He hung his head lower. “Yeah. The baby doc said kids lose their hair and regrow it pretty often. But, like, no one in my family is aginger.”
“What about on Ilana’s side?” I asked, pure glee swelling in my chest.
He shook his head.
“No Irish?”
“Uh uh.”
Scott took out his phone and showed me a picture of the baby. Cute kid, with little orange ringlets that looked like a crown of fire—appropriate for Satan’s spawn—but biologically, she bore exactly zero resemblance to Scott. Or Ilana, for that matter.
“Oh,” I said. I couldn’t help but laugh. This moment could not have been more beautifully orchestrated by the cosmos.
“So, I went to the drugstore and got one of those at-home paternity tests.”
“I never even knew they made such a thing,” I said.
“Yeah, well. It wasn’t hard. It’s just a cheek swab. Like a Q-tip kind of thing. One for the baby and one for the guy. You gotta do it a few times,” he said.
“Uh huh,” I replied. “And then what?”
He waved his hands around. “And then you send it off to the lab and they send you an email with the results.”
“Sounds official.”
He sniffs, loud. I am audibly assaulted by the mucus shooting its way up Scott’s nose. “You got a tissue?” he asked.
He’s so classy. What a shame it is that this one didn’t work out.
I got him a napkin. While I was up, I also grabbed a piece of whole-wheat bread from the loaf I had wrapped up on the counter and handed it to him.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Bread. A wise person once told me never to drink without it,” I said.
He looked at me, flummoxed.
“It’ll soak up the alcohol,” I explained.
He took a bite. As he chewed, his lower lip trembled like a thundercloud, threatening to reopen the floodgates.
“Pull it together. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“Oh, there’s an explanation, all right. Ilana was sleeping with lots ofguys when she first started out in event planning. Anyone she thought could get her a gig, apparently.”
“So, whoisthe father?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it sure as hell isn’t me! So now, I’m losing sleep every night with this baby who’s not even mine crying and wailing and keeping me up until all hours. It’s a fucking nightmare, Gracie.”
I cringed hearing him say my name like that.
“You still haven’t answered my question though. Why are you here?”
He looked at his shoes, studying the laces. Then, he looked up at me, dizzy and stupid, like a high school pothead who’s had one joint too many. “You gotta take me back,” he said.
“Ha!” I laughed aloud. “Are you out of your mind?” The idea was so preposterous that I felt giddy listening to it. I couldn’t help but revel in the fact that suddenly my 24-hour workweek at Starbucks and my sad little royalty checks made me look pretty well put together. Not to mention my half-million-dollar book deal. Whatevs. No biggie, right?
“I mean it, Gracie. What you and me had? It was special.” He burped, blowing the odor of old beer and regurgitated nachos into my airspace.
