What kind of father am I already? What kind of man?
"You need a place to stay," I finally say, not a question.
"Yes." The simple admission seems to cost her something. "Just until I can find work and get back on my feet. I wouldn't ask if—"
"You can stay at my place," I interrupt. The words come out before I've fully thought them through, but once spoken, I know they're right. Whatever happens next, I can't let my son sleep in a car.
Relief washes over her face, quickly followed by wariness. "Are you sure?"
Am I? No. I'm not sure of anything right now except that I'm looking at a miniature version of myself, and something primal and protective just woke up inside me.
"Yeah," I say, more firmly this time. "I'm sure. I've got plenty of room."
King steps forward, his expression serious. "Torch," he says, using my road name, "you good with this?"
It's a loaded question. He's asking if I'm sure she's telling the truth. If I'm sure I want to get involved. If I'm sure I can handle the responsibility.
I'm not sure of any of that.
"Yeah," I lie, meeting his gaze steadily. "I'm good."
King nods once, accepting my decision. "We'll talk later," he says, which means he'll be checking to make sure I don't spiral.
Sidney shifts uncomfortably, clearly aware she's the center of attention in a room full of intimidating bikers. "I can't pay you," she says quietly. "Not yet anyway."
"I'm not asking for money," I tell her, surprised by the edge in my voice. "He's my son, right? That makes him my responsibility too."
The word 'son' feels strange on my tongue. Foreign yet somehow right.
Max chooses that moment to speak up.
"Down," he demands, squirming in Sidney's arms. "Want down."
She hesitates, looking around at the rough men and the less-than-childproof surroundings.
"It's okay," I hear myself say. "Let him down."
She sets him on his feet, keeping a hand on his shoulder. "Stay close to Mommy, okay?"
But Max has other ideas. He toddles straight toward me, stopping a foot away to look up with those mirror-image eyes.
"Hi," he says simply.
Something cracks in my chest. Something I didn't know was there to break.
"Hi," I manage to reply.
"You big," he observes, tilting his head back to see my face.
A surprised laugh escapes me. "Yeah, buddy. I guess I am."
He considers this, then nods as if I've confirmed an important theory. "I big too," he declares.
"Yeah," I say, my voice rough. "You're getting there."
I'm meeting my son for the first time, twenty-four months too late, and I want to pick him up. I want to cherish him.
I want to be the kind of man who deserves to be called "dad."
