Page 26

“The baby is strong,” the midwife, Pam, says, but I’m hardly listening to her.

I can’t stop holding Cara’s hand, grinning at her. I’ve had the weekend to get used to the idea of becoming a father, and it hasn’t been easy. In addition to Cara’s attitude last weekend when I was only trying to be nice, I’m on my own emotional roller coaster.

My dad took off.

My mom overdosed on drugs when I was in college, a habit she’d kicked and been free of since I was born, but apparently, from what I last heard from her, the loneliness and empty bank accounts we always had became too much for her.

And Irvin. He’s the only adult I’ve ever had in my life who was certain I could make something of myself and get out of the crappy neighborhood. His death provided me the financial means to make all the dreams I had come true, dreams he championed.

So I’m not exactly sure how in the hell I’m supposed to be a dad when my own DNA is sorely lacking in parental involvement, but I finally figured, if I can be a third of the man Irvin was, someone who would see a punk-ass preteen and take him in, and provide all the love and support he could ever need, then I’m sure as hell certain I can do it for my own child—boyorgirl. I just have to get Cara to see that.

But this…this moment, with both of our eyes filled with tears and our cheeks stained, this moment is everything.

I don’t see the woman I shagged at a wedding.

I don’t see the woman who puked all over my office or passed out in my arms.

I just see her, the mother of my child, and she’s never been more stunningly beautiful. Her face is soft despite the tears, showing a vulnerability she hasn’t yet shown me.

For the rest of the appointment, I listen quietly while Pam finishes her checkup. I leave the room when it’s time for Cara to get changed and I meet her in the front waiting room where we schedule her next appointment.

For a brief moment, I see the hesitancy return to Cara’s eyes when she schedules it, checking with me to see if it works with my schedule, but what she doesn’t know is that there’s absolutely nothing inconvenient about any of this.

Sure, it’s happened well before I was ready, and absolutely unprepared, but life wouldn’t be life if it didn’t throw you a curveball every once in a while.

It keeps you on your toes, keeps life exciting, and I am absolutely, one thousand percent excited for this next roller coaster of an adventure.

“So,” Cara says, tucking the appointment reminder card into her small purse. “You said you wanted to talk?”

“Yeah. Can I take you to lunch?”

“Actually”—she smiles, that beautiful soft smile, and the palm of her hand flattens against her stomach—“food sounds really, really good. Maybe a place with burgers? Or ribs? Or a really huge steak?”

Her eyes glaze over like she’s imagining the largest New York strip in the world, and I bite back a laugh.

I know just the place to take her.

—

Phil’s is a classic diner. A throwback to the fifties where they make real milkshakes and have not only the best burgers I’ve tasted along the entire Northwest coast—an endeavor I’ve put a lot of time over the years in discovering—but over the years they’ve widened the scope of their menu, and now grill a mean steak. What I like even more than the food is the atmosphere. Phil’s was constructed to look like an old train car. Narrow and long, there’s one small row of booths covered in bright red vinyl along the windows and then a bar running the length of the car where the stools are covered with the same vinyl. Behind that is the kitchen, where you can always hear the cooks shouting orders at one another. The place isn’t what I had in mind when I told Cara I wanted to talk to her. It’s loud and rambunctious, the two servers skating by us on roller skates across the black-and-white-tiled floor. Add in the shouting from the kitchen and the fervent “Order up!” and it’s not the best place for a private, serious conversation.

But more important than talking, I want Cara to know me, and nothing saysmelike taking her to the place Irvin always brought me on Sunday afternoons for lunch. We’re even sitting at the table where we spent most of the meals. On the metal edge of the table facing Cara’s side, my initials are carved, something I did when I was twelve and Irvin wasn’t looking. Had he ever noticed it, he’d have made me pay to repair it.

This place and this booth hold sentimental value to me and it seems the perfect place to bring Cara when she mentioned a burger earlier. Sitting in a booth that’s heavy with memories of my favorite person in the world only makes sense considering I’m still overly emotional after hearing my child’s heartbeat for the first time.

Cara still hasn’t lost the glow that blossomed on her cheeks when we heard the heartbeat. The confirmation that everything is well with the baby is, I think, exactly what we both needed. She also seems to have her appetite back, since she’s suggested getting almost everything on this menu. Hopefully, her meds are working and she won’t be tossing it all over the floorboards of my car in an hour.

And for the first time since she walked into my tattoo shop last Friday, I can finally breathe without feeling like I’m being strangled every time I inhale.

“Hey, sugars,” the waitress says, snapping her gum and rolling to a quick stop on her skates. “Y’all decided what you want to order?”

Cara flashes me a grin that can only be described as amused, although whether it’s from the diner or her impending order, I have no idea. I nod at her to go first.

“I’ll have the double bacon cheeseburger with a salad, extra French dressing, please. And I’ll also have an order of onion strings for an appetizer. Oh, may I also have a cup of your chicken noodle soup? Please?”

The waitress, Marissa based on her name tag, glances at Cara as she scribbles. “Before or with the meal?”

“With, please. Oh, and a double chocolate fudge shake too. Large.”