Page 8 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“To be the kind of lawyer who makes a difference. I have these nightmares sometimes—panic dreams where I’m standing in a courtroom and can’t speak. Or when I do speak, garbled words come out.” Stupid words. I could picture myself in a courtroom, commanding attention the way I commanded a football field, but the reality of being a lawyer felt out of reach.

She flattened her palm on my chest, could probably feel the nervous pound of my heart. “The smartest men are the humble ones who don’t expect the world to fall at their feet.”

“But what if I can’t do this? What if I learn this stuff but blank when it matters?”

“Well”—she pressed a tender kiss to my cheek—“starting anything new is daunting, but you’re a hard worker. No matter how tough law school is, your determination will lead you to success. And we can practice. Rehearse the vocabulary you’ll need, stuff a lawyer might say.” She tapped my temple. “Give this big, beautiful brain of yours more confidence.”

Sadie Jones, forever my best friend.

I cupped her gorgeous face, my chest so chock full of emotion I couldn’t name the tight pull behind my ribs. The harshness of my breaths, like Sadie’s kindness and love singed the air, filling my lungs with a hot rush of devotion so strong it threatened to burn me up. “I love you, Sprite. So damn much.”

I kissed her deeply, needed to share my building fever before it incinerated me, leaving nothing but the remnants of my Sadie-filled heart.

Two slower kisses later, she nestled against my chest, tucked her head under my chin. “I didn’t know love could be like this.”

“Like what?” I said roughly.

“Unconditional. So . . . big. I didn’t know what family was until I met you.”

“I’m your family now,” I growled with protectiveness. “Not your folks.” The assholes who fought ceaselessly and dragged Sadie through their animosity, or her sister, who was a lot older and rarely around, leaving Sadie to deal with their parents alone. “You need anything, you come to me. You feel unloved or sad, you call me or turn up at my door, day or night, and I’ll show you what real love is.”

She hugged me hard enough to bruise my ribs. We didn’t kiss again. Just held each other tighter than tight, leaving no room for anything but our love and mutual support.

So consumed and happy with Sadie, I bought her an engagement ring the next year, three months before my WITSEC vanishing act, but I never proposed. Because, deep down, like before law school, Cocky Clean-Cut Me was a showboat who worried about failure.

These days I look like a meth dealer. I’m the scowling guy you’d spot and quickly cross to the opposite side of the street. Dangerous, that’s what my blurred tattoos and resting pissed-off face read. Yet here I am, standing across from Rituals—my mother’s local coffee joint—drowning in Sadie memories, on the verge of an internal meltdown.

It’s been two hours since my brothers rigged me with C-4 and lit the fuse. I’ve been walking the streets since then, occasionally pulling out my phone and staring at Sadie’s number, unable to dial, low-grade panic simmering in my gut. I walked here instead. To Rituals. The place I always find my mother, even though she’s only ever inside in the mornings.

Today, she’s here at this late afternoon hour. Like she’s clairvoyant. Or maybe she just has a mother’s intuition and knew I’d come to search her out.

I push into the familiar café, my head hung low and hands stuffed into my pockets. Chelsea Bower takes one look at me, and her eyes fill. She doesn’t ask if I’ve called Sadie. She doesn’t yell at me for ignoring the family or say she’s sorry for this latest crushing shock. She stands, fits herself against my chest, and gives me a hug.

A sound escapes me. I’m not sure what it is. But . . . fuck. I think it’s a sob.

Mom rubs my back. Another horrible sound moves through my chest.

“Sorry. Rough day.” I try to push away from her.

She hugs my waist harder. “This isn’t a rough day, Desmond. It’s a devastating decade and a shocking surprise.”

I hug her back. Squeeze her and make a few more embarrassing sounds. Jazzy music plays, reminding me of Mirielle’s record collection. Only a few other tables are occupied, and I sense their attention on us. When I gather the few remnants of my composure, I kiss the top of her head and sit at her table.

“I’m glad you came here,” she says softly.

I grunt and discreetly wipe at my eyes.

“I’m guessing you haven’t called Sadie yet.”

This grunt sounds strangled.

Even though I practiced law words with Sadie—usufruct, prima facie, peremptory—I’ve learned to appreciate the nuance of a grunt. Not only has the clipped sound kept people from asking about my past and forcing me to lie, but one guttural noise can mean so many things:

Hi

Bye

Yes