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I’m not stupid. There might be a second chance but there won’t be a third.
He shoves to his feet. That’s when I get a full look at him and want to chortle at the sight. Billionaire playboy Jonathan Lockwood is sporting a stained white T-shirt, faded jeans pulled down almost over his ass showing striped boxers, plus construction boots when the man proudly wears bespoke suits to the office. His words distract me as he pulls out a set of wadded one-dollar bills. Tossing a few on the table, he mutters, “In the end, if you do manage to get her to forgive you, I expect you to remember something.”
“What’s that?”
“Every day it should be your damn privilege to love a woman like her.” With that, he turns his back and ambles out the back entrance to the bar.
What I didn’t get to share is that even though we’re as far apart as two people can be while still being connected through a thread of love, it already is.
Whipping out my phone, I text Laura.
Liam:
I’m thinking about you. We miss you. I miss you.
Laura:
Liam . . .
Liam:
It’s okay, Laura. You don’t have to say anything back.
Laura:
How’s Bailey? I texted her, but didn’t want to ask how she’s handling her new schedule?
Liam:
Misses you in the afternoons. Irritated because she’s not off her crutches yet. Done, tired, you name it.
There are little dots before a new message comes in.
Laura:
There will be something waiting for you both when you get home.
Liam:
Any clues?
Laura:
You won’t need one.
Paying my tab, I leave Manhattan and begin the arduous drive back to Darien. I arrive just in time to pick Bailey up at her school bus stop so she doesn’t have to hobble down the street. I’m treated to monosyllabic answers about how her day went despite what subject we talk about.
That is until I pull into our driveway and spy on the front porch balloons, flowers, and a familiar pink and red box. My heart leaps knowing Laura’s been by.
Bailey’s much more vocal about her demands. “Daddy! Carry me! I want to see what it is—who sent it!”
Because I want that as much as she does, I don’t reprimand her. Instead, I carry her to the front stoop and ask her to sit. There’s an envelope for each of us on top of the pastry box. Handing Bailey hers, I tear into mine.
And quickly find myself putting the envelope in my pocket so I can sit next to my daughter to gush over her back-to-school gifts from Laura—especially her buttercup cupcakes.
Enough, her card indicates, for her to share with her father.
Later that night, long after Bailey’s open chatter leads to the most pleasant dinner we’ve shared in weeks, followed by dessert and bedtime, I slide the letter that’s been burning a hole in my pocket from the envelope. Very quickly, I fall into Laura’s emotional state.