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“Yes, Your Honor,” Lindsay capitulated.
Scott’s cheeks heated with the rush of victory, but her next words dashed his hopes once again.
“I’ll arrange for an evaluation.”
“Very well, Ms. Meyers, Mr. Edwards,” the judge nodded to both of them. “I’ll see you again when the proper paperwork has been submitted.”
They filed out of the room and Scott half hoped Lindsay would make some kind of snide comment, maybe even within the judge’s hearing, but she, too, was on her best behavior, even going so far as to make an abortive attempt to reach for his hand. Pulling back, as if she hadn’t even noticed she’d done it, her eyes flicked to Scott’s lawyer, then back to him.
“Are you sure we can’t...?” She left the question hanging and if he weren’t so angry right at this moment, he might be tempted to applaud her for the show she’d managed to put on over the last twenty minutes. “Well, then, you can’t say I didn’t try.”
He opened his mouth as she turned to leave, but the barest shake of his lawyer’s head warned him, so, shutting it again, he swallowed back the slew of words wanting to force their way past his clenched teeth.
Gesturing to a small, side room, his lawyer, sounding as frustrated as he did, bit out, “Let’s talk.”
Behind closed doors, Scott finally vented his frustration. “What a performance. I should have given her a standing ovation. This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. Why are we even jumping through all these hoops?”
“Shh.” Mark pressed his finger to his lips. “I understand your frustration, but this is the process. For what it’s worth, Judge Farmer is a pretty fair judge, and, reading between the lines, he thinks this is a giant waste of the court’s time. The psych eval is cost-prohibitive and tends to cool down a heated custody battle. I’d be far more concerned at how quickly she agreed. It means she’s in this for the long haul. The only thing that would have me more worried would be if she bought a place down here.”
Scott’s eyes widened with sudden panic. “She wouldn’t. She couldn’t!”
“If she’s serious, she might, and it would carry a lot of weight with the judge.”
“But she doesn’t want Dylan. Why is she doing this?”
“That’s not a question I can answer. If she is as disingenuous as you say she is,” Mark paused, raising an eyebrow before continuing, “then perhaps she simply doesn’t wish you to be happy and will do everything in her power to ensure it.”
Scott, catching his lawyer’s slight hesitation, winced. He’d thought—he’d hoped—knowing the whole story would have inured Mark against her wiles, but even he had fallen prey to at least some small aspect of Lindsay’s performance.
“More than that, well, I’ve seen enough custody cases to know no two are ever the same, but people are people, and if she’s willing to go this far, then we’d better prepare ourselves: she’s not going to settle.”
Twenty-Four
WHEN SCOTT TOLD Abby what his lawyer had said later that night, after Dylan had gone to bed, she couldn’t help wondering what drove a person to such lengths. Was his ex-wife really doing all of this to ruin Scott’s happiness? And, if so, how long could Scott hold out in the face of such an attack? How long could he continue choosing to be with her, knowing it might cost him his son? Because, if it ever came to a direct choice between them, he’d pick Dylan. As he should.
She pushed the niggling doubt this thought left in its wake aside, but once acknowledged, she couldn’t shake it.
“I never thought a three-and-two record could be a relief to talk about,” she joked, trying to change the subject, to lighten the mood.
“Me, either.” Scott’s voice flattened. “Coach wasn’t happy I missed this morning, but at least the Raptors are supportive, and they understand my family has to come first. Still, it’s like I have to play twice as well, now, to prove it isn’t impacting my game.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “Welcome to what it’s like to be a woman. ‘Except backward and in high heels’.”
Scott raised his brows.
“Someone said it once about Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. She did everything he did, except backwards and in high heels.”
“Now, imagine that on a football field,” Scott replied, eyes dancing.
Abby paused and cocked her head, taking a moment to visualize the ensuing chaos. “Finn would rock some Louboutin’s, though. Those red soles? He’d be all over that.”
“Oh, my gosh, I am texting himright now.” Scott lurched for his cell phone and held it up like a trophy before pecking at the screen.
“Fine, but I bet Kelly agrees with me.” Laughing too hard to fight him for the phone, his first smile in weeks made it worthwhile.
Scott’s phone pinged and he took a moment to read the message before dissolving into whoops of laughter. Not yet recovered, Abby turned the screen toward her and read the message through bleary eyes. “Manolo Blahniks? What even...?” And then she, too, lost it again.
Gen, curious, padded down the stairs from Dylan’s room and, toenails clicking across the floor, came to gaze up at Abby and Scott, as if to ask why they had gone bonkers, and did this fall under her job description as a therapy dog?