Page 101

I roll my eyes. It’s true. How can mothers put in the work of carrying their babies for nine months and they come out looking like their fathers? It’s not fair.
“She has my…face shape,” I say, grasping at straws.
He peers at me and Josie, like he’s trying really hard to see it.
“Did you invite me here just to be an ass?” I say, crossing my arms.
“I’m sorry. I’m just giving you a hard time.”
“I wish Monica was here to keep you in line.” I roll my eyes. I miss her. I feel like I haven’t seen her in ages.
“Me too. But she’s at home with TJ. She sends her love.”
The waitress finally comes back and takes my drink order, along with our food order. We each order the same five-course meal. Tuna tartare, braised pork belly, chopped salad, Alaskan king crab and ribeye steak, and crème brûlée. It’s enough to feed me for a week, and enough to keep us here for hours. I hope Josie can hold out that long, and I hope I can ward off any more of my brother’s offers to help.
“Really though. About Josie. You really have no idea who the father is?” asks Troy, keeping his voice down. I wonder if it’s for Josie’s sake, as if she could understand.
I pause for a moment, thinking about how much easier it would be if I just told him. He could give me advice on what to do, but he would also offer me help. I know he could hire me just as good a lawyer as Marco to fight the custody battle in court, if it comes to that. The idea is tempting. But since I don’t know what’s going on yet, I think better of it.
Seeing Troy with Josie, and seeing how he is with his own son, it makes me wonder if maybe Marco should gain partial custody. Would it be so bad for Josie to have a father? What if by keeping her from him, I’m doing her a disservice? I would hate for her to resent me later in life if she finds out the truth.
Marco has been proving himself to be up to the task of taking on fatherhood. Though it only has been a few days. While it hardly proves he’s ready to commit to a lifetime of being Josie’s father, deep down, I think he could do it. I know he would. That’s why I’ve been so torn about the situation.
And I can’t stop thinking about him, aside from him being Josie’s father. I miss him more than I would ever to admit to anyone, let alone myself in my strongest moments. But when I’m in bed at night, I think about him. I wonder what he’s doing. What he’s thinking. How things could be so different for us if I hadn’t gone and muddied everything up.
I finally look up at Troy and shake my head, hoping I’m convincing enough that he will drop it until he asks me again in a few months’ time. It’s a routine I’ve grown used to. Like he thinks a couple months’ time will somehow jar my memory and I’ll be able to tell him the mystery he’s tried to figure out ever since I told him I was pregnant.
He looks disappointed, like he knows I’m lying, but thankfully the waitress comes by with our first course and breaks up the moment. The food is incredible. Course after course makes my mouth water. Josie tries little bites of the first three courses before passing out in the booth between Troy and me. I stroke her hair fondly before we start on our main course, and Troy watches the gesture caringly.
“Look,” he starts, his voice soft and his eyes serious. “You don’t have to tell me who the father is…”
“I told you I don’t—”
“Let me finish.” He holds up a hand. “But if you do know, tell him. Let him be a part of your daughter’s life. Men aren’t as bad as you usually think…”
I think about what he says, and swallow hard. If only he knew how close he was to the truth of what was going on in my life. Maybe Troy is right.
“I mean, look at how I turned out.” He grins.
I roll my eyes, but my brother is a real example of playboy turned caring husband and father. But he’s an exception. We can’t all have those happy endings. Can we?
Chapter 48
Marco
After a few hours, I open my eyes and find the living room is dark aside from the corner lamp that offers a warm glow. I sit up slowly, and am happy to see the room is beginning to still and no longer feels like it’s spinning. No drunken images of my father appear to lecture me on things he has no place to. I pull myself groggily from the couch, thankful for its comfort and for giving me the sleep I needed to regain my wits. I still feel buzzed, but I can think straight. Well, straighter.
I see the shattered glass on the floor and shake my head. Stupid. So stupid. I walk to the hallway closet and find a broom and dustpan. I get to work on cleaning the glass, noting that I’ll need to touch up the scuffed paint on the wall from where the bottle hit. Or maybe I should leave it, as a reminder to never drink that much again.
After I’ve finished making sure my living room is no longer a danger zone, I know I need food to settle my stomach and to ward off the inevitable headache that traces its fingers down each side of my temples. I grab my keys and my wallet from the entryway table, slide on my loafers, and head out for a walk to find what I hope will be a magical hangover cure. I can’t go into the office feeling lousy, especially after I left unexpectedly today.
Outside, the air is balmy with that end of summer heat. It’s well past sundown, which is around the time when I passed out in my living room. I welcome the darkness. It’s a moonless night, and it takes a strained and skillful eye to spot any stars in the sky when they’re competing with the lights of the city. I look up, my eyes grazing the towering skyscrapers and take a deep breath, happy to be outside.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. The same one I wore to work, that’s now wrinkled and smells like whiskey. At least it’s expensive whiskey. I take my phone out and see I have several texts and an inbox full of emails that I have no desire to get to. They’re all most likely from my canceled meetings from today, and I don’t have it in me to write back a charismatic response to smooth things over.
I ignore my inbox and go for the text messages, foolishly hoping one will be from Erica with a change of heart. Instead, I see quite a few from Jessica regarding today’s meetings and a final one that reads:
Are you alive? Give me something, please.