I had Maddox spend the night at Chris’s last night, just to be safe. He was thrilled to have a school-night sleepover. He adores Chris’s sons, who are one and three. Callie and I talked most of the night. She gave me wine and I gave her more details about my relationship with Gavin. In hindsight, it was the wrong thing to do, because it feels like she’s now on his side. She said our story was so romantic that I simply have to talk to him.
Yeah, it was romantic all right—right up until he gave me money like a cheap whore to abort his baby.
I thought about leaving the house for the day so I would be gone if he showed up. But I want to know what his next move is. And, anyway, I can always pretend like I’m not home.
I’m organizing my bookshelves to accommodate my new book. I love seeing all my books next to those of my favorite authors. I push my last book aside and make room for this one in the designated spot I save for my newest publication. I run my fingers over the raised title, ‘Lucky 13.’
I named it that because it’s my thirteenth novel. But also because my heroine, after twelve failed attempts on a dating website, finally finds love with number thirteen—despite all the disappointing and unlucky things that plague them throughout most of the book.
The irony is not lost on me that on the very day of the debut of ‘Lucky 13,’ Gavin showed up on my doorstep.
I sit down at my desk to sign and personalize some books for fans who have requested them through my agent/assistant, Jenna. She runs my website and handles all the correspondence on my behalf, forwarding to me what requires my attention. She schedules my book tours and hashes out all the details with my publisher. She pretty much handles it all. She’s my handler. All I have to do is show up where she tells me to. Unless it’s Texas. But I guess now I’ll have to change that to L.A. And maybe Chicago, if he frequents it.
Shit! My doorbell rings, causing my hand to jerk and ruin the signing of a paperback. I throw the book into my shelter donation pile on my way to peek out the window.
I can’t see him, but I recognize the rental car from yesterday.
He rings the bell again.
I listen at the window. “I know you’re in there, Baylor. I saw your nanny leave without you.”
Is he stalking me now?
I think about what Mom said yesterday. I know I have to talk to him sometime. But the thought of him knowing where I am, maybe even knowing where Maddox was last night, makes my hands ball up into fists as I run out and yell through the front door, “You didn’t want a kid then and you can’t have him now!” I hit the inside of the front door for emphasis. “I’ve asked you to leave me alone. You are trespassing. I’m calling the police if you don’t go.”
I walk into the kitchen and peek through the window to see him put another bouquet of purple orchids on the ground outside the front door. “I didn’t know, Baylor!” he shouts. Then he turns around to walk away, hitting the pillar on the porch with his fist and then cursing at the pain while he cups it in his other hand.
Serves him right.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I open the front door and momentarily admire my favorite flowers. Then I leave them there just to spite him. If he comes back tomorrow, he’ll see them sitting here, rotting. Exactly like how he left me. It’s as good as any fuck you I can think of.
I don’t bother calling Dillon today. Gavin only said one thing to me. What did he mean by he didn’t know? Didn’t know how he’d feel about having a kid that I refused to abort but didn’t bother to tell him? Didn’t know he would change his mind?
I sit and think about what my mom said yesterday, how I would need to compromise. Well, if compromising means him flying my seven-year-old son across the country to visit him and his queen bitch of a wife, he’d better think again. No way in hell will I let her near Maddox.
I suppose I might be amenable to Gavin seeing him here, on our turf, sans Cruella. Would that mollify him? It will have to. It’s all the compromise I’m willing to give.
I debate calling the hotel to let him know my offer. But then I think better of it. He made me suffer for nine long months and then for years after, struggling to get by as a single mom and still follow my dreams. Yeah, screw that—I’ll let him be the one to squirm for a few days for once.
The doorbell rings and my heart stops. I run to the kitchen to look out the window. It’s not him. It’s a delivery guy. And he’s trying to balance a huge, over-the-top, completely pretentious purple orchid arrangement on one hip while ringing the doorbell again.
I roll my eyes as I walk over and open the door.
“Thank God,” says the kid, who can’t be more than eighteen. “The guy paid me to wait here until you personally accepted the flowers. He paid the shop double to make sure you got them immediately.” He shakes his head. “Dude must really be in the doghouse.”
It’s hard not to let a small smile curve my lips. “They’re beautiful, thank you.” I direct him to the entry table and clear a place for the expensive ornate vase.
“He said if you cut them up and send them back he’ll just keep sending more.”
I laugh. Poor kid. Gavin probably had him shaking in his boots with all his instructions. I quickly grab a twenty from my purse and hold it out to him.
He eyes it. “Ma’am, you’re not gonna make me tell him anything, are you?”
I smile at him. “No, I’m not. Just take it.” I put it in his hand. “I’m quite sure you’ve earned it today.”
“Thanks,” he says, walking back out over the threshold. He turns around quickly. “Oh, hell, I almost forgot. He said that you have to read the letter because it’s really really important, and” —his eyes roll up as he thinks for a second— “since you won’t let him talk, he wrote stuff down.” He scratches his head. “At least I think that’s what he said.”
I nod my head. “Yeah, that sounds about right,” I tell him. “Thanks again.”
I watch the kid walk away, stuffing the cash into his pocket. I close and lock the door and turn to stare at the flowers. I eye the conspicuous note sticking up out of them. I walk over and smell the sweet fragrance as I pull the note from its plastic prongs. I take it over to the kitchen, place it on the bar and pour myself a glass of Merlot. I know it’s only two o’clock in the afternoon, but I have a feeling I’m going to need it. I sit on the barstool and take a long drink of wine before I open the note. When I do, I’m surprised to see it’s short. I expected a long drawn out explanation.
Baylor,
Please read this carefully.
I DID NOT KNOW YOU WERE PREGNANT! I never knew I had a son until two weeks ago. I never wrote you any letter in college. I swear to God, I didn’t. I thought you left me.
I know you don’t believe me and frankly, I don’t blame you. But there is someone else you might believe. Call the number below—she’ll explain everything. Her name is Angie and she’s expecting your call. Please call her, Baylor. You need to know the truth. You need to know the truth about the lies.
Gavin
I stare at the note, reading it several more times while I contemplate what to do. How did he not write the letter? And if he didn’t write it, how does he know about it?
Oh, the letter! I now have two letters he’s written. I jump off the barstool, go to my office to get the note he wrote yesterday, and take them both to my bedroom. In my closet, I dig behind years of old clothes and shoe racks to find what I’m looking for. I pull out the shoebox and bring it to my bed. I take the lid off it for the first time in eight years and sneeze from the dust that floats into the air.
There’s not a lot in the box. We were only together for three months. But there’s enough. I empty the box one thing at a time. I pull out a Ziploc baggie that holds a lock of his hair as I remember putting a piece of it in my pocket when he ran out of the room to shower right after I gave him a haircut. There are a few movie ticket stubs. There’s the receipt from the coffee shop the night he rescued me. I pick up a dried orchid from the ones he gave me after our fight. There are a few pictures of us that I had put into small frames. Finally, I find that terrible letter lying at the bottom of the box, right next to the silly plastic ring he put on my finger when he said he’d marry me someday.
Tears are now flowing freely as each memento stirs up memories that I have suppressed for so many years. I remove the letter from its envelope. I set the two notes he’s written to me on either side of it. They are most definitely not the same handwriting.
Not. Even. Close.
I put everything back in the box and set it aside. Then I go to the kitchen and top off my drink before I dial the phone number he gave me.
My heart is beating out of my chest as the phone rings once, then twice before someone picks up.
“Hello?” a woman answers.
“Uh . . . this is Baylor,” I say in a shaky voice. I clear my throat. “Baylor Mitchell. I was told to call this number and ask for Angie.”
“Yes, Baylor.” She sighs. “I’ve been expecting your call,” the sweet voice tells me. “Thank you so much for calling. I have so much to tell you. I have so much to apologize for. I hope you’ll let me.”
I take a hearty sip of my wine. “I’m listening.”
“You may not remember me. My name is Angie Wilson. My maiden name is Paulson. I went to UNC when you were there. I was in the same sorority as Karen Thompson.”
Oh, my God, seriously? “You have got to be kidding. I don’t—”
“Now, before you go hanging up on me,” she interrupts, “you should know that I’ve cut all ties with her. So has Gavin. Well, as much as he can until things are finalized.”
“Finalized?” I ask.
“The divorce,” she says, and I gasp. “The divorce he filed for two weeks ago. Right after he saw you and Maddox in Chicago.”
“Why would he do that? I don’t understand.”
I drink another glass of wine while Angie tells me the incredulous story of how her best friend orchestrated our breakup. Of how Gavin never even knew about the baby, because a sorority sister of theirs who worked at the clinic called Karen and told her to give Gavin a heads up about his knocked up girlfriend. She says Karen never told him, but instead, took that opportunity to write a letter to me, posing as him. Then she showed him a fake Facebook page that she passed off as mine, painting me as a liar and a cheat. And after Gavin couldn’t believe I’d do such things, he went to find me at my dorm, only to see me being consoled by Chris after I thought I was dumped by him. Seeing me in Chris’s arms confirmed Karen’s story.
Angie tells me every sordid detail and then begs my forgiveness, saying she thought Gavin knew. She thought he was the one who broke it off. Apparently, she and Gavin never spoke of any of this until he ran into me and Maddox at the hotel.
It’s unbelievable to think how many things had to fall into place for Karen to pull that off. Fate had obviously been working against us.
“Oh, my God.” It’s all I can get past the colossal-sized lump forming in my throat.
“I promise you it’s all true,” she says. “Every godforsaken word of what I’ve told you.”
I take a few deep breaths followed by another swig of Merlot. I have to know one more thing. “Does he . . . does he have any kids with her?”
“No. And thank God for that,” she says. “Karen would be a terrible mother. She’s far too selfish. I know he would love to have kids, just not with her. You should see the way he is with my two daughters. He’s Uncle Gavin to them. He’s absolutely meant to be a dad. Give him a chance, you’ll see.”
Alarms go off in my head. “I won’t let him take Maddox from me.”
She laughs, but I have yet to find anything funny. “You don’t get it, do you? I think he’s still in love with you. He only married Karen because his heart was broken and she was safe. He wouldn’t risk another relationship with anyone. Of course, I’m only now finding out about all this.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“He went there for you, Baylor,” she says. “I mean, yes, he wants to know his son. But if you never had a kid, if it was just you and the circumstances were the same, he’d still be divorcing Karen and pounding down your door. You can bet on it.”
“It’s been eight years. How could he possibly still have feelings for me?”
She sighs. “Can you honestly tell me that you don’t have feelings for him, too? Especially knowing what you do now?”
“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to feel.” Tears pool in my eyes. “This is all so much.”
“You need to see him. Believe me, he’s hurting just as much as you are—maybe more—I mean, you got to see Maddox grow up into a seven-year-old. He didn’t. Can you imagine if the roles were reversed? This whole time, he thought you left him. You should call him. He’s staying at the—”
“Oak Leaf Hotel. I know, he told me. He said he wouldn’t leave town until I hear him out.”
She laughs. “Yeah, that sounds like him. He’s a great guy. Give him a chance to get to know you again. Give him a chance to know Maddox.”
“I h-have to g-go,” I stutter. The tears are falling faster than I can wipe them. My nose is getting all snotty and I’m about to ugly cry.
“Okay, but call me anytime, Baylor,” she says. “I’m so, so sorry that I had any part in this. You both deserve so much more than what that conniving bitch did to you.”
We hang up and I collapse onto the cold kitchen floor, heaving and sobbing. If what she said is true, the past eight years of my life have been based on a lie. I could have been with him this whole time. The love of my life. We could have been raising Maddox together. I could have been happy, instead of existing solely for my son.
But we can never get that time back and we’re both very different people now. Who’s to say we’d even get along anymore? Angie says he’s in love with me, but even if he thinks that’s true, it’s the eighteen-year-old me he loves. Not the twenty-six-year-old single mom who fantasizes about men for a living. Not the grown-up me who thinks a fun evening is playing games on my phone with random strangers. Not the me who has been unable to let any man have even a small part of my heart because it went cold years ago.
No, he couldn’t possibly love the new me. And I’m not sure I could love the new him either.