Nick faced Graham again. “I’m not talking to you.”
She was between them, a hand on each chest, restraining Nick, drawing support from Graham. It sickened her. “Enough, Nick. I don’t know what happened tonight, but respect isn’t optional, no matter how bad you feel.” It took effort to stay calm, but she did it.
Until she caught the scent of alcohol on Nick’s breath. “You’ve been drinking?” Panic lodged in her chest. “What happened, Nick?”
Nick’s lips pressed flat. His jaw muscle clenched tightly.
“Graham, you and Diana should go.” As much as she appreciated his willingness to champion her, having him here would make talking to Nick impossible. And, clearly, her son wasn’t okay.
Seeing Graham hesitate said so much—meant so much to her. He wanted to be here. He loved her kids and hated seeing them hurt. He cared about them. All of them. “He needs to stay hydrated,” Graham said, slipping into the cool, impartial doctor mode with ease. “Keep a close eye on him.”
She nodded.
Graham’s light-brown eyes met hers, so warm and tender that it took everything she had not to beg him to stay. She could do this on her own—she knew that. But she didn’t want to. “If you need anything—”
“We’re good,” Nick ground out.
“Thank you.” She’d had so much to say before. In his arms, there’d been a glimmer of possibility that things could be good between them. But now, with Nick, all of that would have to wait.
With a nod, Graham headed for the door. “Come on, Di.”
“Guess we’re not going on that vacation together now, huh? That sucks.” Diana had been sitting on the floor, both cats piled in her lap, watching with wide-eyed interest. Now she stood. “Are you guys going to be okay?” she whispered, her too-skinny hand gripping Felicity’s forearm. “You will be, right?”
Felicity nodded, patting her hand. “We will. Families fight, Di. It can be a good thing. As long as things don’t get mean, that is. You hang in there, work things out, forgive and go forward, stronger than before. That’s what fighting should be.”
Diana shrugged. “If you say so.” Her kohl-lined eyes bounced to Nick. “Remember, you and drinking, not a good mix.”
“Says you,” Nick bit back.
“Hey, I can hold my alcohol.” With a cocky shake of her head, she led her father outside. The front door closed, and the room went silent.
“What happened?” she asked. “You said you wanted to go with Granddad.”
“People say things all the time. Doesn’t mean anything.” He was hurt. Angry. And he wasn’t going to hold back. “Like you saying you and Dr. Murphy were just friends.”
“Nick.”
“I don’t want to hear it.” He shook his head. “You also said sex is supposed to mean something—remember that? It’s special. Emotional. All that bullshit?” His eyes narrowed. “But I guess being alone and sad makes sleeping around okay, too?”
“Sleeping around?” she snapped. He was going for the jugular. “I didn’t lie to you, Nick.”
“About you and Dr. Murphy? Or about sex being special?”
“That’s not fair, Nick.” Charity was up on her feet. “She has every right to be happy.”
“Because Graham Murphy would make her happy? How? By letting Mom raise
his fucked-up kid along with Dad’s baby?” He stared at the ceiling. “Ever think he’s latching on to you because he knows he can’t handle Diana alone? She’s seriously messed up. A walking nightmare. You want him? Then you get her, too. How can you want that here—all the time?” He rolled his head. “Amber and Dad didn’t factor that into their whole let’s-give-Jack-to-Felicity master plan.”
“Enough, Nick.” He’d hurt her deeply, but he’d also pissed her off. How dare he throw Matt and Amber in her face or suggest Graham was using her? She hated this. All of it. “You want to lash out at me? Fine. You’ve done that.” She was shaking. “You’ve been drinking, clearly. Sit down before you fall down and tell me exactly what happened.”
He pressed his lips together but sat.
“Well?” she asked, staring down at him.
Listening to Nick recount his evening hurt her heart. He didn’t say much—just the facts, the actions—his voice almost devoid of emotion. And that, his flat tone, made it even worse.
Felicity sifted through the words spinning in her head. This was Nick. Not Diana. Nick. Her son. Her son had snuck out of her parents’ house, hitchhiked into town, broken into the cemetery, damaged Matt’s headstone, and been so inebriated that he passed out. He was having a hard time sitting upright now. Did she yell at him? Did she hug him? “How much did you drink?” she asked. “What did you drink?”