She’d ripped that away from me without ever giving me a choice.
But even drunk and now understanding where she’s coming from, I still can’t erase the image in my mind of her tears and her sobs and the devastation on her face as I shouted at her.
And I want to go to her. Apologize.
I want to take away her pain, even if she’s the cause of mine.
Fourteen
Kennedy
“Are you going to be okay?”
If being numb and in shock and feeling the worst amount of pain in my entire life pulsing through my veins, deadening my heart with every breath I take is okay…then…yeah.
I’ll be okay.
I turn my head and look at Sarah. She’s been incredible the past two days since we got home. She packed both our suitcases while I cried, curled into a ball on my bed in our hotel room. She got us to the airport, paid whatever exorbitant fee necessary in order to change our flights so we could leave immediately.
For the last twenty-four hours, she’s sat with me in my apartment as I bawled my eyes out and survived on a combination of double-chocolate-chunk ice cream and wine.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her from the same spot on the couch I’ve sat in since we walked in the door. I’ve changed clothes, but only once and only because Sarah brought them to me after forcing me to take a shower.
Her lips twitch like she wants to speak, but I turn back to the television—an infomercial about a vacuum that’s apparently the most amazing thing at sucking up pet hair. I should buy it. I’ll need this thing once I have ten cats. It’s even pink, so...score.
“You can go, Sarah,” I say when she doesn’t speak.
I have to work tomorrow and she needs to get back to Chicago. I somehow have to figure out how to get to my bed, get some sleep, and then get up and shower, put on a smile, and go to my job at Pascal’s Interior Design.
Just thinking about doing all of that makes me feel exhausted. I don’t want to move at all. For like, ever.
“Kennedy?”
She walks toward me until she’s standing in front of me. I try to peek around her legs to see the vacuum commercial, but she doesn’t let me avoid her. Sitting down on the coffee table in front of me, she places her hands on my knees.
“You’ll get through this, sweetie.”
I nod, committing the phone number for the super deluxe animal vac to memory. “I know.”
“Hey.” She snaps her fingers and I drag my eyes to hers. “You knew he’d be mad, but I think you were really brave telling him.”
“Not like I had a choice.” Not with that photo. I hate Charles Legend. He’s never done a damn thing for Grayson in his life, ever. He’s only brought Grayson pain and anguish. I still can’t believe my secret was outed by his drunken dad.
Shaking my head, I bite down on my tongue to stop the constant deluge of tears from falling. I’ve cried enough to make my own swimming pool. My eyes are so dried out they burn when I blink. I don’t even want to know what I look like.
“I know.” Her voice is always so soft, so understanding. I almost want to slap her, but I love her too much. “But I know you’ll get through this, too. And when he calls you, let him have his anger. You’ve had six years to think about your child and your decision…he’s only had a few days. Just give him some time, okay? I think once he has that, he’ll understand that this wasn’t something you did maliciously, but out of necessity.”
I nod because she expects me to. I just want her to leave.
Every time I blink I see the uncontrollable rage rolling across Grayson’s body, and it kills me. I’m the one who made him feel that way.
Logically, I know he has no right to be this angry with me. Sarah is right: he left. He didn’t return calls. He didn’t listen to the messages where I begged and pleaded with him to come see me. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, our ending could have been vastly different.
But I understand his emotions, too. The feeling of betrayal from me. Because just as much as he’s angry with me for not finding him, I’m just as guilty of not calling him once I did.
I sit and watch infomercial after infomercial before I finally drag my body to my bedroom. All I want to do is fall into bed, forgetting the entire weekend ever happened. I want to close my eyes and forget how good it felt to be around Grayson again. How incredible it felt to have his hands on me again. For one night, I had everything I’d always wanted, and just like before, it was ripped away from me.
With bone-dragging, exhausted steps, I wash my face and get ready for bed, trying not to look in the mirror. I don’t want to see splotchy skin and swollen, red-streaked eyes. I don’t want to see the misery of my own making staring back at me.
It’s not until I’m climbing into bed, sliding under the covers and plugging my phone into the charger on my nightstand that a photo catches my attention.
Tears fall immediately, all over again, before I can stop them.
I’ve kept something else from Grayson.
Something he deserves to know and something else I should have told him. With all the shouting and yelling and crying, I didn’t even think to remember this.
I pick up the photo and then slide to my knees on the floor beside my bed.
When I pull out the scrapbooks and the letters I’ve compiled over the years, a renewed sense of vigor flows through me, giving me an energy I haven’t felt in forty-eight hours.
I carry everything into the spare bedroom that I use as a home office and get to work.
I photocopy every letter.
I scan every picture.
With tears dripping down my cheeks, I type a letter for Grayson and then search online for the address to his training gym.
I ignore the thought that I could be there in the morning, hand-delivering the package, and instead decide to overnight it. This will give him time to look over everything, and hopefully time to appreciate the decision I made.
With everything ready to go, I seal the envelope, print off an overnight postage sticker, and tack it on the package.
Then, knowing I’ve done everything I can to show Grayson everything he’d want to know about our son, I slide under the covers and close my eyes, falling asleep almost immediately.
After a quick stop at the post office on my way into work, I’m thirty minutes late when I walk into Pascal’s Interior Design offices on the eighth floor. My office is modern, with swanky furniture and funky chandeliers that hang from the ceiling. Every room in our office is different and displays a variety of the strengths of our designers.
I’ve been here for three years and absolutely love my job. When I first started I was an assistant to one of the designers, but after six months I quickly earned a promotion to Interior Small Business Designer. My job is to focus on current businesses who want to revamp their style, as well as help new businesses create an environment for their employees and visitors that is welcoming as well as productive.
It’s not as elegant or as creative as being one of the home interior designers who get to style people’s homes and personal, private spaces, but I enjoy what I do and the people I’ve met all the same.
This morning as I enter the office, I barely notice any of the artwork or fixtures. Hell, I barely notice Katie, our main receptionist, who sits behind the large glass desk in the entryway off the elevator.
“Good morning,” I mumble, holding up a cup of coffee to let her know I’m not fully awake yet. Between the weekend and last night’s lack of sleep, I feel like a zombie. I’m sure I look like one, too. No amount of makeup can hide the puffiness or redness around my eyes.
“Good morning, Kennedy,” she sings excitedly. Her joy catches my attention, and I walk to her desk. “Looks like you had a fun weekend.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter before frowning. “What do you mean?”
Katie slides a stack of magazines across her desk.
My frown grows larger and my brows knit together when I look down in confusion. Then my jaw drops. I’m staring at four different gossip magazines, and on the front cover of all of them, Grayson and I are in small photos along the sides.
Him pointing his finger in my face after his fight.
Him with his hands wrapped around my waist.
And two with his arm wrapped around my lower back as we leave the club at the Mirage.
“What in the world?” I gasp, spreading the magazines out with one hand so I can see all of them.
Katie’s voice grows soft and concerned. “Blaire wants to see you immediately.”
Shit. My eyes snap to hers. “Is she pissed?”
Katie’s lips twist and she nods. “Yeah, pretty mad.”
I close my eyes and expel a breath. This isn’t good.
“All right. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Good luck.”
Yeah. I’m going to need it. Pascal’s Interior Design is the most successful design firm in Cambridge, and Blaire Pascal holds every employee to impeccable standards. I hadn’t even thought that word of my weekend in Vegas, thousands of miles away, would reach Cambridge. Based on those photos, I was dead wrong. Not wasting time, I don’t stop at my office before heading to Pascal’s. With a quick rap of my knuckles on her closed door, I wait a few moments, silently praying she’s on the phone or in a meeting.
My heart sinks to my knees when I hear her voice. “Come in, please.”