Just One Regret(34)

“My son,” Patricia snaps, baring her teeth.

Next to her, Amanda lays a hand on top of Patricia’s hand, shushing her.

Grayson’s head jerks back but slowly, he nods, a silent acquiescence to her claim.

He turns his head, looking at me with a sadness so deep in his blue eyes that I want to weep for him.

“Kennedy has shared the letters you sent to her,” he says and turns back to face Patricia and Donald.

Patricia is still fighting her tears and her anger, and while Donald seems controlled, I can practically feel the tension rolling off his shoulders. He’s just as scared, just as mad, but holding it together for her.

“Thank you for loving our boy.”

An emotional sob bursts from Patricia.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop my own.

I have no idea where he’s going with this. He could throw down the gauntlet to fight for custody, but as his own shoulders begin trembling, I know that’s not what he’s going to say.

Before he can speak, his lawyer turns to him and whispers, “Perhaps we should take a moment, Grayson. Talk about this.”

“No.”

He leans forward, resting one elbow on the table in front of him. His other hand squeezes mine in my lap. “I want to see him.”

Donald and Patricia both inhale a quick gasp and their attorney opens her mouth to speak, but Grayson silences her with a slash of his gaze before he returns to Patricia.

His lips turn up into a sad smile, and he swallows. I watch his throat working, and I have to fight the urge to throw my arms around his shoulders.

“I read your letters for hours,” he admits, his lips twitching as he regains control of his emotions. “The truth is, I’ve read them so many times in the last three weeks that I might have them memorized.”

Patricia nods slowly, hopefully. Her chin quivers and her eyes shine bright.

For the first time in this meeting, I feel like I can breathe.

“I can feel how much you love our…your son, I’m not denying that. I’m not denying that it appears you are giving him a wonderful life, something Kennedy and I always wanted for ourselves.”

“We have,” Patricia assures him. Next to her, Donald smiles indulgently at his wife. For the first time, I see the kindness I remember, shining in her eyes. “We love him. Absolutely.”

Grayson rolls his lips together. I can feel tremors slide down his arms and I watch him, catching how he’s fighting his own emotions. I let go of his hand with one of my mine and rest it on his thigh. He tenses under my touch and then relaxes.

“I just need to see it.” He shrugs and I see his eyes grow wet.

God. I’ve done this to him—turned this strong, virile, and confident man into this mess.

“I want to see with my own eyes that he’s healthy and happy.”

“And if he is?” Donald asks, addressing Grayson for the first time. “What then?”

Grayson wipes his mouth with his hand, pulling in a deep breath that I feel roll through his tightly strung body.

“Then nothing,” Grayson says. He pauses and licks his lips, letting go of my hand completely. He balls it into a fist and relaxes the tension. “The thing is, I’m a fighter. My job is filled with traveling and surrounded by men and women who aren’t exactly child appropriate. Even if I wanted a child right now, I’m still not sure I’m able to give a child the stability or the love, considering I’d be a single parent, that he’d need.”

Single parent.

Single parent.

Single parent.

The words send a jolt of loss through me. It’s true: we’re not together. But then what was that kiss for? My mind begins spinning and I feel like the floor is falling out from beneath my feet. He hasn’t said anything that isn’t true, so why are my hands trembling as I hide them in my lap?

Without Grayson touching me, without his comfort and his security, I’m left feeling shaken and stirred all over again.

“I thought you two were together,” Donald says, nodding in my direction.

My breath catches in my throat as I wait for Grayson to answer.

It takes mere seconds.

It feels like days.

And when he answers, he slices the rest of my heart wide open.

“No. We’re not.”





Twenty-One





Grayson





I’m an asshole and I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips, but there’s no taking it back now. Not here, anyway.

Next to me, Kennedy tightens and tenses in her chair.

I’ve just hurt her, I can feel it, but I’ll make it up to her later.

The room is silent and everyone’s but Kennedy’s eyes are on me. With a quick scan, knowing I have everyone’s attention, I take a moment to think about what I want to say.

This meeting isn’t going how I originally thought it would. I’m not saying or declaring what I thought I would originally fight for.

I wanted to show up, demand to see my boy, and I wanted to fight for rights to see him. To be his dad.

But the Neanderthal comment hit something inside me. Broke something wide open.

Even though that clearly wasn’t her intention, even though I don’t blame Patricia Matsen for being so angry or tossing that word out to me from across the table, she still hit her mark.

I never want to be compared to my father. And yeah, I use my fists for a living, but I’m not a monster.

Unfortunately, regardless of the amount of money I do have to throw around…that’s exactly how courts will see me.

I’m not a fucking idiot.

I come from a shithole town with the biggest asshole in the world as a father. I’ve made a name for myself beating the crap out of other men, and I wasn’t lying when I just said I travel all the time. My life isn’t any place for a kid, and I’m a selfish prick because I’m not ready to give it up yet.

“What are you saying?” Donald asks.

In his gaze, I see everything I ever wanted when I was a kid. I see an honorable man—a man who loves his wife, based on the way he can’t stop glancing at her to make sure she’s doing okay. I see a man who would give his life to protect the people he loves.

And my kid is included in that. I know it. I can see it in both of their eyes, see it in the pictures I’ve stared at every waking minute for the last three weeks. I can feel it in the words penned to paper.

My son is their entire world.

With a deep breath, I exhale and try to ease the tension in my flexed fingers. It doesn’t help and I want to reach out to hold Kennedy’s hand. Her simple presence grounds me, but I’ve just screwed that up.

I think about Kennedy’s question, the very first one she asked me when she mailed me the letters and photos.

“My mom died in childbirth,” I state simply and watch something sad or something that looks like pity flash in Patricia’s eye with her quiet gasp. God, she even feels something for me—the man who could shake her entire life. They’re not just good people…they’re more than that.

With a shrug, because I’ve had twenty-six years to think about this, I say, “It was probably for the best, because there was no way she could have survived being married to the man who raised me. My father is a prick. He’s a drunk, and when he drank—which was every day—he used his fists and the heel of his boot to get what he wanted. His belt came in handy on small boys who couldn’t defend themselves on the nights he hit his whiskey.” I roll my shoulders, practically feeling the scars on my upper back begin to burn from mentioning the belt.

“Mr. Legend…” Donald starts and stops. His slow swallow and the downturned edges of his lips are clear. “I can’t even begin to fathom treating someone like that.”

It’s a simple statement, but it’s honest. I know it in my gut. Emotions—those damn fucking feelings I’ve tried for years to ignore—bubble to the surface. I reach out and slide my hand onto Kennedy’s thigh, needing some contact with her to continue.

“Kennedy’s dad wasn’t much better, sir,” I say, surprised at the respect I’m giving this man in front of me. He’s not that much older than I am, and no one typically gets my respect without earning it first. “Not as vicious, but he wasn’t the saint he wants everyone to believe he was, either. The first time I met her, when we were kids, she was trying to stop a bloody lip that her dad had given her.”

“Grayson,” she warns. I squeeze her thigh to silence her. I need to get this out. Everything.

Patricia’s eyes tear up again, but it’s not in anger or fear. She simply feels bad for us. “I had no idea,” she whispers, looking at Kennedy.

“Her mom is a drunk, my mom is dead, and we were raised by two men who should have never been around children in the first place. And when we grew up, we used to sit on these swings in this forgotten playground, dreaming of what our lives would be like if we were surrounded by people who gave a shit about us, and what our lives would someday look like when we had our own kids to raise.”

Fucking Christ. I glance around the room to see every woman, except for the hard ass lawyer next to Patricia, has eyes filled with tears. Next to me, Kennedy slides her hand over mine, entwining our fingers together.

That simple touch makes me feel like I can breathe easy.

“We used to dream about a mom and dad who hugged and kissed each other. Kids our age were always groaning about how disgusting it was, but to me and Kennedy, we thought seeing that would be the best thing possible.” Tears begin to burn in my eyes, but I keep going. “We used to dream about playing sports and having our dads be the coaches, our mom bringing treats and wearing pins on their chests with our pictures on them.”