The Ticket Was Never for His Mistress Chapter 12

The Ticket Was Never for His Mistress Chapter 12

Mlew back to San Francisco in my sixth month.

Not for Grant.

For paperwork. The Callahan acquisition of Mercer Dynamics was closing. As the owner of Lumen, my signature was required on forty–one pages.

Rhys offered to come. I said no.

“This is the last door I need to close myself.”

He nodded. He always understood.

The signing took three hours.

Walter was there, now acting CFO. He brought me a box of lemon cookies. The same ones I used to bake for

the team during all–nighters in the garage.

“The team misses you,” he said. “The real you. The one who fixed our bugs at 4 a.m. in pajamas.”

“Tell them I’ll visit.”

“And Grant?”

“What about him?”

Walter hesitated. “He sold the Pacific Heights house. He’s living in a rental near the rehab center. He goes to AA every morning. Physical therapy every afternoon.” He paused. “He asks about you. Every single day. I never

tell him anything.”

“Thank you, Walter.”

I signed the last page.

Mercer Dynamics would become Callahan West. My code, my company, my name.

It was finished.

When I stepped out onto Market Street, it was drizzling.

The driver opened the car door. I was about to get in when I saw him.

Across the street. In front of the rehab clinic.

A man in a wheelchair.

His left leg was in a metal brace. He’d lost weight. His hair was too long, falling into his eyes. He wore a gray hoodie. Grant Mercer, who used to own seventeen identical navy suits.

He saw me.

He froze.

Then he started to move. Pushing the wheels with his hands, clumsily, through the rain. A nurse called after him. He didn’t stop.

A cab honked. He didn’t stop.

He rolled right up to the curb in front of me. His hands were raw from the wheels. Rain dripped off his chin.

“Hi,” he said.

Just that.

“Hi, Grant.”

He looked at my stomach. Six months round. His eyes filled instantly.

“She’s big,” he whispered.

“She kicks like a soccer player.”

He laughed, and the laugh broke into something else. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

“I have something for you. For her.”

He pulled a small box from his hoodie pocket. Wrapped badly. The tape crooked.

I didn’t want to take it. I took it.

Inside was a music box. Old, wooden, a tiny dancer on top.

My mother’s.

I’d thought it was lost when we sold her house. I’d cried about it for weeks.

“I bought it,” Grant said. “Back then. From the estate sale. I was going to give it to you on our tenth anniversary. I hid it in my desk.”

I turned the key.

played “At Last.”

Our song.

I closed my eyes. For one second, I was twenty–two again. In a garage. Dancing badly, laughing.

Then I opened them.

“Thank you,” I said. “She’ll love it.”

“Hazel.” He gripped the wheels. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. In the hospital. In AA. Every night.” His voice shook. “You didn’t leave because of Brooke. You left because I made you disappear. Year by year. I took your code, your money, your name. And I called it ‘us.”

I stared at him.

It was the first true thing he’d said in a very long time.

“I’m not asking you back,” he said. “I don’t deserve that. I just… I want to know her. I want to be the kind of father my dad never was. If you’ll let me try.”

The rain kept falling.

I thought about my daughter. About what I would tell her one day.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I said.

He held his breath.

“You get sober. You stay sober. A year, clean. Then you can meet her. Supervised. Once a month.”

He nodded fast. “Yes. Anything.”

“You’ll be her father, Grant. On birthdays. On holidays. If you show up. Every single time. No excuses. No watch–checking.”

He flinched at that. Good.

“But you will never be my husband again. Never. Do you understand?”

He looked at me for a long time.

Then he nodded. “I understand.”

. Confin

“Goodbye, Grant.”

got into the car.

Through the rain–streaked window, I saw him sitting there at the curb, holding nothing, watching me go.

He didn’t chase the car.

He’d finally learned.

Too late.