I guess I just figured it was only fair that she knew. She should know the history between myself and Candice so she has some idea where Reginald fits into all of it. I could have told her the same version I’ve given others the few times I’ve been asked.
I could have said nothing.
Instead, I gave her the honest truth. A truth I haven’t told anyone since the night I went to my parents when I was sixteen, confused, scared, and heartbroken.
They didn’t believe me. It was one of those situations they liked to termdelicate.I understand why they believed what Candice was saying and not me. I understood then, and I definitely understand it as an adult. The thing is, even after all the money they’ve paid out to her, and then later, the money I paid, they still don’t believe Reginald isn’t my son. They have never requested a paternity test. They barely listened to me that night. They were already too busy calculating damage control. To them, it doesn’t matter whether Reg is or isn’t. It doesn’t prove that I didn’t do what Candice said I did.
It’s a terrible thing, and even telling the truth paints me in a bad light. I’ve heard people who were innocent and thrown injail anyway say it doesn’t matter if you actually committed the crime. What matters is being accused in the first place. You’re not really innocent until proven guilty. I was always going to be guilty with no chance of redemption. I try to see it the way my parents did. Would I have believed me? We never had a good relationship. They were never much more than distant. They really didn’t even know me. But still, it’s a sliver under my skin that I’ve never been able to pick out, and all it’s done is fester.
I haven’t been buying Candice’s silence. I’ve been trying to ensure Reg is okay. That he wanted for nothing, had a great education, and turned out to be a good person.
Ever since the thuggery incident, I hate the feeling I’ve had that I’ve failed in that respect as well.
I realize it’s been quiet here for too long.
I’m awkward now, trying to figure out if Amalphia is calculating where my story has plot holes and flaws.
But why would she do that if she just said my parents aren’t her favorite people?
I study her carefully, and she studies me back. We’re having a staring contest to end all staring contests, but it doesn’t appear she’s digging loopholes out of my truth. She isn’t actively setting mental traps in her mind that will catch me off guard in the future.
I’d met her twice before, but back in the kitchen, it was sixteen-year-old me standing there, on the verge of having my whole life and future crumble down around me for something I had never done and would never do, but instead of judgment and condemnation, all I found was empathy.
Ever since that night, I haven’t been very good at doing emotional shit. But the soft way Amalphia is looking at me, with her superpower X-ray vision eyes that turn into suction cups that can suck out any and all emotions, makes my chest respond with a weird little shiver and a pull toward her.
“For the record, it’s okay to be pissed. I would be too. I don’t care who you are. Man or woman.”
“I just…I wish I could put it behind me somehow. I’d say I wish I could be normal, but normal is such a relative term. What’s normal, really? Do you know anybody in this world, rich, poor, or in between, who is just meh?”
“Actually, tons of people I know are just meh. So much meh. But I know what you’re saying.” She crosses her arms. “I think you’re a remarkable man. I wouldn’t have been so forgiving. That scenario would have frustrated me until I had a nervous breakdown. I don’t like feeling helpless or powerless. I’ve been in that situation exactly once, and it wasn’t great. It was you who saved me. But I get why you almost didn’t show up. In your office, I mean, when you thought it was an act.”
“I’m not remarkable,” I snort. “I’m just another spoiled rich guy who was given everything. Every opportunity. I haven’t done enough. I’ve barely done anything at all.”
She crosses her arms and taps her foot. I’m not sure what that means, but is foot-tapping ever a good thing? “That might be as relative as normal.” She indicates the dog. “I wouldn’t call that nothing. I’d call it pretty freaking cool.”
“It’s just a few steps above high school level science fair projects.”
“Oh my freaking god.” She can’t hold in her laughter. It bursts out of her, but it’s not mean. Her eyes are all lit up and sparkly. “I don’t know what kind of school you went to, but the rest of us aren’t tech geniuses. In high school, I was making freaking volcanos and potato clocks.”
“Very noble projects.”
“Which you were probably doing in kindergarten. If you can build something like this, you can build anything.”
“It’s not that hard, really. For me, at any rate. The software on the computer just comes down to coding and programming—”
“They happen to be impossible,” she interrupts.
“Putting the parts together is a matter of mechanics.”
“Even if I went to college for eighty years, that would be above my pay grade.”
“Alright,” I cede. I’m not going to win this argument. If she’s trying to point out that maybe I’m above average when it comes to computers, engineering, and mechanics, then that’s fair. I’m good at it. It’s why I pursued it as a degree. It’s why I’ve made it my hobby.
“I think this robot dog is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. And I like that it’s a dog and not a person or something that’s obviously supposed to be a robot. Dogs are sweet. I love Booty Sue so much.”
“I’ve always wanted a dog.” My face is doing something funky.
I think it might be…might be going soft. I’ve already told Amalphia things I shouldn’t have, and I kept going with it long past the point where I should have shut up. Why not just let down my guard fully? It’s not like I’ve been emotionally stunted and found it impossible or anything. It’s not as though I haven’t struggled with human connection my whole life.
