Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“How obscene is obscene?”
“It’s a surprise. Congratulations, Hannah. This is what making it feels like.”
I’m hesitant to guess at the number. The pop star I’d written the song for had been all over my social media for months, and I knew the streams and downloads of the single had done well. Which meant the royalty would be pretty nice. But I make it a habit not to pay too much attention to those things. Better to concentrate on the work ahead than obsess about the last gig. The second we get too far up our own asses, the music suffers.
The truth is, this industry is fickle. What’s hot today is hot garbage tomorrow. You just have to rack up the credits and enjoy the ride while it lasts.
At home, I can’t wait to share the news with Garrett—and then find a way to slip a baby into the conversation—but when I walk in the door, there are already open beer bottles on the kitchen counter and he’s angrily playing video games in the den.
“Fuck,” he growls, and throws the controller at the coffee table where it lands with a stinging crack.
“Hey, there.” I lean against the doorframe and offer a cautious smile.
Garrett just sighs. He’s still in the pajamas he was wearing this morning. Which is never a good sign.
“What’s up?” I take a seat on the arm of the sofa to kiss him hello, but our lips barely meet before he’s pulling back with an irritated curse.
“He’s fucking with me,” he spits out.
“Who? That same kid with the lisp? Oh no. He’s back?”
For weeks after last Christmas, Garrett had a ten-year-old nemesis taunting him on one of his games. I thought I was going to have to get rid of the console, legitimately worried Garrett would find a way to track the kid down and show up at his house carrying his hockey stick. But then the kid and his lisp just up and disappeared in the spring and I thought the ordeal was over.
“My father,” he says darkly. “Nothing satisfies him, so now he’s got to rub it in.”
My brain is beginning to hurt. “Start from the beginning. What happened?”
“Landon calls me this morning. Says a producer from ESPN wants me to do an episode of The Legacy. Only it’s not one of their usual career snapshots type of episodes—it’s some bullshit father-son feel-good story. So my dad can get on there and talk about raising a prodigy while they throw my baby pictures up behind his head.” Garrett’s eyes flash a stormy gray. “He’s seriously just being sadistic at this point.”
“You think Phil set this up?”
“Like it’s something novel, going behind my back and trying to interfere in my life?” Garrett tosses over a knowing look. “Doesn’t sound familiar?”
He has a point. When we were still in college, Phil Graham all but blackmailed me to break up with Garrett, threatening to cut him off financially if I didn’t.
“You’re right. It’s exactly what he’d do.”
“I’m being punished for something. Or maybe he’s gone mad with power. Whatever it is, I’m not biting.”
“Good,” I say, rubbing his shoulders. Nothing takes a toll on Garrett like his dad. “Screw him. Whatever attention he’s hoping for, don’t give it to him.”
But my boyfriend is too agitated to sit still. I trail after his broad, muscular body as he goes to the kitchen to grab the last remaining beer bottle from the fridge. He drinks nearly half of it in one gulp, then rummages around for something to eat.
“It’s shit like this that makes me not want to have kids, you know?”
The bitter reflection comes so far out of left field, I’m totally and completely blindsided by it.
It smacks me right in the face, a sharp pang radiating through my chest as I absorb what he just said.
“You’re lucky,” he says gruffly, turning to face me. He leans against the fridge door. “Your folks are decent people. You’ve got the good parent genes in your DNA, you know? But what about me? Like, what happens if I turn out just like my dad one day and screw up my kids? Make them grow up to hate me?”
I gulp down the lump of anxiety choking off my airways. “You’re not your dad. You’re nothing like him.”
But Garrett tends to disappear into himself when Phil gets under his skin. He becomes quiet and withdrawn. And I’ve learned the only cure is time and space. Let him work through the thoughts in his head without pushing him or adding extra pressure.
Which means that once again, we don’t quite make it around to the subject of, hey, I’ve got a kid you most definitely won’t screw up brewing in my belly.
36
Garrett
Saturday morning, I step off the plane in Palm Springs with the other half dozen of my teammates who got roped into playing this two-day tournament. The charity people set us up at a nice hotel, to which we’re ushered by two private cars. Room service brings up some breakfast, while Logan texts me from the room next door to say that Happy Gilmore is on TV, if I want to glean a few pointers before we hit the first tee. I’m about to reply when my agent calls.