I clear my throat and attempt a non-threatening smile. “Is your mother home?” I ask.
Curious eyes sweep over me again. “Uh, yeah.”
“Grayson?” The soft voice I’ve longed to hear for years slides over me. I lift my gaze from the girl.
Rosie.
Shit, time’s barely touched her. Her hair’s shorter. Neater and not as wild as I remember. There’s an air of seriousness and maturity around her.
“Rachel, go upstairs,” she says to her daughter.
Our daughter?
The girl’s gaze darts between the two of us. “Are you sure?”
“Go on,” Rosie urges without answering the question.
I watch the girl jog up the stairs, a thousand questions burning in my mind.
“Grayson, you’re out.” Rosie doesn’t open the door any wider or invite me inside.
I shove my hands in my pockets. “Tried writing to let you know.”
Her jaw tightens. “Why are you here?”
“To see you.” I lift my gaze to the staircase inside. “Is she—?”
“No.” She cuts me off before I even spit out the question.
All traces of hope unfurling inside me die. “How old is she?” I ask in a harsher tone.
“None of your business,” she hisses.
“If she’s my kid, it’s my business.”
Rosie closes her eyes and a defeated sigh eases out of her. Without looking at me, she grabs a coat and steps outside, closing the door behind her. The kind of protective mother I always knew Rose would be.
I take a few steps back to make room, keeping my hands in my pockets so I don’t do something stupid like hug her. Doesn’t take a genius to recognize that my touch isn’t welcome.
“Rachel isn’t yours,” she says in a low voice. Without meeting my eyes, she flashes her left hand at me. How’d I miss that sparkling wedding set? “She just turned fourteen.”
No second chances for us. No do-overs for me.
Fourteen.
I don’t need to do the calculations. Rosie obviously moved on a long, long time ago. Pretty much right around when I went to prison. And here I am, showing up like the ghost of nightmares past on her doorstep.
Fury bubbles up inside me. “Kept cashing those checks Rock sent, though, didn’t you?”
“It’s the least the club could do after everything we went through,” she shoots back.
Technically, if she wasn’t still my old lady, she wasn’t entitled to shit from the club. But it was me who’d asked Rock to keep sending her money long after our divorce was finalized. Probably out of guilt. Rock was honoring my wishes. Got no one to blame but myself.
“Kept sending me those short, shallow letters, too.” I always assumed her letters had the bare minimum of information because she knew the guards would read them. Now, I have a clearer picture. She didn’t want me knowing anything about her new life. Her new family.
“I didn’t want you to give up hope,” she says.
“So you let me keep on thinking we might have a chance…” I shake my head. I can’t decide if it’s the kindest thing she could’ve done or the cruelest.
Without that tiny sliver of hope hanging over my head, who knows what I might have done inside. Or where I would’ve directed my rage. I committed so many evil deeds just to stay alive. But I might have done worse if she’d snuffed out every last thing I held onto. If I’d thought I had nothing to live for.
Gently, almost tentatively, she places her hand on my arm. “After Rob and I married…I took the money, yes. But I deposited it in a separate account. For you. When you got out. In case the club…wasn’t there for you.” Her expression turns bitter. “They owe you for everything you lost.”
“No one owes me shit, Rosie.”
“The money’s yours. Just tell me where to send it.”
“Keep it.” I glance at the house—everything Rosie always wanted and I never had a chance to give her. “Rachel will be going to college soon, right? Use it for that.”
I sure as shit won’t need to worry about sending any kids to college.
If I still had a heart, I’d say that painful sensation was it shattering into a thousand pieces. “Are you happy?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
My throat’s so damn tight. “Good,” I choke out. That’s all I ever wanted for her.
Just once I want to touch her. One final time. I dreamed about touching her so many nights while I was inside. How many mornings did I wake, thinking she was next to me only to have the harsh reality around me shatter the dream as soon as I opened my eyes?
Now I know she was never thinking about me.
I reach out and stoke my knuckles over her cheek. Still as soft as I remember. Instead of flinching or pulling away like I expected, she closes her eyes.
“Is he good to you?” I ask.
“Yes.” A tear slips down her cheek. “He’s a good husband and father.”