“I think we might get the castle done this weekend,” I say, to pull her out of her own head.
She lifts her gaze to take in the scattered Legos on the other end of the table, the drawbridge nearly complete. That was last night’s big moment. Deacon figured it out on his own after dinner. A faint smile plays at her lips before her eyes shift to me.
“They really like their birthday gift, don’t they?”
I nod.
“So do I,” I tease. I’ve put my fair share of blocks in place. And maybe have a little envy that Deacon got to do the drawbridge.
Our shared gaze drifts into that too long territory, so when I feel the shift in the air and inside my chest, I drop my chin and feel my tie against my button down, then drop my hands to my pockets to make sure I have everything.
“What am I missing?” I ask.
“Uh . . .”
I look up and follow the direction of Lindsey’s finger, which is pointing to my sleeping daughter nestled in her carrier.
“Right,” I breathe out.
“Don’t worry. That’s just a sign you’re legit. We parents lose our minds sometimes.”
I take her pep talk to heart, then stride across the room and grab the handle. Just as I make my way to the door, though, there’s a harried knock that startles me and wakes my napping baby.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“I’ll get it,” Lindsey says, leaping from the chair while I raise the carrier to my chest so I can soothe Holly back to sleep before she really gets going. My face close to hers, I make the popping sound with my lips that seems to be her favorite thing lately. I’m so into this tiny world that I’m not paying close attention to Lindsey’s interaction at the door until I hear a strange male voice say my name.
“Son,” he says when I meet his stare.
The man standing in the doorway is a ghost. A shell of the man from my memories and in the photos in that box. The Jared Callahan I knew was a smoker who swore a lot, with muscles and a tattoo of a naked woman on his forearm. His hair was shaggy, always a bit dirty, and his mustache grown too long. This man’scheeks sink in and his face is clean shaven, his hair buzzed and balding at his widow’s peak. The tattoo is there, though. It’s been covered some with other things, but if I tilt my head and look just right, it’s a perfect match. It’s an answer key barely disguised under time served.
“What are you doing here?” I shift the carrier in my hand, moving the baby seat to my side, away from the doorway.
I glance at Lindsey, hoping she’ll see the seriousness in my eyes as my jaw tightens.
“I’ve been looking for you for a year. I got out last spring, served the last year on parole. They just approved my move last month, and I’ve been trying to get the courage to come see you.”
I swallow hard, then bite, “Why?”
My father flinches, his eyes blinking rapidly. His nervous system was misfiring before his last run-in with the law, when I was in junior high. You push too much poison into your body, and it reacts. It’s inevitable.
“Well, I was hoping?—”
“I’m busy. You shouldn’t have hoped,” I say, cutting him off.
Lindsey has slowly made her way toward me, and when she reaches my side, she takes over holding Holly’s carrier. My father’s gaze darts to his grandchild, and his eyes widen as his mouth forms an O.
“Is that?—”
“She’s mine,” Lindsey says, as if on instinct. My pulse races, my veins teeming with energy. If I need to throw him out of this house, I will. I’ll carry him to the street and leave him for the dogs, or the teenage drag racers that I hear run their engines around here sometimes.
“Is this your wife?” he asks.
My mouth remains a hard line. I won’t give him anything. Lindsey, however, chuckles politely.
“No, nothing like that. We’re roommates. I’m living here with my kids. Brooks was just helping me to the car.” Lindsey waves her hand as if this unwanted, unexpected visit isn’t hitting me like an ax in the center of my chest. She’s intent on building a story for him. What she doesn’t know is that this man doesn’t deserve a story. Or another minute of our time.
My dad’s gaze drops to Lindsey’s bare feet. She follows his sightline and curls her toes under.
