had twenty years of love.”

  “Even Brock knows it’s still there.”

  “It’s not love. I don’t love you.” She paused, wanting those words to sink in for both of them. “What you feel, what Brock sees is caring. And caring…that’s where love begins,” she repeated her mother’s words. “But with us, caring is also where it ends.”

  He shook his head. “You can deny, and call it whatever you want. But it’s too easy with us, Sheridan. Like right now, just talking. Even talking about this. Being with you feels right. Being with you feels like home.” He reached for her hand again, and this time, with his fingers he caressed her palm, just like he used to.

  She nodded, thought about all she’d prayed for. Thought about all she prayed for him. Thought about how much she cared. And then, again, she pulled her hand away from him. Finally. “It feels like home to you?” She shook her head. “I don’t know why. You burned our home down. You took a torch and set it on fire.”

  He stiffened.

  “And the thing is,” she continued, “I don’t have any desire to rebuild our home. No desire at all to rebuild it with you.”

  “So, you came all the way…to my home…to be here alone with me…to tell me this?”

  She nodded. “I needed to look into your eyes so that both of us would know I meant it. I needed to do this for me. And I needed to do it for Brock.”

  That took any remnant of his smile away.

  She said, “Brock was wrong. Not in terms of my having feelings for you. I always will because you’re my children’s father.”

  “I’m more than that.”

  “No. You’re not.” She shook her head. “But, as Chris and Tori’s dad, I want the best for you. And in the past, that’s meant that I wanted to fix you.”

  He raised his hands. “Here we go. You wanted to change me. Didn’t want me to be gay.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t change who I am, Sheridan.”

  “I think you can. But what I know for sure is that I can’t change you.”

  “So you’re telling me that if I were not bisexual, we would be together again?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. I’ll still pray for your deliverance. But the caring part, I’m turning that over to God. It’s not my job anymore. I’ll pray every day for you. But then every day, I’ll let you go. Because I have to if I want to build a life with Brock.”

  He shook his head. Chuckled again. “Build a life with Brock? You’ve been with him for three years….”

  “Yeah. And I’ve wasted at least two of them. But I’m not going to waste any more time.”

  He looked as if he’d been slapped.

  “Good-bye, Quentin.”

  He didn’t move. Just stayed on that ottoman as if he expected her to change her mind. When he said nothing more, she walked to the foyer and, without looking back, stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Eighty-one

  SHERIDAN

  Sheridan knew that he saw her the moment he turned onto the street.

  As his truck drove by, she waved. Watched him frown, pull into his driveway. She waited until he got out of his car before she reached for the box and the paper bag.

  “Hey,” he said as he approached her.

  “Hey, you.” With a breath, she handed him the gold-foil-wrapped box. “This is for you—”

  He took the package, but eyed her. “Should I open this here?”

  “I’d rather we do this inside.”

  He turned, she followed. Took in all of him that she’d been missing. The way his locks swayed with his steps. The way his butt filled out his jeans as if the pants had been designed for him alone.

  Inside, he motioned for her to follow him into the living room.

  A good sign.

  He balanced the box in his hand. “It’s kind of heavy,” he said and lifted the top. He frowned. “A hammer?”

  She grinned. “Brock, I want to build a house with you.” Then her smile went away. “My last house burned down. It’s gone, nothing but ashes. Now, here’s the part that I pray you’ll believe—I don’t want that house back. But I do want a new house.” She lifted the bag she held. “You have the hammer and I have the nails.” She stepped closer to him. “When can we start building?”

  He nodded, slowly, still thinking.

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “More than sure. I figured it out. I did everything you asked. As much as I hated it, gave myself space to understand. Talked to God, talked to my mother, and finally, I talked to Quentin—and told him the same thing. I’ve put a period on that part of my life. Really an exclamation point. I’m done. Letting it go, happily. Because I want to be with you.”

  He turned the hammer over and over in his hand.

  She’d known that it might take more. She inhaled, said, “You told me that if I came back to you with my whole heart, you’d be here.” She paused, handed him the brown bag filled with nails. “There’s something else inside for you.”

  He shook the bag. Looked inside. Frowned.

  “You might have to dig kind of deep,” she said. “Just like I had to do.”

  The nails clattered as his hands searched. And then he stopped and pulled out the wedding band.

  She stepped closer to him. “Brock Goodman, will you marry me?”

  To Sheridan, it seemed as if the world had stop
ped in what felt like a day’s worth of silence that followed her proposal.

  Finally, slowly, he nodded. But still, he kept his words to himself. Until “You sure about this?” It was the same question he’d asked her earlier.

  “Yes, You have my whole heart. I know it now. And Quentin does, too.”

  He glanced at the ring longer, massaged it between his fingers. And then, he took her hand and slipped the golden circle on her ring finger where it belonged.

  It was hard for her to breathe. “I want to set a date.”

  He shook his head.

  “But I want too. I want to marry you. Now.”

  “Let’s stay right here for now. Let this be enough. We’ll start here. Officially engaged.”

  Sheridan wrapped her arms around his neck and when he kissed her, she gave God a million thank-yous for finally bringing her to this place.

  Chapter Eighty-two

  KENDALL

  Kendall sat, once again, in the only place in her home where she felt welcomed.

  Her feet were perched high, resting on the top side of her deck. Even though the May sun already warmed her, she sipped hot tea. She listened to her friend as its waves crashed against the shore. She loved spending time with the sea. The outside of her house is where she found peace. But the inside…it had been a long time since home had made her happy.

  She wondered when that began—when had this beautiful place become synonymous with pain? Was it the moment she caught her sister violating her space? Or had it started before—before they even moved in?

  It could have started that day in their attorney’s office when she and Anthony signed the mortgage papers. Anthony had held her hand and she’d jumped up, rushed into the bathroom. Hanging over the toilet, she’d released her emotions. When she returned with reddened eyes, she’d told her husband that the realization of being a homeowner made her sick. She didn’t tell him the truth—that the thought of committing to anything—a home or a marriage—for thirty years suddenly filled her with such fear she could hardly breathe.