And the playful spark that’s always in Ellie’s big blue eyes . . . fades right out of them.
“He’s sleeping. He’s not coming.”
Marty clears his throat, giving me a disgruntled look, but keeps his mouth shut. And we all head out to the car.
I swing around to the trunk and quickly fix Ellie’s heel, then hand it to her through the backseat window. “Tommy’s gonna drive you over—I’ll catch up.” The coffee shop is closed for the day. “I’m gonna do a once-over, make sure everything here is locked up tight.”
She slips heart-shaped sunglasses onto her face. “Okay—but don’t be late. You guys are the only cheering section I have. I expect to hear some serious woot-fucking-woots.”
I nod. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
“Get up.”
Eric Hammond is lying on his back in bed, still wearing last night’s gray T-shirt and trousers—stinking like the floor of a pub. He doesn’t budge when I call out again, and I have neither the time nor the patience to fuck around.
“Hey.” I smack his cheek—holding back from punching him in the mouth, because knocking him out won’t speed things up.
“Hey! Let’s go—get up.”
“What?” He inhales, snorting, and slowly his eyes focus on me. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
I move to his closet, sliding the hangers over, looking for a suit.
“Your daughter’s graduating today. I’m making sure you get to where you need to be.”
“Ellie?” he says, confused.
“Oh, you’re aware she’s your daughter? I wasn’t quite sure you knew.”
“That’s today?” he asks, rubbing his face.
I find a dark gray suit and a white dress shirt, still in plastic from the cleaners, that look like they’ll fit him.
“It’s today. She’s valedictorian.”
He rubs at the salt-and-pepper whiskers on his chin. And hangs his head. “Damn it. Damn it.” He lifts his head, meeting my eyes, his voice a sandpaper whisper. “Logan, right?”
I nod.
“You must think I’m a real piece of shit.”
My jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“You don’t understand.” He opens the drawer at the bedside table and takes out a frame, staring at it—talking to it, more than to me.
I look at Eric Hammond and I can see the man he used to be. Strong and straight—noble, even, before the weight of life bent him in half, turned him into the sad sack of bones he is now.
“You’re wrong,” I say softly. “I do understand.”
Then my voice turns fierce.
“I just don’t care. Not about you.” I point towards the door. “I have stood by and watched you break that girl’s heart every day for the last six weeks, and I’m not watching it anymore.”
It’s my job to keep Ellie Hammond safe. All of her. Her body as well as her sweet little soul. And I’m damn good at what I do, but more than that, I want to protect her. Because she’s kind and clever, lovely and precious . . . and fuck . . . somebody has to care enough to keep that safe.
“So you’re going to get out of that bed and clean yourself up and for the next few hours, you’re going to pretend she matters.”
He nods and when he sets the frame on the bedside table, I’m able to see the photograph. It’s a family picture—a child-sized Olivia with crooked teeth and wild hair; her father standing behind her, sober and happy, and in his arms, her sister with baby cheeks and white-blond hair. And it’s like a punch to the gut when I see the woman beside him—gazing up at him, smiling. A woman with short blond hair . . . and Ellie’s beautiful face. They look almost exactly alike.
“She does matter,” Eric Hammond whispers, running his thumb over the image of everything he once had.
There are photographers outside Ellie’s graduation. Not a large group, just three, but they’re there. I guide Mr. Hammond towards the door of the gymnasium, where a student volunteer is waiting to exchange our tickets for paper programs.
The journalists shout questions as we pass:
“Mr. Hammond, is Prince Nicholas coming to the ceremony?”
“How do you feel about Olivia’s pregnancy? Is the baby the Prince’s?”
“Mr. Hammond, when’s the wedding?”
Eric’s good about it. Doesn’t react, doesn’t even turn his head. As I lead him to his seat, he asks quietly, “Olivia’s not really pregnant, is she?”
“No.”
“Is it always like that? The reporters?”