That brings her a step closer to where I’m standing. “Because of Auggie?”
Hearing his name drops my head down. A burst of raw emotion spurs through me, because fuck , I miss him.
“Lucas.” Marti clutches my hand in hers. “I know how much you love that boy, but he’s not your son.”
Maybe not biologically, but I’m the only father figure that five-year-old has ever known. He’s never called me Dad, but I’ve taken on that role in every way that matters.
I was there when August was born, and sat next to him when he blew out the candle on every single one of his birthday cakes.
Brook and I weren’t together when he was conceived. We’d been apart for more than a year at that point, but his birth drew us back together. She needed someone to help, and I stepped up.
I always stepped up for Auggie even during the on and off periods with Brooklyn.
Marti leans closer to me. “You did everything you could for him. You loved Auggie with all your heart. I know that, but things with his mother weren’t good.”
Scrubbing a hand over my forehead, I take in those words. Rocco has said them to me. Nash has too.
“Love should bring joy to your heart,” she says softly. “It should feel safe and strong. Each quarrel should end with understanding and every day with a kiss and a promise that tomorrow will be better.”
I swallow hard, not knowing what to say. I didn’t experience any of that with Brooklyn.
“She made her choice.” She nods decisively. “You need to accept it.”
They are wise words coming from the woman who has always kept me on the right path.
I need to change the subject because everything she said made sense, but the pull inside me to talk to Brooklyn is still there.
“What did you bring me to eat?”
That lures a wide smile to her lips. “All of your favorites.”
I laugh. “So one of everything on the menu?”
“Almost.” She winks. “I didn’t put any manicotti in there. I want you at the restaurant eating that soon.”
“I’ll make that happen,” I say as I take her in for a quick embrace. “I love you, Marti.”
“I love you, my brave boy,” she whispers. “Your mama would be as proud of you as I am.”
I hope that’s true. I was too young when she died to remember anything about my mom, but if I can make the rest of my family proud, I’m on the right track.
Chapter 16
Afton
I stare at a puddle left lingering from the late afternoon shower that fell over Manhattan.
I squealed when I heard the pitter-patter of raindrops against my windows. I flung them open, along with the patio door, and stood just outside the reach of the rain to enjoy the comfort it offered.
I’ll never tire of the smell of rain or the way it changes the city in its presence.
Everything quiets as people rush inside, seeking shelter.
I stood in my doorway, soaking it all in as I thought about the text message I’d received just five minutes before the storm hit.
I glance down at my phone again and reread it.
Luke: I know I said I’d cook for you, but Marti dropped off enough food for half of the city. You in?
I’m supposed to meet my parents at their penthouse in an hour.
I know that what happened at the church was more of a spectacle than either of them wanted, so I’m grateful that I’ll have a chance to sit down and explain everything to them.
I don’t expect the conversation to be easy, but it’s necessary.
I reply to Luke’s text message to see if his schedule lines up with mine.
Afton: What day and time?
Since my mom didn’t mention dinner when I talked to her on the phone, I suspect that my time with them will be short. Joel told me earlier that my folks have shifted from anger to disappointment.
That can only benefit me.
I glance down when my phone vibrates with an incoming text.
Luke: Does tonight at 8 work?
My response is almost immediate. I send it with a smile on my face.
Afton: It works. I’ll see you then .
I toss the phone on my bed before I sprint out into the rain as it starts again. I stand in the middle of my tiny garden space and let the drops hit my upturned face as I think about how different my life was just a few days ago.
***
I know that things will never be the same the moment that I try my key in the lock on the door of my parents’ penthouse.
It doesn’t work.
It did the day before I was supposed to marry Warren. I rushed over here to grab something from my old bedroom. It was a scrapbook that I’d crafted in high school.
I had saved pictures that I took of Warren when he wasn’t looking and a wrapper from a piece of gum he had offered me one afternoon when I was sixteen.