Page 11 of Beachside Kisses With My Best Friend

He did things in the order I’d have preferred to. But I can’t regret Ryder for a second, so I try not to think about my mistakes too much.

I hustle down the street—past the early morning joggers, headed for the boardwalk on the other side of the row of buildings to my right, past the Golden Highlight salon and the Pink Rose flower shop, all coming to life after a nighttime of sleep—and finally, after rounding the bend, I catch sight of the bright-green facade of Go Round Adventures. Colorfully painted surfboards are mounted on the front wall beside the yellow door, the sight of which always makes me smile, because Marilee chose that particular shade. I would have made it all blue, but she insisted it needed to be bright and happy.

She didn’t need to say anything else. All I needed to see was the light in her eyes—light that that jerk of a husband Donny had slowly chiseled at in the years since I’d been away at school—to say okay and ask when she was free to help me pick out the exact right color.

Of course, it had to be a night Donny was out. Because while it was completely fine forhimto be gone until two a.m. with no explanation of his whereabouts, if he got wind that Marilee and I were hanging out at all, she’d hear about it.

Other than a few cars, the street is fairly deserted—not surprising, as winter isn’t the most popular time to come to the beach, even though our weather stays fairly temperate with a high of mid-sixties.

Just as I’m approaching the front door, it swings open, and a guy who looks around my age steps out wearing a red polo and jeans, with a messenger bag strung across his chest.

His eyes fix on me. “Jordan Carmichael?”

“Yes?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before, but he seems to know me. Maybe Mandy told him I was on the way and he wanted to talk with the owner.

The guy whips an envelope out of his bag and has it in my hands before I know what’s happening. “You’ve been served. Have a nice day.”

“Wait.” I turn, blinking as I watch him cross the street to a parked, white car. “What is this?”

He looks over his shoulder, shrugs. “Not sure, but I suggest you read it ASAP.”

Sitting on the bench, I rip open the crisp white envelope and pull out the paper inside. The letterhead readsSuperior Court of California. My neck heats despite the cool breeze blowing up off the Pacific as I read the words.

Words that, honestly, make no sense.

Because if my eyes can be believed, Larry and Constance Comer—Georgia’s parents—are petitioning the court for custody of Ryder.

But that can’t be right. I mean, sure, they never loved me, but they also never said I was an unfit parent. And yet, there it is, in writing, questioning whether being with me is in Ryder’s best interest.

Surely—surely—this is a mistake. Standing, I tug my phone from my pocket and dial Larry’s number. A quiet accountant, he’s always had a good head on his shoulders, even when Constance’s loudly stating her opinions.

The phone rings once, twice, three times.

Voicemail.

Nope. I hit redial. Again. And again.

Finally, the ringing stops, and Larry clears his throat on the other side of the line. “Jordan.”

“Larry, please tell me this is a joke.”

The man sighs, and I can picture him running his thumb and middle finger along his thin brow. “Afraid not.”

“But…” I mean, what do I say? As I pace back and forth along the store porch, the wood creaks beneath my weight. “Why?”

Another sigh. “Look, son. It’s nothing personal?—”

“It feels a little bit personal.” I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself. Spouting off and getting angry won’t solve this problem. I may hate confrontation, but I won’t let anyone take my son from me. “Sorry, this was just a surprise. I thought we were doing okay—me letting you see Ryder as often as you’d like, you helping me out when I need to work. I thought it was a win-win.”

A muffled voice in the background—which sounds an awful lot like Constance—fills the space for a moment. Then Larry finally answers me. “Well, see, Constance recently found Georgia’s will when she was cleaning out her house. It says she wanted us to have custody of Ryder if anything ever happened to her.”

“Okay.” I mean, I guess I get that. ButI’mhis father. And I’m still here. “I can understand how that would be upsetting?—”

“Upsetting?” Constance’s shrill voice banks in my ear, and I have to pull the phone away for a moment. “Yes, it’s quite upsetting when your only child dies, Jordan.”

I close my eyes. “Constance?—”

“No, don’tConstanceme. Our daughter’s dying wish was for us to take care of her child—a child you rarely see because you’re a workaholic. He’d be better off with us, and our attorney agrees. Don’t contact us again. We won’t answer.”

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