“I want us to have a better father/son relationship. I love you, son.”
Nick eyes filled with emotion. “And I want that too. You’re my dad, and I love you too. I want your grandson to love you too.”
He looked puzzled. “Grandson?”
“Abby’s pregnant.”
He gasped, then smiled in delight. Michell truly looked happy and excited. He congratulated and hugged us. And best of all, he gave us his blessing. What a breakthrough. Nick and Mitchell had reconnected. They started to talk about deeper topics, then hug each other as they talked everything out.
I silently followed James into the hall. At first, he made sure to keep the door slightly ajar, but after a pointed look from me, he closed it with a sigh.
“This had better not end in tears,” he warned softly. “If it does, they sure as hell better be Mitchell’s, if the bastard’s even capable of crying.”
I bit my lip and wearing a quiet smile, confident it the transformative power of my scheme. “Oh, I think you’ll find Mitchell is more than able to cry.”
James shot me a curious stare, then returned his attention to the door. He was still burning holes in it with his eyes when I walked a few feet away to the trashcan. The incriminating flash drive was still sitting innocently on the floor, right where Mitchell had left it. With a triumphant grin, I lifted my foot high in the air and smashed it down, taking unspeakable pleasure as it shattered into a million powdery pieces beneath my heel.
“What the...?” James asked distractedly, glancing over.
When I pulled away my foot, all that remained was a scattering of metallic dust upon the tile. Just like that, the entire slate was wiped clear. “Nothing,” I answered with a little smile. “There’s nothing there.”
It was a turning point, an unprecedented olive branch, the likes of which neither father nor son had ever seen. After officially releasing him from any further arrangement with the Board, Mitchell tentatively asked about the accident, then about his recovery. Then, with the caution of two men who had spent decades avoiding it, the two began to simply talk.
It was a revelation, a miniature Manhattan miracle. James didn’t trust it, but Harold seemed pretty happy.
By the time Nick finally made his big escape that night at around one a.m., it was the happiest I’d ever seen him. “This day!” he said, grinning from ear to ear as we darted across the parking lot to the cab waiting on the other side of the block. “This day has been one for the books.”
Chapter 19
Days later, Nick went out to celebrate. I originally planned to go with him but in the wake of the long, stressful day, I decided a soak in a hot bath with lots of bubbles would help me unwind and soothe my frazzled, pregnant, tired body and mind. James was going to go with him as well, but he received a call from his own father that same night and headed into the city.
“Have fun and be safe,” I stressed, as Nick slipped on his jacket to head out to the nearest bar to meet some of his friends from boarding school. “Just promise not to try to tackle any more cars.”
He saluted me with a dazzling smile, flashing every one of his pearly teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”
We leaned in for a quick kiss, then went our separate ways, looking forward to a little time to relax.
I soaked for a while in the tub, then crawled into bed with a contented smile on my face. I sank happily beneath the covers to enjoy what promised to be the best night’s sleep I’d had in months. Little did I know that it would not be a night of sweet dreams after all, that all those happy feelings were about to come to an end.
The call came at around four in the morning, ringing on one of my old publicist phones, a number obviously drunk-dialed, out of habit. It took a second for me to even find the phone, and I answered in a daze as I squinted sleepily up at the wall-mounted clock, “Hello?”
“Abby!” Nick shouted.
From his deafening response, I couldn’t tell whether he was delighted or terrified to hear my voice. I couldn’t hear much of anything over the yelling and screeching in the background, and as the wave of obnoxi
ous partying noise rushed into my previously peaceful bedroom, I had to hold the phone farther away from my ear.
“Nick?” I sat up in bed, my hand moving automatically to my belly for support. “What’s going on? Are you okay? Where are you?” I asked, wondering if he was at a Neolithic rave gone wrong.
“Abby! I’m sog lad youc alled!”
That made me pause. As if the confused sentiment and over-effusive volume wasn’t enough, the edges of his words were blurring together. He seemed to blend his vowels together, struggling with all the consonants between.
“But I didn’t,” I said slowly, trying to place him, sight unseen, somewhere on the barometer of his level of intoxication, a measurement I’d attempted to make countless times before. “You called me, Nick.”
There was slight pause as a chorus of screaming voices mixed together with a wilting country crooner wailing from a jukebox.
“What?” he called, as if he couldn’t hear me.