“Yeah,” I admitted. “I’m scared.”
“Of being a dad?” she asked.
“Of being a bad one. Of messing up the only thing that’s ever felt like it mattered.”
Kennedy went quiet for a second, then said, “It sounds more like you scared of losing your family. What did Princess say about it?”
My throat tightened. “I haven’t told her. She doesn’t know.”
“Zay!” Her voice boomed through the speaker. “You can’t do that.”
“I’m trying to handle it first.”
“When you gonna realize that you can’t fix everything?” she shot back. “You always talk about handling something first, fix this first, figure out that. Then you don’t do a damn thing. You just go to the studio and work and work, and then, when shit blows up, you gotta do damage control. Ain’t you tired, Zay?”
I clenched my jaw and swallowed. I didn’t have a comeback for that, because she was right. The last time I tried to confront a problem that I had, I ended up in jail for beating my abusive stepfather’s ass. Since then, instead of getting upset or handling an issue, I just went to work. I thought that turning my pain into success would help. Instead, someone always ended up hurt in the process.
“Princess has always been there for you,” Kennedy continued. “She kept a secret from you, yeah, true, but she has always had your back. But the least you can do to that girl is not have her find this out from a fuckin’ blog.”
“I know,” I muttered.
“I’m not trying to beat you down, Brother.” Kennedy’s voice lowered. “I just want to see you finally take charge of your life and stop hiding behind your work. You are an amazing artist. You proved that. Allow yourself to be an amazing man. And an amazing father.”
I didn’t respond. Tears welled in my eyes. Again, I knew she had been right. I hated to even think about confrontation, let alone deal with it.
She sighed. “Just . . . don’t be stubborn with this, okay? This is your family. Take control, take the lead. You got this. You are not my father.”
“I’m trying,” I quietly managed to get out. “I’m really trying.”
Just as I pulled into my driveway and cut the engine, Kam texted. I grabbed my phone and opened the message.
Kam: You seen this?
Under his text was a link to Amora’s Instagram page. My heart pounded inside my chest. I knew that whatever it was wasn’t going to be good.
The link directed me to a post of a baby’s face. The background was white, as if that baby were lying on a plush pillow. I saw little chubby cheeks with big, brown, innocent eyes. The blue cap on top of his head let me know it was a boy.
With my heart racing, I scrolled to the caption. Written directly under the photo was a quote. I read the words, and my stomach twisted. It wasn’t just any quote; it was one of my lyrics. What caused my lungs to press into my rib cage as I sighed deeply was when I noticed it was not a random one either. It was a clear indication that it was directed toward me.
“I wasn’t ready for it. I was stuck in my ways. But God knew what I needed, sent you straight through the haze. You heaven sent 4real, like my brightest days. Everybody, please help me welcome into the world, Zayn Cash. Isn’t he the cutest?”
The comments were going crazy.
“A boy? I knew it! Congrats!”
“GNZ about to eat this up!”
But the ones that stuck out the most to me read:
“That’s Zay baby.”
“Looks just like Zay!”
“His name is Zayn, why not just Zay Jr.?”
“Fuck!” I pounded my hands on the dashboard. She knew what she was doing when she decided to post that caption. She did it because I didn’t agree to speak to her.
“What? What’s wrong?” Kennedy gasped. I had forgotten she was still on the line.
