Chapter Nineteen

The Parisian sun streams through our hotel's terrace doors as I sit here nursing a fresh latte. Its aroma of fresh coffee beans offers a welcome change to the lingering taste of airplane food and bile. Lily, my sweet little whirlwind, sits beside me, methodically dissecting a croissant with her tiny fingers. It warms my heart to see her so carefree, a complete one-eighty to the anxiety churning within me. My heart sinks as I glance down at my watch. We have less than half an hour to get to the Baxter residence, and Lily Bean is still in her pajamas, her breakfast barely halfway finished.

A wave of guilt chides my parenting abilities. I should've been more organized, more prepared for today. Especially since the weight of this custody horseshit bears down on me, amplifying every insecurity and every doubt I have. I'm still terrified of what the Baxters will think of me, or how they'll judge my ability to be a good father to Lily. Their conservative views, their unwavering adherence to tradition as well. It all feels like an insurmountable obstacle.

I know I need to be strong for her, but the fear of losing her gnaws at me still at this very moment. The custody battle isn't just about me and my past mistakes. No, it's about Lily, and the life we've built together since Brogan passed. It's about proving that love, not biology, is what truly makes a family what it is.

With no time to spare, I rush Lily out of her chair, practically dragging her into the hotel suite. The cadence of my heart pounds with each step into our bedroom.

"Sweetheart, we need to get dressed super quick, okay?" I instruct her, frantically scanning the bedroom for our fucking suitcases. "We don't want to keep your grandparents waiting."

She yawns and rubs her eyes, which couldn't be any more opposite from my panic. I fumble with the zipper on her luggage, all the while my hands shake crazily as I pull out a clean dress and leggings.

"Come on, sweetie," I yelp. "Let's get you changed."

Guiding her around the bed, I struggle to maneuver her sleepy limbs into the fresh clothes without a struggle. Meanwhile, the rhythmic thump of Melanie's makeup brushes against the bathroom counter continues unabated. I can hear her humming to the lyrics of "Castle on the Hill" by Ed Sheeran as she performs her intricate beauty ritual.

Impatiently, I bang on the door. "Mel, we're running late! Can you please hurry up?"

A muffled, "almost done," echoes from inside, followed by the sound of hairspray.

Another frustrated sigh falls from my lips, knowing full well that Melanie's definition of ‘almost done' could stretch into another hour. Every minute feels like an eternity as I frantically try to get Lily ready, with our hotel clock ticking ominously in the background.

"I have to say, Maxwell. I'm impressed by your unction to bring Lily all the out here," Josiah Baxter speaks, propped up studiously in his black suede wingback chair. "And I'd be remiss if I didn't say I appreciate seeing you doing so well."

Noting his posture, my nerves settle even if just a little. He doesn't seem as intimidating as I first imagined he would be. Maybe this really was a good idea. Now is my chance to prove that Lily is doing well despite the upheaval caused by her father's death. Another tingle of relief rushes down my spine and the tension in my shoulders eases up slightly. The underparts of my pits no longer feel so damp, and I can finally breathe. It could be, this won't turn into the dumpster fire that I originally thought.

I extend my hand in a gesture of thanks. "Thank you, Sir," I reply. "I knew I should have come in person to make things right."

My eyes dart to the doorway as Brogan's mother strolls into the sitting room with elegance and finesse unmatched to some Hollywood silver screen idol. She's dressed to the nines as if she were going to some fancy gala. I'm not used to this level of opulence, to be completely honest. I understand the value of having nice things—Brogan always treated me well in that regard. But walking around at home in a gown worth more than most average Americans' monthly income seems relatively excessive. My anxiety prickles at the back of my neck. Can I really bridge the gap between my world and theirs?

"Yes, we are very shocked to see you doing so well," Yael admits, resting herself on the arm of Josiah's chair. "You know, mentally. We didn't know what to think with your—" she stalls.

"—Problem," Mr. Baxter finishes his wife's thought.

My blood runs cold. That's certainly not the way I pictured my sobriety being referred to by Brogan's parents. But then again, they've always been brutally honest. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to keep from leaping out of this chair and rebutting their harsh words. I feel the urge to flee, to return to our hotel suite, and wait there for Mel and Lily to return from their outing. The Baxters are still trying to be snide. But if I'm going to salvage any sanity from this encounter, I need to change the subject. And fast.

"That brings me to my next proposition, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter," I plead, gesturing with my hands. "I was wondering if we could come to some sort of agreement."

Josiah nods, scratching his chin suspiciously. "I suppose we could entertain that thought," he offers, tilting his head up to confer with Yael. "Well, what do you think?"

Mrs. Baxter attempts to hush her response into her husband's ear, but fails miserably at doing so. The room is so silent that I can hear every word and every nuance of her accent.

"Four weeks each quarter," she whispers disdainfully.

My composure shatters, leaping to my feet as the heat inside me rises in a mixture of fury and desperation. "Bullshit!"

Josiah holds out his hand in haste. "Calm down, Maxwell," he interjects.

"I'm sorry, but that's three entire months a year," I protest, shaking my head. "Even I don't get to see her that much."

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I immediately regret them all the same. The thought crosses my mind about how that must sound to Josiah, as if I'm admitting to being an absentee father. But the damage is already done, and I can only hope that my desperation doesn't completely undermine my intentions.

"Maxwell," Yael speaks, her accent thick as molasses. "You do realize we haven't been a part of her life—because of you?"

The words sting, a harsh reminder of the past. I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to lash out. Instead, I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I'm here to make peace, not war.

Josiah, sensing the tension, interjects. "What she is saying is that we might not have been a part of Lily's life because of our previously complicated rapport," he finishes gently, ushering Yael from the chair.

I bite my lip. "That's partly my fault as well," I admit, lowering back into the seat. My heart pounds in my chest, but I force myself to continue. "Why don't we just agree to start out with two weeks every summer?" I counter. "Lily's autistic and having to go through quite a bit of change this year, let's not add to that stress," I plead, waving my hands with tacit admission. "Is that not a better solution for now?"

Holding my breath feels fruitless, waiting for their response even more so. Josiah lights a thick cigar as the pungent smell of smoke fills the room. My anxiety returns in full swing. Did I just blow it? Did my honesty ruin any chance of an agreement?

Josiah exhales a cloud of smoke while his eyes narrow to a fine degree. He seems to thoughtfully consider my words. "You don't mind, do you?" He asks, gesturing with the cigar. A question, but also a test.

A hard swallow rushes down my throat. "No, sir," I reply almost inaudibly. I realize I'm walking on eggshells, but I'm determined to keep my cool. I have to, for Lily's sake.

"Good, good," Mr. Baxter replies, reaching for his glass of scotch.

To me, it feels so hot in this room. I can't imagine there would be any small ice cubes left in his glass, but lo-and- behold, the clink of a crystal-clear rock pangs against the side. It feels like elongated ice daggers hurling toward my chest at the velocity of a cheetah striking its prey. But I won't show weakness. This is precisely what Brogan's father is trying to test—my willpower. At least, that's what I figure.

As Josiah finishes taking a loud gulp of the amber poison, he flaps his lips to finish his part of the peace treaty. "I think your idea seems fair," he says. "Why bring on so much change at once, yeah?" He shrugs.

I nod in agreement. "Right, that's my thought," I affirm, a small wave of relief crashing ashore.

"But," he states, puffing his cigar with another plume of smoke. "Yael and I will want more time with her as she grows up," he adds. "I agree with you. She seems to be doing okay right now. Especially with all she's been through this year."

A smile forms on my face, my heart swelling with pride. "She's one tough cookie."

"That's the Baxter DNA, Maxwell," Josiah declares, his gaze unwavering. "Weakness isn't in our blood."

Much as I try to match his intensity, I can't without a shiver of unease running down my spine. The atmosphere in this room is thick with unspoken expectations, almost as if in a silent battle of wills.

He leans forward with a look of indignation etched on his face. "I also don't think three whole months each year is fair to you, though," he winks, resting his hand on his jaw—a gesture I recognize from his son. A thoughtful pose, but also a calculating one.

Yael's absence from the room isn't lost on me. I suspect Josiah is choosing his words carefully, aware of his wife's overbearing nature. A flicker of hope ignites within me. Perhaps there's room for compromise here.

He chuckles softly. "My wife is a pill," he admits. "Maybe she's too strong—the whole custody case was her idea anyway," he confirms, leaning back with another sip of his scotch. "Man to man, I think you're all right. And I can see that having you here in the flesh proves your gumption," he pauses, his eyes meeting mine. "Let's just agree to have open communication with each other about our granddaughter."

Is this it? Is the ice finally starting to thaw?

Josiah rises from his chair, motioning for me to do the same. He places his hand on my shoulder, which proves to be a surprisingly welcome and warm gesture. I'm taken aback by the unexpected kindness.

"We'll start with two weeks every summer," he continues. "And see how it goes. We can always adjust as Lily gets older."

I nod approvingly and with gratitude. "Thank you, Mr. Baxter. I appreciate your understanding."

As we shake hands, I can't help but feel a sense of cautious optimism. Maybe this won't be a battle after all. It's entirely possible that in the end, we will have found a way to co-exist, to create a harmonious environment for Lily Bean to thrive in. It's a minor victory, but a victory, nonetheless. And for now, it's enough.

The truth is, I never really knew what Brogan's family life was like firsthand. I grew up in a family where, for a while, we relied on food stamps. My parents worked multiple jobs just to keep our heads above water. The luxuries the Baxters seem to indulge in are so far out of reach for my family. My life only got easier when I bumped into Brogan that fateful afternoon at the mall food court.

Josiah shuffles through his expansive study to usher me back to the room's entrance, twisting around at the waist. "If Lily needs anything," he begins, opening the cherry wood door. "Anything at all, you call. Alright, Maxwell?"

"I shouldn't have to bother you with that," I affirm, rubbing my forehead. "Brogan left us taken care of, and after the automobile insurance companies paid out for the wreckage, we're gonna be just fine in that aspect," I add confidently. "I can assure you, all that's necessary is your presence in Lily's life."

Mr. Baxter smiles, following me through the lengthy hallways of their Parisian estate. "I won't hear of it. Her education costs from now until college graduation. Let them be my token of appreciation."

My head wavers. "Why, Mr. Baxter, you don't have to do that," I say, surprised by his generosity.

But then I realize Brogan would want me to have the best rapport with his parents. And if letting him pay for all of Lily's schooling and expenses, I should accept it gracefully. So, I hold out my hand to shake his once again.

"Call me, Dad," he affirms with emotion. "You were such a big part of Brogan's life, and I may not have always been the best at showing my thankfulness for being there in his world," he adds, a tear gliding from the cusp of his eye. "But I hope it's not too late to show you how much I appreciate every bit of happiness you gave him."

"Thank you, Sir," I say. "I really appreciate those kind words."

Yael stands at the base of the stairwell, only a skip away from the entryway. I notice her peering out from around the banister.

Meanwhile, Josiah holds up his palm as he swings open the wide double doors. "Zey shtil, Yael!" He asserts, rolling his eyes. "Oy vey," he mutters under his breath, audible enough for me to hear.

Once at the top step outside, Mr. Baxter shuts the door behind us to finish his conversation with me.

"Sorry about that," he says, placing the same palm up on his forehead. "She's a real yenta, that woman."

Shrugging, I form a look of confusion. "What does that mean?" I ask, figuring he's probably grown tired of his overbearing wife and perhaps he was telling her to be quiet as we exited.

He lets out a sigh. "It means she's a real piece of work, and always meddling where she's not wanted. Remember, most of this custody fiasco was her forcing it on me. I can assure you of that."

A warm feeling spreads through me. It's comforting to know that I'm not the only one who struggles with the Baxters' intensity.

"Well, thank you for the kind words you just said a minute ago," I smile. "I loved your son with all my soul. And I still do. His heart was so big, it could've warmed the South Pole."

Mr. Baxter smiles with a genuine warmth in his eyes. "I may not be a modernist by any standards," he admits. "But I owe an apology for being so closed-minded about his lifestyle. If I could take anything back that was previously said to him, I would. In an instant."

My heart swells with a medley of sadness and gratitude. "It's okay, I think you just did—I forgive you." I squeeze his hand, a silent understanding passing between us. "He looked a lot like you, sir. You should be so proud."

As I walk down the lengthy driveway, the Baxter estate shrinks behind me with each step. I can replay the conversation in my mind while a mix of emotions swirl within me. Relief, gratitude, and a lingering unease. Would Brogan be proud of me? Did I handle the situation with the grace and tact he would've expected? For a moment, I imagine his warm smile and gentle touch, the unwavering love in his eyes. I'd like to think he'd be happy that I'm trying to build bridges with his family, even if it's a daunting task.

A taxi pulls up to the gate, and I climb in, my thoughts still consumed by the encounter. "Hotel Le Bristol Paris," I tell the driver, settling back into the plush leather seat. As the city bustles around me, I close my eyes and whisper a silent prayer. In my heart, I hope that Brogan, wherever he is, knows that I'm doing my best.