Chapter Eleven

On the edge of my hotel bed, the air in the room thickens. Each breath is a struggle as I read the vile words on the screen. The Baxters, those soul-sucking leeches, are trying to rip the only tangible piece of Brogan I have left—right from the curl of my clenched fingers.

NOTICE OF INTENT TO FILE FOR CUSTODY

To: Maxwell Williams

RE: Lilith Ambrosia Baxter, Minor Child

Please be advised that Mr. and Mrs. Josiah Baxter, the paternal grandparents of Lilith Ambrosia Baxter, intend to file a petition for custody of the minor child in the United States District Court for the Southern District of Indiana, Indianapolis Division.

The initial hearing for this matter is scheduled for September 17, 2024, at 7:00 AM.

Your presence at this hearing is mandatory. Failure to appear may result in the Court entering a default judgment in favor of the petitioners, granting them custody of the minor child.

You are advised to seek legal counsel immediately to protect your rights and interests in this matter.

Sincerely,

Danny Welch

Bechtel & Associates

On behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Josiah Baxter

My vision blurs while tears threaten to spill over as a primal rage consumes me. I want to scream. Tear the world apart. But all I can do is to crush the iPad in my trembling hands. The shattering glass echoes in my already broken heart, every shard reflecting the crumbled pieces of my life.

Slumped over, I stumble blindly across the room while my legs feel leaden with grief and my soul incredibly hollow. The mini-fridge glows invitingly, displaying its contents, promising a temporary escape from this visceral reality. As for the temptation, it's almost unbearable—a siren song calling me back to the darkness. I can almost taste the burning liquid, feel the numbness coursing through my veins. This can't be happening to me yet again. It's been three months since the bottle tempted me. Since we lost Brogan that night. But this, this feels different. I'm alone, vulnerable, akin to a wounded animal desperate for a reprieve. The old demons claw at my resolve, their whispers growing louder with each passing second.

Suddenly, a chilling realization pierces through the fog of despair. The Baxters are using my past against me. They're twisting the narrative by turning my struggles with addiction into a weapon—aiming to tear my daughter away from me. A surge of fury, hotter and fiercer than the alcohol's burn, ignites within me. I won't let them win. I refuse to let them use my demons to destroy my family. I am not the man I was then. I am a father, a protector, a survivor. I will fight this with every ounce of strength I have left. I will not allow them to take Lily Bean. I won't let Josiah extinguish the fragile flame of hope flickering within me.

"Hi, my name is Max, and I'm an alcoholic."

The words leave my lips like a proverbial declaration, just in an entirely fresh setting than I'm used to. This isn't my usual meeting back in Denver, but the need to share, to unburden my soul, is just as strong as those moments of desperation all the same.

In unison, the group of faces surrounding me greet me in kind. "Hi, Max."

I take a deep breath of stale air. For a church basement, there's a certain taste of fetid pages and strawberries at the back of my throat. "I'm a visitor," I add, resigned. "I'm here in Seattle—to find a new home for my daughter and me."

A heavy silence descends, and I can feel the stares of the group members on me. I can sense their judgement, unspoken questions brewing in each of them. Spoiled rich kid, I imagine them thinking. What's he got to complain about? But they don't know the real me, the pain that money could never mask.

My explanation endures as a man in his fifties with ripped jeans wriggles around in his seat. "I'm—I'm here because my husband died. Hew was—he was murdered."

The room falls silent, and for the briefest of moment, I could practically hear the hiss of traffic up on the street. My vision blurs as tears well up, hot and stinging like the devil's scorn. I feel the actual ache of loss, the gaping hole in my soul that no amount of time or distance can ever fill. Confessing this to a room of aliens is difficult to stomach.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I force myself to continue. "He left me—with our seven-year-old daughter. She's autistic, and—and I'm terrified of raising her alone."

This is the point where I can feel the stares and silent judgment bubbling to the surface as a hot pot of stew. Yet I continue. "Having money is one thing," I admit as my tone shifts. "But having a life—a real life—is something else entirely. And at the end of the day, we all suffer the same. Especially when we turn to the bottle for comfort."

Another tear rolls down my cheek when I wipe it away. "Thanks for letting me share," I conclude.

Once the meeting ends, I head to the refreshments table, pouring myself a cup of lukewarm coffee. It hits my tongue like a bad Grindr hookup—promising at first glance, but ultimately disappointing and leaving a bitter aftertaste. Not that I've ever cheated on Brogan. And even now, I couldn't fathom being with another man after living what life I did with the father of my daughter. Next to the percolator is a plate of pastries, including a few French macarons. The sight of them twists my gut, a reminder of the in-laws I despise.

Then suddenly, a voice behind me catches me with a startle, nearly causing me to spill my coffee. A man of average height with thinning brown hair, smiles awkwardly.

"You know," he chuckles. "I've seen no one come here for the coffee," he adds, extending his hand. "Trevan."

"Max," I reply, weakly shaking his hand.

He grins while his eyes twinkle under the dim basement lighting. "I'd remember that name, and anyone who could pull off an outfit like that."

I'm not sure if that's supposed to be a back-handed compliment or not. Is this how people in Seattle operate? Complimenting strangers for their unique fashion sense?

"Well, thanks, I guess."

Trevan leans in almost conspiratorially. "You're not alone, you know?"

"Not alone in—what, exactly?" I ask, my head wavering.

He continues. "Having wealth and an entire list of problems," he affirms, his smile fading slowly. "Including the whole drinky-poo thing."

A wave of reliefs warms me from within. Finally somebody who gets it.

"You do not know how refreshing it is to hear that," I admit. "And you'd know this because—of what, exactly?"

He puffs out his chest with pride. "Because I own a few dozen car dealerships all down the West Coast, from Lynden to Carlsbad," he pauses, stroking my palm with a gesture I'm not sure how to interpret. "And not only do I have a fondness for well-aged scotch, but I've also woken up a few times in Vegas, tens of thousands of dollars lighter."

I can't help but chuckle. "Well, you've got me beat there—gambling's never been my vice."

"So what is your vice?" He asks, a playful glint in his eyes. "Maybe it's more than bad coffee—perhaps it's a taste for the finer things, like my buddy's new line of Starbucks Reserve roasteries?"

My eyes widen with surprise. "Wait—you're friends with Howard Schultz?"

He nods, a certain smugness playing on his lips. "Pretty much. I'd hardly be golfing with him or attending his holiday parties if we weren't, would I?"

A sudden sense of intrigue fills me. This Trevan is an enigma. A man of contradictions. Wealthy, successful, yet clearly battling his own demons. And he seems to see something in me, a kindred spirit perhaps. Could this chance encounter be the beginning of a new connection? A lifeline in the Emerald City? No, stop it, Max. Don't let him flatter you. You're grieving, you booze-thirsty son of a bitch!

"Wow, that's impressive," I say, genuinely impressed. "Uncle Howie is one of my business idols. Right up there with Larry Page and Oprah."

Trevan winks. "So, what do you say we ditch this dive and I take you for some real coffee?"

I shrug, trying to play it cool. "It wouldn't hurt to replace this tin can swill," I joke. "Besides, it's definitely better for us than vodka."

He smirks. "True, but hey, at least vodka's made from potatoes. Potatoes are vegetables. Vegetables are healthy, right?"

Trevan takes my arm and leads me outside. The darkening sky is overcast, seemingly a typical Seattle night. I watch as Traven finishes penning a text message, which offers me a flicker of uncertainty to strike my visage. Is this a date? It's definitely a better alternative to drowning my sorrows in room service and hooch back at the hotel. And honestly, a bit of company isn't unwelcome. The Seattle vibe feels worlds away from Denver, and from Indiana as well. It's a refreshing change of pace.

"My driver will be here any minute," he announces, snapping me out of the labyrinth of my thoughts.

I raise an eyebrow. "Your driver?"

He puts off a nonchalant air, shrugging his shoulders. "Oh, yeah, I haven't taken public transportation in years," he affirms, brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve. "Not even an Uber or Lyft."

I'm impressed by his extravagance, yet slightly put off by the hint of arrogance. "Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't tell you how much I used to spend on Uber back in my globetrotting days."

He lets out a stern laugh. "Don't worry, I don't judge," he flails his wrist. "Everyone's got their own way of getting around."

"That's a relief," I retort, feigning drama. "I was worrying about where this mysterious stranger was taking me."

Trevan waggles his finger in my direction. "Oh, no, my friend," he says. "You're not just going to any coffee shop," he says with certitude. "This is the original Starbucks Reserve and Tasting Room—the crème de la crème of caffeine on the western seaboard," he finishes with a flourish. "Just you wait."

A flicker of optimism sparks within me. Maybe this unexpected detour will be more than just a caffeine fix. Perhaps Trevan has connections with a realtor in Seattle and the surrounding areas. Or possibly, it's just a chance to forge a new connection, a new friendship in the unknown waters for which I shall decide to tread.