“Twenty,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes, before realizing I just gave myself away. There’s no time to dwell on that, though, because the guy I came looking for strides through the half-open door.
“What’s so—” He stops and looks at me, dumbfounded, and I’m sure my expression mirrors his. In fact, I know it does, considering that looking at Jason Moretti is like looking at myself in twenty years. It’s unreal. He’s my height, same hair, same year-round-tan, same dark brown eyes. Same full bottom lip. Same air of I-don’t-give-a-fuck.
He’s even got tattoos.
Holy hell, no wonder my mother couldn’t separate me from her memory of him. I’m a damn carbon copy.
“Heather,” he says, his voice strained. “Heather Gallagher.”
“Yea,” I nod.
He walks right past the counter, past me, and into the actual garage. “Holy. Fucking. Fuck,” he roars, and I hide a smile. I can’t wait to tell Willa I knew for sure he was my dad not just because we look identical, but because we swear the same.
He walks back into the reception area and looks at me again. “She lied.” He says, his voice low, but not calm.
“She does that,” I say. “It’s kind of her thing. I just found out about you a couple weeks ago. Well, I found out some things. One of those ancestry kits filled in the blanks. But, yea, she lied about it. She told me you knew and walked. Of course, she also found out I had a kid before I did, and she kept all of that from me, purposefully making my girl think I rejected her and my daughter.”
Jason just stares at me, and I realize it’s a lot to take in.
“Yea, it’s some soap-opera-level shit,” I explain.
“Wait, you have akid?” This comes from Joey, who looks like his eyes are gonna pop out of his head. “Ma is gonna flip her shit, Jay. She’s gonna kill you. You’re gonna be a dead grandpa.” The guy can barely hold back his laughter.
“Holy fu—. I can’t... Jesus.” He runs his hands through his hair the same way I do, and just as I’m about to apologize for springing all of this on him, he turns to his brother and says, “We’re heading across the street. Hold down the fort and don’t fuck anything up.” And then to me he says, “Come on.”
I follow and we cross the street to a bar. It doesn’t look open, but I follow Jay around to the side where he keys in a code. We walk down a hallway and then through the kitchen and out to the bar. He flips on some lights and reaches for a couple shot glasses, just as I hear footsteps behind me.
“Christ Almighty, Jay, you nearly gave me a heart attack. I hate it when you come in the side door. We don’t open for another hour. And don’t—” Mid-rant, he spots me, and I can tell the exact moment he does. “Holy Fucking Christ. You clone yourself or something? Is this some Back-to-the-Future shit?”
“Back to the Future didn’t work like that,” Jay and I say in unison, and then gawk at each other.
Clearing his throat. “This is my kid. My son. My...fuck a duck, I don’t even know your name.”
“Knox,” I say, holding my hand out to the guy with a bar towel over his shoulder. “Knox Gallagher.”
“Vince Moretti,” he says, shaking my hand.
Jay says nothing, just scans the shelf of liquor before reaching for the bottle of Dewar’s. Despite his other twenty or so choices, that’s what he picks.
“What do you want? You can’t be twenty-one, but these are special circumstances.”
Vince looks like he’s about to bust a vein. “You can’t serve him!”
“Then I won’t,” Jay shrugs. “I’ll just take two bottles for myself. What else should I drink?” he asks me.
“That’s, uh, that’s what I drink,” I tell him, pointing to the scotch.
“Christ,” he mutters, making his way to a table in the corner.
Again, I follow. We sit down and he pours us a couple shots. The familiar burn of whiskey soothes my nerves a little.
“Look, I know this is a lot. Believe me. I didn’t come here to freak you out, or throw a fit, or make things weird. I just...I wanted to know. I definitely didn’t bet on being your mini-me, though I fucking should have. Rose, my little girl, looks nothing like her mom. I’ve got strong genes I guess. Well, you do, apparently, since your genes are mine. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I didn’t come to mess anything up, you know? I just wanted to meet you.”
“How old is she?” he asks, bypassing my rambling.
“She’ll be a year next week. Valentine’s Day.” I open my phone to a pic I took last night. Rose is smiling, showing off those two teeth she worked so hard for. Her cheeks are chubby and pink, and her hair is in two wild pigtails. I pass it over.
“Damn,” he says, then stays silent for a minute. “What’s her name?” he asks, his voice a little raspier.
