I’ve already spent the past three days feeling like throwing up. Nothing like a new assistant searching for an email from Emma Watson, ending up in a folder of email your previous assistant markedcrazypants stalkers and AI-generated bullshit accusationsinstead, and finding evidence that you might have a kid wandering around in the world that you didn’t know about to throw your reality off kilter.
That hit to the gonads made it worse.
Even if I can acknowledge I probably deserve it.
The sheriff hits a button on her office phone. “Darlene, bring fresh ice for our guest’s testicles, please.”
“On it, boss.”
The sheriff questions me for another hour. I don’t ask for my lawyer. She doesn’t ask for an autograph. When she releases me, she follows me to where I’ve parked my rental car and stands there watching while I drive out of town.
As expected, my phone’s blowing up with texts from my mother and my sister-in-law.
They don’t like it when I ditch my security detail.
Can’t blame them, but I wanted to be low-key.
Worked fabulously well.
Until I fucked it all up.
I should’ve waited until the wedding wasover-over.
But I saw Emma, and then I saw that little boy.
The little boy in a miniature tuxedo with my eyes and my nose and my chin and Emma’s hair.
The little boy with the same impish grin that won me my first starring role in a Razzle Dazzle commercial at about eighteen months old.
My son.
The son Emma tried to tell me about a half dozen times two years ago.
All I’ve had of him from three days ago until today were two ultrasound pictures and a single newborn photo.
And now I know he’s a living, breathing, perfect little human being who cantalkand walk and probably stack blocks and sing songs and ride a bike.
Or maybe not ride a bike.
Yet.
But definitely walk.
And smile.
Oh my god.
That smile.
I saw him—saw him say something to Emma, sawEmma, saw him smile, saw her smile—and there was no more waiting.
I needed to talk to her.
Now.
And instead, I’m banished from town, with my car marked by the sheriff.
Easy answer.
