I’m not sure why I’m not scared right now. Maybe Atlas already having had a conversation with Ryle has put most of my concerns to rest. Having Allysa and Marshall in the apartment with us also feels like a layer of protection. And Ryle’s mother, even though she has no clue what’s about to transpire. Ryle keeps his behavior in check when his mother is around, so I’m grateful for her presence.

Whatever is giving me strength right now, I don’t sit and question it. I take advantage of it. “You asked yesterday if I spoke to my lawyer,” I say to Ryle. “I did. She had some suggestions.”

Ryle chews on his bottom lip for a few seconds. Then he lifts a brow, indicating he’s listening.

“I want you to undergo anger management.”

As soon as the words come out of my mouth, Ryle laughs. He stands up, prepared to push in his chair and end this conversation, but as soon as he does, Allysa says, “Sit down, please.”

Ryle looks at her, and then me, and then back at her. Several seconds pass as he takes in what’s happening. It’s apparent he feels deceived right now, but I’m not here to give him empathy, and neither is his sister.

Ryle loves and respects Allysa, so he eventually returns to his seat, despite his current anger.

“While you’re undergoing anger management, I would prefer for your visits with Emerson to take place here, or somewhere Marshall or Allysa are present.”

Ryle swings his eyes to Allysa, and the look of betrayal he shoots her would have given me chills at one point in our past, but right now that look does nothing to me.

I continue. “Depending on your interactions with me going forward, we’ll decide as a family when we feel comfortable with you having unsupervised visits with the girls.”

“The girls?” Ryle repeats incredulously, looking at Allysa. “Did she convince you I’m not safe around my own niece?” His voice is louder now.

The kitchen door swings open, and Marshall walks in. He takes a seat at the head of the table and looks from Ryle to Allysa. “Your mom has the girls in the living room,” he says to Allysa. “What’d I miss?”

“Are you aware of this?” Ryle asks Marshall.

Marshall stares at him for a beat, and then leans forward. “Am I aware you lost your temper with Lily last week and pinned her against a door? Or am I aware of the texts you sent her? Or the threats you made when she said she was talking to her lawyer?”

Ryle stares blankly at Marshall. His face reddens, but he doesn’t immediately react. He’s trapped in a corner, and he knows it. “A goddamn intervention,” Ryle mutters, shaking his head. He’s annoyed, irritated, a little bit betrayed. Understandable. But he can either agree to cooperate, or he can fracture the few remaining relationships left in his life.

Ryle pegs me with a jaded stare. “What else?” he asks, somewhat smugly.

“I’ve given you more than enough grace, Ryle. You know I have. But from this point forward, please know that Emerson is what matters to me. If you do anything threatening or harmful to me or our daughter, I will sell everything I own to fight you in court.”

“And I’ll help her,” Allysa says. “I love you, but I’ll help her.”

Ryle’s jaw is twitching. His expression is blank otherwise. He looks at Allysa and then at Marshall. The tension in the room is palpable, but so is the support. I could cry, I’m so grateful for them.

I could cry for all the victims who don’t have people like them.

Ryle stews over everything for a long beat. It’s so quiet, but I’ve made the point I wanted to make, and I’ve made it obvious that there’s no room for negotiation.

He eventually scoots back from the table and stands. He brings his hands to his hips and stares down at the floor. Then he drags in a long inhale before he heads for the kitchen door. Before he leaves, he looks back toward us, but makes eye contact with none of us. “I’m off this Thursday. I’ll be here around ten if you want to make sure Emerson is here.”

He leaves, and as soon as he does, my shield of armor collapses, and I shatter. Allysa puts her arms around me, but I’m not crying because I’m upset. I’m crying because I am so, so relieved. It actually feels like we accomplished something significant. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two,” I say through my tears, hugging Allysa.

She runs her hand over my hair and says, “You’d be so miserable, Lily.”

We both start to laugh. Somehow.

Chapter Thirty-Three Atlas

I called Sutton after I dropped Josh off at my house and asked her to meet me at Bib’s. I got here an hour before we agreed to meet. I’ve never cooked for her, so I’m hoping my making her a meal does something to her. Pleases her, puts her in a decent mood. Anything to make her less combative.

My phone pings, so I step away from the stove and look at the screen. I told her to text me when she arrived so I could let her in. She’s five minutes early.

I walk through the dark restaurant and flip on some lights on my way through. She’s standing near the front, smoking a cigarette. When she sees the door open, she flicks the cigarette into the street and then follows me inside.

“Is Josh here?” she asks.

“No. It’s just me and you.” I gesture toward a table. “Have a seat. What do you want to drink?”

She regards me silently for a moment, then says, “Red wine. Whatever you have open.” She takes a seat in a booth, and I head back to plate our food. I made coconut shrimp because I know it’s her favorite. I saw her fall in love with it when I was nine years old.

It was on the one and only road trip she took me on. We went to Cape Cod, which isn’t all that far from Boston, but it’s the only time I remember my mother ever doing something with me on a day off. She usually slept or drank her way through her days off, so the day trip to Cape Cod where we tried coconut shrimp for the first time is not something that went unappreciated by me.

I place our plates and drinks on a tray and walk it out to the table she’s seated at. I set the food and wine in front of her, then take a seat across from her. I slide silverware to her side of the table.

She stares at her plate for a beat. “You cooked this?”

“I did. It’s coconut shrimp.”

“What’s the occasion?” she asks, opening her napkin. “Is this an apology for assuming you could actually parent a kid like him?” She laughs like she told a joke, but the lack of noise in the restaurant makes her laugh fall flat. She shakes her head and picks up her glass of wine, sipping from it.

I know she has twelve years on me with Josh, but I’m willing to bet I already know him better than she does. Josh probably knows me better than she knows me, and I lived with her for seventeen years. “What was my favorite food growing up?” I ask her.

She stares back at me blankly.

Maybe that was a tough one. “Okay. What about my favorite movie?” Nothing. “Color? Music?” I give her a few more, hoping she can answer at least one of them.

She can’t. She shrugs, setting down her wineglass.

“What kind of books does Josh like to read?”

“Is that a trick question?” she asks.

I settle back against the booth, attempting to hide my agitation, but it’s living and breathing in every part of me. “You don’t know anything about the people you brought into this world.”

“I was a single mother to both of you, Atlas. I didn’t have time to worry about what you liked to read when I was busy trying to survive.” She drops the fork she was about to use. “Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t ask you to come here so I could make you feel bad,” I say. I take a sip of my water, and then run my finger around the rim of my glass. “I don’t even need an apology. Neither does he.” I look at her pointedly, shocked that I’m about to say what I’m about to say. It’s not what I came here to say to her at all, but the things I selfishly came here for aren’t what’s nagging at me. “I want to give you an opportunity to be a better mother to him.”

“Maybe the issue is that he should be a better son.”

“He’s twelve. He’s as good as he needs to be. Besides, the relationship you have with him isn’t his responsibility.”

She scratches her cheek and then flicks a hand in the air. “What is this? Why am I here? Do you want me to take him back because he’s too much for you to handle?”

“Not even close,” I say. “I want you to sign your rights over to me. If you don’t, I’ll take you to court, and it’ll cost us both a ridiculous amount of money that neither of us wants to pay. But I’ll pay it. If that’s what it takes, I will drag this in front of a judge, who will take one look at your history and force you to undergo a year of parenting classes that we both know you have no interesting in completing.” I lean forward, folding my arms together. “I want legal custody of him, but I’m not asking you to disappear. I don’t want you to. The last thing I want is for that boy to grow up feeling as unloved by you as I felt.”