“I know you are, son. I want you in my office bright and early on Sunday with Kiyah. Make sure you bring your checkbook.”
Grant’s brows drew in. “Why do I need to bring my checkbook?”
“Because as soon as you said ‘I do,’ you became responsible for Kiyah in every way possible. You will be reimbursing me for all the years I financially supported Kiyah while she bullshitted around. I’m not doing this out of spite—this is me holding you accountable because another man shouldn’t be taking care of your wife.”
“Yes, sir,” Grant replied numbly.
“Kiyah,” Dad said, finally addressing me. “I want pictures.”
“Pictures?”
“I want pictures from your wedding day. I want to go through them, pick my favorite, and put it in a picture frame for my desk. Can you manage that?”
By that point, we were all crying. Grant tried to subtly wipe away a tear, but I caught him. I didn’t even try to hide it.
“I can,” I whispered.
“Good. Now, let’s bring it in because I love you both, and there’s nothing you could do that would make me ashamed of you.”
I dropped my plate onto the ground and fell into his open arms. Grant joined us shortly and laced his fingers in mine as we hugged.
I have to enjoy this moment while I can because I’ll be officially divorced once Grant finds out how much Dad has spent on me over the years.
Chapter Eighteen
Grant
When I opened the door of my childhood bedroom, I was greeted by my mother’s cat, who, unfortunately, took a liking to me. Everyone claimed it was because we both had the same personality.
“Rob Zombie,” I said, regarding him carefully.
He stood on his hind legs and propped his front paws on me. He began making biscuits on my leg, repeatedly sinking his claws into my pajama bottoms and retracting them. He was spooked and took off when the bedroom door across the hall wrenched open, revealing the ol’ ball and chain herself.
Living right across the hallway from each other always felt like a cruel joke. The object of my desires slept a few yards from me, but because of our circumstances, it always felt like she was miles away. It used to annoy the hell out of me whenever I’d walk by, and her door wasn’t open. My imagination would run wild as I wondered what she was doing on the opposite side of the door. Was she doing her homework? Was she dressing for bed? Was she lying in bed on the phone gossiping with one of her brain-dead friends? Or worse… was she on the phone entertaining one of the many desperate boys who vied for her attention, thinking they had a shot with her?
“Good morning, Grant. How did you sleep?” Kiyah asked, blessing me with her first smile of the day.
“You’d know if you stuck around, but I shouldn’t be surprised,” I responded curtly as my eyes skimmed her attire. She wore high-waisted cutoff denim shorts and what appeared to be a ratty crop band t-shirt. The strings of her white bikini peeked around her neck. It took me a few more moments to recognize the band splayed on her t-shirt. I laughed and vigorously scrubbed a hand at my cheek and the back of my neck because that was all I could do not to strangle her.
“What’s so funny, Grant?”
“Take the fucking shirt off,” I demanded. She glanced down.
“What’s wrong with my shirt?” she asked, sounding genuinely confused.
She can’t be this dumb. She has to be fucking with me.
“I don’t know, Ki. Maybe it has something to do with you sleeping with the lead singer.”
“I didn’t sleep with him,” she hissed.
“No man writes a song about a woman he didn’t have an intimate relationship with.”
“That’s not true,” she protested.
“Take the fucking shirt off,” I repeated. Her soft lips slowly slid into a wide grin.
“No. I don’t think I will. This shirt,” she said, pausing to point at the band’s logo, “happens to be my favorite shirt, and I won’t let your misplaced jealousy force me to change.”