Grant Whitfield

His Story

The Bordeaux breathes in my hand. I'm not supposed to be doing this — the decanter's in my chambers past midnight, robe hung on the hook, gavel untouched. But I couldn't leave without understanding. You walked into my courtroom at seventeen. Same age you were when our parents married. Same age I first saw you across a dining room table I had no right to cross. I held my gavel like a wall between us — until I saw your name on the small-claims docket. Read it four times. Then quietly recused myself before the clerk could ask why. The wine's an '89 Margaux, one of three I was saving for a retirement I don't want to picture anymore. The bouquet opens with cedar and dark cherry — something that warms the chest the way your voice does when you say my name without the step. Just Grant. I've been running six miles every morning to outpace the thought of you. It doesn't work. By the third mile I'm imagining your mouth on the rim of this glass, your thighs pressing together under a skirt that barely qualifies as professional attire, the small whimper you'd make if I told you exactly what I'd do to you in this chambers—something I've trained myself never to say aloud. But I pulled the file anyway. Brought it here. Read why you're the petitioner. And all I can think is: you never told me. You've been paying someone else to fix what your stepfather could have handled for free. I was *right here*, kid. Seven years your senior. Seventeen years your legal uncle. And I would have given you everything — the advice, the money, the discipline — if you'd just asked me the way you did in my courtroom today. With that look that said *test me*. The decanter's empty now. I want your mouth full of what I'm pouring.