I sigh. “You’re telling me.”
We sit on the couch, staring at nothing for several minutes, before Eric asks. “Do you think that’s what’s happening with this Phoebe woman?”
I turn slowly. My vision blurs, leaving the details of Eric’s face nearly indistinguishable. “Is what happening?”
“Is she trying to trap you? Get you for your money?”
Shit. Is that what she’s doing?
Who does she think she is?
Eric bolts forward and grabs the letter, flipping through it. “What if it’s not even your kid? Didn’t you say some guy left her at the altar? What if it’s his baby? It would make more sense for it to be her ex-fiancé’s baby, wouldn’t it? More than some random one-night stand, anyway. Maybe she just wants to say it’s yours so she doesn’t have to stay in contact with the man who dumped her on her wedding day? There’s no mention of money in this letter. That might mean nothing, though. She could still be looking for a payday.”
I jolt upright, fighting through the swimming sensation that rolls through my brain, and put the nearly empty bottle on the coffee table. “You’re right. I won’t let her do this without a fight.” I stand up, swaying a little before patting my chest and pockets. “Where’s my phone?”
“Wait,” Eric says, standing and putting his hand on my shoulder. “Hold on a second. Let’s think this through. You’re beyond drunk, Archer. You’re not thinking straight. I’m probably mistaken. Why don’t you sober up before you talk to her?”
I find my phone in my back pocket. “I’m plenty sober enough to make this phone call. She needs to know this plan of hers won’t work.”
Eric drops the letter to the table and throws his hands up. “I was speculating. I’m not saying this is her plan. It’s a possibility to consider. When. You’re. Sober.” He punctuates the last three words with a poke to my chest.
I grab the letter from the top of the stack of papers and locate her phone number. “I’m sober enough. I’m calling now.” I put the number in and press the call button while Eric shakes his head at me. “It’s fine, man. I know what I’m doing.”
Chapter 10
That’s It. You’re Going On The Naughty List
Phoebe
“No.fucking.way.Whatan asshole.” Charlie stabs at the end button on my phone and passes it back to me. “Who the hell does he think he is? How dare he say those things to you?”
After a sleepless night, thanks to a baby who wouldn’t settle and a brain that wouldn’t either, I woke up to a voicemail from the man I gave my letter to. A pretty shitty message, all things considered, and Charlie’s just finished listening to it.
I listened to it so many times this morning that I know it by heart.
“Listen here, you, you, you not-very-nice lady. You can’t trick me. How do I even know this baby is mine? Maybe it’s your ex-fiancé’s? Hmmm? Did you ever think of that? Yeah, I thought so. So you found yourself pregnant and alone and figured you’d hit me up for money. Or did you find yourself alone and decide to get me pregnant? Huh? Is that it? Poor bride, all alone. Oh, here’s an innocent Santa. I’m going to sleep with him and get him pregnant? No, wait. That’s not right. Get you pregnant? Get pregnant? Whatever. I don’t think so, lady. Someone else tried that, and it didn’t work and it won’t work for you either. No way. I don’t fall for these kinds of scams, babe. So you can take your letter and…No, Eric. I will not shut up. First Annabelle, and now Phoebe? Do I have dollar signs on my head or something? A billboard that reads ‘sucker’? Anyway, what was I saysing…sayings… saying… What was I saying? I don’t know…But I know, that I don’t know, that who knows if this baby is mine? He is cute, though. So, so cute. Well, as cute as babies that age can be, anyway. They’re kind of weird looking when they’re so small, aren’t they? Like wrinkly little old men. Wrinkly little old alien men. But Lincoln is a, a, a distinguished name. But you know who knows? No one, that’s who—”the message cut off after that, but I’m sure he continued his rant. I’m guessing from his accusations that he didn’t make it past the letter to the stack of information about paternity testing and the labs in the area that do it.
Charlie is right. What. An. Asshole.
“That dickhead. How dare he insinuate you got pregnant on purpose? Or that the baby isn’t even his. Why on earth would you do something stupid like that? It’s not like he’s famous. Or rich. Who finds a random Santa impersonator and says‘oh, yeah. I’m going to let him get me pregnant so I can cash in’? Gah!” She throws her hands up. “I’m so mad. What a fucking dick.” She storms into the kitchen, her body tense with anger. “It was pretty hilarious when he said that you found an innocent Santa and got him pregnant, though,” she yells with a laugh.
I snort a laugh. I suppose I can see the humor in it. And as far as insults go, calling me a not-very-nice lady is one of the tamest I’ve ever received. Pretty sure I’d been called worse names in grade school. Little girls can be vicious.
That’s not to say his message didn’t shock me at first. Oh no, it left me flabbergasted. Not so much at what he said, because that makes sense. He doesn’t know me and has no reason to trust that what I’m saying is true. What shocked me was how he said it. He slurred his words and rambled so much I could tell he was beyond drunk. I could hear someone in the background yelling at him to hang up, to wait until he sobered up, and that he’d found more than my letter in the packet.
He should have listened to that friend. Instead of hanging up, he continued on a hilarious and expletive-free rant about myscamand what a horrible person I’d been for taking advantage of a man in his time of need.
Umm, excuse me? Pretty sure I was the one getting drunk in a wedding dress because my fiancé failed to show up for our wedding. Despite my second thoughts about getting married that day, it was stillmytime of need. He was just a sad Santa.
Come to think of it, he probably had an ulterior motive for being there that day. Sad Santa, my ass. I bet prowling local bars for women is something he does every year after playing Santa for Christmas parties. He takes advantage of the suit, and the trust it inspires, to prey on unsuspecting women. I’m sure he’s your average dude-bro, jobless other than at Christmastime when he’s hired to play Santa Claus.
What an asshole.
Lincoln snuffles in my arms, finished with his bottle. Even though his eyes are closed, he has an adorable grin on his face. A grin which would be a lot cuter if the cause of it rumbling against my arm. It never fails with this guy. He finishes eating, then he poops. He’s cute, though, so I won’t hold it against him.
I release a long, slow breath, and force my shoulders to retreat from my ears, trying to release the tension gathering between my shoulder blades. I guess all my hopes of Lincoln growing up with his dad in his life were just that. Hopes. Wishes. Dreams. A bunch of fantasy bullshit dreamed up by someone who never got over her dad leaving her at such a young age.
Maybe I can do what my mom did and find him a good stepdad. If I can do it before he notices his real dad isn’t around, even better. Preferably, before it dawns on him that his father didn’t want him. Stepdads can be great. My stepdad is amazing. I only wish my mom would have found him sooner. Maybe if she had, I wouldn’t have this inexplicable drive to give Lincoln’s father a chance to know him.
