Page 18 of Foster

“My daughter loves her mother. This isn’t going to be easy on her so I want her to have that time, but I also want to get her back here. The sooner I can get her into a routine with you and school, the better it will be for her.”

“Agreed.”

“Would you like to move your stuff in while I’m gone? If so, you could come by and get a key and I’ll show you around. We also need to figure out the best way for me to pay you and handle taxes and all that shit.”

“I can direct you on how to do that,” she says with a laugh. “And yes… I’d love to come by and get a key so I can get my stuff moved in. If you leave me with Bowie Jane’s favorite things to eat, I’ll make a grocery run for you.”

“Perfect. I’ll leave you a credit card to use for stuff like that.”

Mazzy laughs. “Look at us working the teammate action!”

“I suppose we are sort of teammates when it comes to caring for Bowie Jane.”

We make plans to meet in a few hours and after we hang up, I take a moment to digest the monumental change my life is about to undergo. It never once occurred to me that I would be Bowie Jane’s primary caretaker. Her mom always had that role and was fucking fantastic at it. However, when push came to shove, I knew deep down I have what it takes. It might not be the same conventional lifestyle my kid is used to—having a mom take you and pick you up from school, cook all your meals, help with your homework—but the one thing my kid is is resilient and I know she’ll adjust.

I can only hope she makes a genuine connection with Mazzy, who will be the glue holding all our worlds together. If those two are right with each other, everything will be just fine.

CHAPTER 7

Foster

The mixture of extreme emotions running through me is a recipe for disaster. I’m sitting in Sandra’s driveway, prepared to go in and accept excited greetings from my kid and vengeful hate from my ex-wife. It’s not been a pleasant twenty-four hours since the judge ruled in my favor.

Sandra’s attorney reported back originally that she was not going to abide by the order and was refusing to turn Bowie Jane over to me if I came to California. Jared passed on the message to her that I would be showing up with the escort of the sheriff’s department if she intended to fight the order.

There was a lot of back-and-forth after that with Sandra demanding an extra week of time and me adamantly refusing. In my mind, that gave her time to make an early exit to Singapore.

Eventually, her attorney managed to strong-arm her into accepting not only the order but the reality that I would be flying in to get my daughter. I had thought to stay there a full day to give Bowie Jane some extra time but then Sandra hit me up with a flurry of outrageous text rants about maternal rights, traumatic harm to Bowie Jane and more threats to defy the order.

I made a FaceTime call to Bowie Jane so I could gauge her emotions. It went horribly, Sandra standing just off camera saying things like, “Tell your dad you don’t want to go with him” and “Tell your dad how sad you’re going to be to leave me.” My poor kid was frozen like a deer in the headlights, not wanting to disappoint her mom or me, and so she said nothing. That infuriated Sandra who then yelled at Bowie Jane, “Tell your dad he’s wrong to do this. Tell him you don’t want to go.”

I swear if I had the magical power to reach through the phone, wrap my hand around Sandra’s neck and wring it good, I would have done it because Bowie Jane’s hazel eyes filled with fat tears that spilled with a small blink.

I ended the call, quickly promising her that everything would be okay and that we would talk about things when I got there. It implied perhaps to Sandra that I’d be willing to negotiate something but I have no intention of doing so. I’m not letting my child spend another minute in that house with how erratic Sandra has been acting. It might be rough on Bowie Jane to make a quick exit but at this point, I believe her mom is doing harm to her emotional well-being and I won’t let it continue.

I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with my ex-wife, but this isn’t her. I can only assume it’s her boyfriend causing this behavior because either he’s egging it on directly or she so wants to please him that she’s lost her ever-loving mind when it comes to being a good mom.

Regardless… that shit stops today.

I take a deep breath, releasing the death grip I have on the steering wheel of the rental vehicle. I flex my fingers and remove my sunglasses, noting with dismay that Chet’s Mercedes is here.

Time to get this done.

As expected, it’s a shit show from the minute I ring the doorbell. Bowie Jane greets me, a mixture of relief, joy and anxiety in her gaze as she flings herself into my arms. I pick her up, noting the stranglehold she has on my neck. She pushes her cheek against mine and murmurs so only I can hear, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

That’s all the validation I need to confirm that this must be a quick exit. It’s all the more affirmed when Sandra walks into the foyer, crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me and Bowie Jane. “Go upstairs. I need to talk to your dad.”

My daughter stiffens in my arms and I turn toward the staircase, whispering ever so softly into her ear, “Get one suitcase only and put your most favorite things in it. I’ll be right up.”

Bowie Jane nods and I set her down on the first step. Rather than bolt up the flight, she turns to her mom, wringing her hands. “I love you, Mommy.”

My heart clenches because Bowie Jane becomes oversolicitous when she thinks one of us is mad at her. Sandra is hot-tempered and tends to blow easily and her voice raises when she’s angry. Bowie Jane learned long ago the best way to cool that temper is with soft words of love, which would melt the coldest heart.

In this instance, Sandra’s mouth remains in a flat line, and I’m appalled when she doesn’t return the sentiment to our daughter. Instead, she jerks her chin upward. “Upstairs. Now.”

I clench my teeth, waiting for Bowie Jane to trudge slowly upward, her shoulders sagging with defeat. When she’s out of sight and I hear her bedroom door close, I wheel on my ex-wife, noting that Chet has materialized at her side, a supportive arm around her waist.

I go on the attack, voicing my suspicion. “You’re blaming all of this on Bowie Jane, aren’t you?”

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