Page 99 of Gravity of Love
"—Patels.” His dad smiled. “Yeah. You remember.”
He’d forgotten until just then.
“And when you were eight and you couldn’t breathe during your school play, Romeo and Juliet.”
“I was, Mercutio.” Liam vaguely recalled that.
His dad smiled. “I noticed you were swaying slightly on stage, and your coloring looked off. I didn’t even think, I marched onto the stage, grabbed you and drove you to the hospital because I knew I’d get you there faster than first responders. I got lit up halfway there for going sixty in a thirty. Your mom thought I had lost my mind, she was holding you, telling me you were fine and I was going to end up in jail. I didn’t pull over, it was the first time I ever broke the law. They tried to arrest me when we got to the ER, which I would have been fine with once you were getting the medical care you needed, but thankfully, I’d operated on the chief of police so I was able to make a call.
“It turned out you had an acute epiglottitis and had to be rushed into emergency tonsillectomy. If we had waited for the ambulance, or if you’d passed out on stage and become unconscious, I don’t know if we’d be standing here today. When the nursing staff tried to send me home after you were out of surgery and in your room sleeping, I told her she’d have to call the cops back to drag me out of that room. I stayed up all nightby your bedside, holding your hand, there was no way I was going to let you wake up alone.”
Liam vaguely remembered waking up in the hospital bed and his dad sitting beside him. He was groggy and his throat hurt, and his dad told him it would be okay. He got him medicine, and maybe ice chips, he couldn’t remember that part. He realized then if he had woken up alone, in the room, how scared he would have been.
His dad took in a shaky breath. “I know I wasn’t perfect. But I tried, Liam. I did try.”
The wind pressed into them, as if urging them closer. Liam saw his dad’s vulnerability for what it was—a kind of bravery he’d never possessed himself. He thought of all the things he’d blamed his father for, all the years he’d spent making the man a villain in the story of his life, and how maybe, just maybe, it had always been more complicated than that.
“I’m sorry for the way I treated you after you turned nine.” His dad stood straighter and squared his shoulders. “I know I was cold, distant, and sometimes cruel. I thought that was what you needed to be a man, tough love. I was wrong. ButnothingI did was for any other reason than I was just a shitty dad.Blooddoesn’t make a son.” His words came out strong and clear. “It never did. I don’t give a fuck what DNA says. You were my son. Youaremy son and always will be.”
Liam’s throat burned again, not because of surgery. His instinct was to push the moment away; to reject it and the man he was sharing it with and close himself off. But as he instinctively began to draw from that deep emotional well of pain, he found there was nothing in the spot where anger usually lived.
Unsure of what to do next, he stood grounded in place, watching as his father reached out—cautiously, as if afraid he might shatter the fragile peace between them—and wrappedhis arms around him. The embrace, when it came, was not tentative. It was a seismic event, as solid and overwhelming as an avalanche. His father’s arms were still strong, corded muscles hidden beneath the Prada tuxedo, and Liam felt himself pulled in, held together, as if the act alone could undo the decades of distance.
He hugged him back. Not out of reflex or obligation, but because for the first time in a long, long time, it felt right. It felt necessary.
In his auditory peripheral, Liam heard someone clear their throat. He took a step back and turned his head to find a woman with a severe bun in a black tailored suit and earpiece. Cora had mentioned that his father hired a wedding coordinator from San Francisco who he’d heard amazing things about. He assumed this must be her.
“Gentlemen! It’s time.” Her eyes moved meticulously from face to face, pausing on his father.
Next thing Liam knew she reached into her pocket and instructed her father to lean his head back. He did as she asked, and she administered two droplets of something in the corners of each eye. She then told him to close his lids and count to ten. Once he completed that task, he lifted his head, blinking, and by that time she’d magically produced a fancy lip balm looking thing that she swiped beneath his eyes. Next she materialized a water bottle, seemingly from thin air, and pressed it into his dad’s hand commanding him to drink.
In a thirty second span of time his father went from looking like he’d been up on a ten-day bender, to fresh as a daisy. It was pretty impressive.
They both followed her inside and as she listed off instructions. Liam felt the words bounce around his head like his nieces and nephews in the inflatable unicorn castle. He nodded, watching the coordinator’s mouth move as she continued listingthings off—something about order of entry, where to stand, how to keep their hands at their sides and not in their pockets.
When they entered the holding area, his brother was on FaceTime speaking rapidly in Italian, presumably to Emmanuelle.
“Get off the phone,” their father clipped, no preamble or warning, just a point-blank command.
For a moment, it looked like Tristan might push back, but instead he whispered a low goodbye and put the device in his pocket.
The wedding planner peeked through the side entrance, then turned. “Showtime, gentlemen.”
With that, she opened the door, which creaked, and the three of them stepped into the light, the cathedral-ceilinged room packed to the rafters with people arranged in geometric rows. The pews were draped with white and blue ribbons, and the altar was a riot of lilies and eucalyptus and something blue that looked like it should be growing on a coral reef.
They walked together down the aisle, three men in lockstep, and Liam felt the eyes of every person in the room on them. He forced himself to keep his expression neutral and his breathing even, but his heart was bouncing around in his chest like a tennis ball in a dryer. Not because of the eyes on him, but because of the two eyes he’d been avoiding that he was about to see.
Frankie had been calling him nonstop. He knew he’d have to face her, he’d just needed to get himself under control before doing that. His time was up, and he hadn’t achieved his goal.
His father took his place beside the mayor, hands clasped in front of him, and Liam and Tristan took their places beside their father. The music faded into a hush, and for a moment everything was frozen, people holding their breath, cameras poised.
Then the doors at the back of the room opened, and Frankie appeared. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders like a force of nature in wild waves. Her dress was a light baby blue form fitting, strapless floor length gown with a slit up her left-thigh.
As she walked towards him, their eyes locked and the rest of the world disappeared. The only thing that existed in that moment was her, and he knew then that it didn’t matter to him if she was with Zion now. He wasn’t going to repeat his behavior, or the sins of his father, and waste the next twelve years by not taking action.
He loved Frankie. He wanted to marry Frankie. To have a family with Frankie.
Poppy was right, not that he had any plans on telling her that. He had to talk to Frankie. If she didn’t love him, she was going to have to tell him that. If she loved Zion more than him, then she needed to say that to his face. And even if that was the case, he was going to do everything in his power to change her mind. Zion might be a great guy, and he’d been there for her the past ten years, but Liam was there for the first fifteen, and if it were up to him, he would be there for the rest of her years.
