**
“This is great,” Bill said happily, chewing his hot dog. “Thanks, Weston. I ain’t been to a ball game in years. I miss it.” It was the top of the eighth inning, and the Mets were leading.
“Anytime you want, come up. I’ve got season tickets.”
“No shit, whoa. Great.”
I relaxed in my seat with my hot dog and beer, soaking up the late-afternoon sun. It truly had been a perfect day.
“Weston Lively? What do you think of your father’s repudiation of your relationship?” A burly, middle-aged man with a press pass around his neck leaned in to talk to him. “He’s ahead in the polls for Tuesday’s primaries. Are you choosing your boyfriend over your family?”
I rose to my feet as Weston’s lips drew up in a snarl. “I’m a private citizen, and you’re harassing me.”
“Come on, Weston. Is this the boyfriend? Does it bother you that his mother was a drug addict and a prostitute?”
My stomach went into free fall, and Weston jumped to his feet, his fist cocked. “Get the hell out of here,” he snarled. “Now.”
I sank to my seat. Silent. Frozen.
“He said get outta his face,” Bill shouted.
With a smirk on his lips, the reporter strolled away, and Weston put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t listen to what that idiot said. I don’t give a damn, and neither should you. We know your mother had left all that behind.”
“What’s he talking about?” Confused, Bill looked to me for an explanation.
I hadn’t told him what Madden had revealed, and I wasn’t about to do it at Citifield, with fifty thousand people surrounding us. “Let’s go home. I’ll explain there.”
We left our seats, and Weston called for a car while I steered Bill with my hand on his shoulder. The traffic was predictably awful, and the drive to the city took more than an hour. Weston tried to keep us amused with stories of his failed attempts at little league and water polo, but I was too tense to enjoy it.
At the apartment, I sat beside Weston and retold the story Madden had relayed to me. To my surprise, tears ran down Bill’s face, and he covered his eyes with his hands.
“What’s wrong?”
“A couple of years after you came to us, a woman called. She said she was your mother and wanted to see you. We were so hesitant because we didn’t know if she was telling the truth—how did she get our phone number? Plus, even if it was true, we didn’t know if she was still on drugs, and you were having all that trouble in school. We called the social worker, but they were so jammed up, it took several weeks before we tried the number she left, but it was disconnected.” Anguish tore at his voice. “Maybe…maybe if we’d known she wasn’t on drugs and said yes, things would’ve been different.”
Grief, shock, and sadness swept through me, and it took a few seconds to process Bill’s words. I left Weston to crouch by Bill’s chair, gazing up into the face of the only father I’d ever known.
“I-I don’t blame you. You couldn’t have known, and you were only trying to protect me. I understand.” Bill rested a hand on my head. “Most likely I wouldn’t have wanted to see her anyway. I was so angry with her when I was young for taking drugs and abandoning me. But eventually I forgave her. It’s taken this long for the truth to come out, and I don’t have it in me to hold it against her. Who knows what she went through?” I wiped at my eyes. “She could’ve gotten rid of me, and I’d never have been born. So no matter how hard I had it, I’ll always be grateful to her.”
The intercom buzzer rang, and frowning, Weston went to answer it. I heard his harsh voice, but he was too far away to make out what he was saying. I stood, and Bill heaved himself out of the chair.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’m gonna take a nap.”
Concerned, I held him by the shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, sure, kiddo. I’m good. Just a lotta runnin’ around. I’m used to snoozing by the pool.” He patted my arm and trudged to the bedroom.
The bell rang, and I walked toward the foyer and stopped in my tracks. Preston Lively stood at the door.
“I’d like to come in and talk, Weston.”
Jaw clenched, Weston stepped aside to let him in. “What do you want? We have nothing to say to each other.”
“That may be true, but I have a proposition for you.” Preston strode inside, and spotting me, veered away. “This is your friend.”
“He’s my boyfriend. My lover.” Weston took my hand. “What proposition?”
I whispered in Weston’s ear, “Maybe you and your father should talk privately.”
