“Itjust happened, I guess. It’s not your fault,” she insisted, but it had to be.She hadn’t touched the thing. Nobody ever did. Just me. “And anyway, I’vedecided to get rid of it.”
“Thenwhy the fuck did you bother to call me?” I snapped angrily.
“Justto tell someone, I guess.”
Ijolted from my bed with a gasp. My fingers stabbed through my hair, grippingand pulling. Anger pushed through my veins in a flurry as I struggled tocontrol my breathing.
“Youfuckingliedto me,” I said to the dark, empty room. “Why the fuck didyou lie to me?”
Nobodyanswered.
Wehad been young, and fatherhood was never something I’d considered for myself. Iwould never attempt to deny either of those facts. When Sam had called me withthe news, I was angry. I was scared. But when she mentioned the abortion? I feltsad. Heartbroken, even. I didn’t try to talk her out of it. I didn’t make anyattempt to influence her decision, but all I could think was, “That’s my kid inthere, and I don’t get a say in this.”
Imourned that baby for months before my busy life helped me to move on withdistraction after distraction, until I just didn’t think about it much anymore.But, every now and then, I’d think about that time I was almost a dad. When I almosthad a kid.
Whata mindfuck it was to learn that, while I’d thought he was gone, he was outthere in the world, living his life.
***
“So,wait a second, dude …” Ty was silent for a few seconds before continuing, “Yougot some chick pregnant years ago, and you found outyesterdaythat he’sbeen alive all this time, and you’re driving up to see himtoday?”
Hisvoice flooded the interior of my Range Rover, and I nodded in reply. “That’sthe gist of it, yeah. Crazy, right?”
“Youknow, I have no problem imagining you knocking someone up, but the idea of youas aparentis just … really fucking with me right now.” I could picturemy friend shaking his head with disbelief.
“You?!Bro, imagine howIfeel!” I was laughing in spite of the churning in mystomach as I drove down I-95 toward Hog Hill. The GPS told me I had anotherfifteen miles to go before reaching my destination. Fifteen miles wasn’t awhole lot.
“Andhis mom’s dead, you said?”
Inodded sadly. “Yeah, she got into a car accident a few months ago apparently.”
“So,who’s the kid with now?”
“Hisaunt.” I thought about Tabitha Clarke. The professional and polite tone she’dused both times I spoke with her, until her brief moment of weakness. I’d heardthe breaking in her voice as she beggedmefor help; a stranger. She wasdesperate, and I’d felt bad.
“Didyou look them up on Facebook?” Ty asked skeptically.
Chuckling,I shook my head. “Nah. Probably should’ve, right?”
“Uh,what the fuck, man. These people could be taking advantage of you right now.”
Iguess it was a possibility. I’d never considered that could be the case, not whenTabby knew the things I had written. But wasn’t it possible that she’d foundthe letters I’d written to Sam and decided to use it against me? I still hadn’tspoken to the kid, and had no proof he even existed.
Butthe desperation in her voice had been real.
“Ithink I’m good, but I’ll text you the address, just in case,” I told him withanother chuckle.
“Yeah,well, good luck. I’m going back to bed. Later,Dad,” he teased beforehanging up the phone.
Ishook my head, casually snickering as I turned up the volume on the FooFighters’ “Walk.” But deep down, I wondered what it’d feel like for someone to seriouslycall medad.
Wonderingif he—Greyson—ever would.
***
“TabbyClarke.” I held the phone to my ear, speaking cheerily as my heart hammered wildlyin my chest. “I have arrived in your tiny town. Did you know you have a littleover two-thousand residents here?”
“Sure.Thank you for that,” she grumbled. “I’m at the office. Um, maybe you could waitat this coffee shop on Main Street? It’s close to where I work. Do you even drinkcoffee?”
