Chapter 13 - Garrett Came Back to Phoenix
Garrett returned to Phoenix two months before my wedding.
Not for me.
Frank had a heart attack.
Mild, thankfully.
Garrett and Tabitha both came home.
I visited Frank at the hospital because over the years he had become unexpectedly important to me.
Not a father.
Not family exactly.
Something gentler.
Proof that people could repair what time had damaged without pretending the damage never happened.
Garrett entered while I was sitting beside Frank.
For one awkward second, we stared at each other.
Then he smiled.
“Rachel.”
“Garrett.”
Frank groaned.
“Oh good. My heart attack has become a reunion special.”
We laughed.
Garrett looked older.
Better.
Peaceful.
He noticed my engagement ring.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“He seems good.”
“He is.”
“That’s good.”
No jealousy.
No bitterness.
I appreciated that.
Natalie arrived later.
Beautiful.
Warm.
Pregnant.
I stared at her belly.
Garrett looked nervous.
“We’re having a boy.”
Something inside me twisted unexpectedly.
Not pain exactly.
Memory.
The child Garrett and I lost.
The family we never became.
Then I looked at Natalie.
She deserved her happiness untouched by my grief.
“Congratulations.”
She hugged me.
“Thank you.”
Life was strange.
We all went to the hospital cafeteria while Frank slept.
At one point Natalie took a call.
Garrett and I were alone.
He looked at his coffee.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Depends.”
He smiled.
“I finally understand why you left.”
I tilted my head.
“That took awhile.”
“I understood intellectually before.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m going to be a father.”
My chest tightened.
He continued.
“I keep thinking about what kind of home I want my son to grow up in. And I realized every time Mom manipulated me, I was teaching any future child that love meant obedience.”
I swallowed.
“You broke it.”
“So did you.”
He shook his head.
“You broke it first.”
“We both got out.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t become this version of ourselves together.”
That sentence landed softly.
“I am too.”
And I meant it.
Sometimes two people meet at the wrong stage of their lives.
That does not mean they should try again.
It simply means grief can coexist with gratitude.
Garrett looked at my ring.
“You happy?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
Then Natalie returned.
The moment ended.
Exactly where it should.
Frank recovered.
Garrett flew home.
I returned to wedding planning.
Ethan wanted forty guests.
My mother wanted eighty.
Sophie wanted a chocolate fountain and claimed this was non-negotiable.
Hope mostly wanted to chew napkins.
We settled on fifty-two guests.
No church.
No hotel ballroom.
An outdoor ceremony at a small desert resort north of Scottsdale.
I designed the invitations myself.
Of course.
Three weeks before the wedding, I received another letter from Lorraine.
This one was different.
Short.
Rachel, Garrett told me you are getting married. I spent a long time believing you took my son away. I understand now that I pushed him away from you and then blamed you for leaving. I am sorry for taking money. I am sorry for forging your name. I am sorry for speaking about your baby the way I did. I cannot undo any of it. I don’t expect forgiveness. I hope you have a peaceful life.
I cried.
Then I folded the letter.
I did not respond.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
But I believed the apology.
That surprised me.
At therapy the next day, I told Dr. Harmon.
“Does believing it change anything?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“You can accept someone’s remorse without giving them access.”
I smiled.
Boundaries again.
Apparently adulthood was simply learning the same lesson in increasingly expensive ways.
The night before my wedding, Maya stayed over.
We sat on the floor in my bedroom.
The same room where, years earlier, I had packed Garrett’s suitcase after waking beneath ice water.
The comforter had changed.
The nightstands.
The paint.
Everything.
Maya looked around.
“Do you think about that morning?”
“Yes.”
“Still angry?”
“Sometimes.”
“Regret anything?”
I thought carefully.
“I regret waiting so long.”
She nodded.
“Anything else?”
“I wish I had left before I needed something dramatic to justify leaving.”
That was the truth.
People often believe they need catastrophic proof.
Cheating.
Violence.
Fraud.
A bucket of ice.
But sometimes unhappiness itself is information.
Repeated disrespect is information.
Losing yourself is information.
“You ready for tomorrow?” Maya asked.
I smiled.
May you like
“Yes.”
This time, I was entering a marriage awake.
