The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(64)

“I love you too.”

“I know it’s complicated because Maisie has a father and I … have days when I’m not sure I can do that again,” he says. “But she’s an amazing kid and I love her, too.”

“Piper is irreplaceable, and you don’t have to be anything to Maisie other than yourself.”

When Mason kisses me, I can almost taste the bitter mixed in with the sweet. And that’s okay. Sometimes life is like that.

“I’m tempted to take you back upstairs,” he says. “But it looks like the rain is starting to let up and one of us needs to go get Maisie.”

“Rock-paper-scissors?”

“You’re on.”

Mason throws rock. I throw scissors.

“Ugh. Fine,” I say. “When I leave, order a pizza, and Maisie and I will pick it up on our way home.”

“You got it.”



* * *



The rain has slowed to a misty drizzle when I turn my car into the driveway with Maisie and a hot pizza in the back. I stop for a second to get out and check the mail. Maisie complains that she needs to use the bathroom, so I unbuckle her from her car seat and let her run to the house by herself. I open the mailbox to a small avalanche of coupon flyers, credit card offers, and legitimate bills. Among them is an envelope addressed to me from a Fort Lauderdale law firm—and it looks official.

I tear it open. Inside is a letter informing me that Brian has established legal paternity and filed a motion for equal time-sharing and parental responsibility of Maisie. A court-ordered mediation date has been set for September 28.

Suddenly everything clicks into focus. Brian’s upgraded life goals. His evasive behavior. The well-chosen birthday gift with mermaid wrapping paper. That weird fucking video chat on the Fourth of July. And all of it points to this custody challenge.

For the first time in months, my heart rate skyrockets, and the surge of pain in my chest feels like a heart attack. I inhale huge breaths, but my lungs feel starved of air. My hands tremble so violently, I drop all the mail onto the wet grass. I sink to my knees and spread out, trying to calm myself, but the only thing I can think about is Maisie being taken from me. The letter says equal, but I can’t wrap my brain around how that would work unless … Brian is trying to force me to return to Florida. Making me give up my dreams. This island. This life. Everything I wished for. Fresh panic spirals through me as I think about leaving Mason behind, and the calming techniques I’ve always used are failing.

Mason finds me sobbing in the grass, my hair and clothes soaked through to the skin. He helps me to my feet. Leaving the car running in the driveway, the driver’s door hanging open, the pizza growing cold on the back seat, and the mail scattered on the lawn, he walks me to the house. He doesn’t know what set me off and I’m too distraught to tell him. He simply rubs my back in slow circles and speaks to me in a low, calm voice. “Hey, I’ve got you. I’m here.”

By the time we reach the house, my panic has settled into a sense of impending dread. I let him lead me upstairs to the bathroom and wait as he turns on the hot water in the shower. He sends Maisie to fetch my pajamas from the bedroom.

“Listen,” he says, touching my chin so I look at him. “Whatever this is, it will be okay.”

“No, it won’t,” I say. “I’m not allowed to have good things. The universe always sees to that.”

Mason kisses my forehead. “I love you.”

After he leaves, I break down in fresh tears, crying as I remove my clothes. I wash my hair and skin, hoping the shower will strip away the feeling that my whole life is about to collapse—again. But when the water starts to go cold, I know I need to face the reality of the situation. I need to go.

Downstairs, the kitchen smells like reheated pizza, and a glance out the window verifies that Mason took care of the mess at the mailbox. Maisie sits at the dining room table, humming a nameless tune as she sculpts a green sphere out of modeling sand. Beside her is a slice of pizza that Mason has cut into manageable bites. Fresh tears spring into my eyes. The attorney letter is lying on the island, folded as neatly as a soggy piece of paper can be, and Mason is waiting for an explanation.

“I didn’t read it,” he says quietly. “But you’re worrying me. Tell me what’s happening so I can help you fix it.”

I sit down at the island. “Brian is suing for partial custody. In Florida, they call it time-sharing, like she’s a fun little condo at Disney World, but it amounts to the same thing. The court-ordered mediation is at the end of September, and I have to go.”

“Okay,” Mason says. “So we hire a lawyer, book a flight, and—”

“No. I mean, I have to move back to Florida.”

His head snaps up like I’ve said something absurd. “What? Why?”

“The reason I was able to relocate to Ohio was because Brian and I never had a formal custody arrangement,” I say. “But now that he’s established paternity, he actually has an argument for equal time-sharing and parental responsibility. He’s got a job with a steady income. He’s going to college. He moved to an apartment in a better neighborhood. Now he can tell a judge that I moved his daughter out of state without his approval.”

“Okay, but why does any of this mean you have to move?” Mason asks.