He swallows so hard I can see his Adam's apple strain against the skin at his throat. Tate's eyes flick up to the rearview mirror and I know he's watching Dylan through it. "I'm his only living parent."
It isn’t a question. There’s no confusion in his voice. Not even shock. There is a strong tone of resignation and it both breaks my heart and brings me a weird sense of calm I wasn’t anticipating. Tate may not like this, but he accepts it.
“Yes. You.”
He drops his head into his hands.
Chapter4
Tate
“Look, Tate, I don’t mean to interrupt your processing. I know this is a lot,” Mallory’s voice cuts through the silence in the car. “But he’s had an extremely long day. And a rough couple of weeks. He fell asleep and he is going to wake up hungry and disoriented and it would be best if we weren’t in a car when that happens.”
She is so calm about this. How? How can she be so calm? Nothing about this is anything less than a vortex of chaos. But one last brain cell, buried in the back of my head, which is rioting with this news, knows she is right. That kid deserves better, after all, he's been through and is going to continue to go through, than to wake up hungry and confused in the back of a stranger's car. And that's exactly what I am. A stranger. Even if I know, in my heart, that DNA will say otherwise. I mean…lookat him.
My mom is obsessed with family photos. She says it's because she didn't have a real family growing up, she just had her sisters, and no one really took pictures of them. So we went, and still go, for yearly family photos. We have a wall of them in the living room, peppered across the bookcases on either side of the river rock fireplace. And there's a bunch of candid photos on the wall all the way up both staircases, the one to the second floor and the one to the attic rec room. I've stared at enough pictures of me as a baby to know this kid is a fair-haired replica of me.
My eyes were just as green at his age, the blue tint in there now came later. My cheeks just as pudgy, that's how I got the nickname tater tot because I looked as round and plump as one. And that dimple, well it's still in my chin, just like my dad's. His hair is lighter than mine was, almost wheat colored, like Diana's. His nose seems to be a miniature replica of hers too. Not only is there no reason for Mallory to lie, there's an avalanche of evidence in his appearance that she isn’t.
Holy fuck. How did this happen and why didn’t anyone tell me before now? All these questions need to be addressed but not here in the parking lot of the arena. We are literally the last car left. I have been sitting here with my head in my hands just trying to come to terms with this and Mallory has patiently waited it out. Until now.
I lift my head and realize she must have turned off the car. The engine is no longer running. I punch the button again and it purrs to life. Without a word, I ease out of the spot and toward the exit. Even security is gone now. I pull the pass from the center console and swipe the machine at the gate and the bar glides upward. And then, I drive the twenty minutes back to my townhome on Abbott Kinney on autopilot.
Usually, as I approach the building, just the sight of the palm trees that line the front garden area brings me peace and happiness but not tonight. I love Los Angeles. I didn't think I would as a small-town East Coaster, but I was wrong. Before I was drafted the New Englander in me thought California was an excess and stupidity dipped in ridiculousness and covered in sunshine. But it's exactly the perfect vibe for a young, rich athlete who never loved snow or cold unless he was playing a game of hockey.
Venice is where I decided to settle because it's got the beach, a banging nightlife, and a great daytime energy, and it's close to the arena and practice facility. Bonus, it's nowhere near UCLA, or West Hollywood where my sister currently lives with my cousin Liv. I love my family, but I like my independence, a lot. This two-bedroom, two-bath townhouse within walking distance to bars, restaurants, and the beach, with a bright multi-level open concept main floor and sunlit patio on the back, quaint porch on the front was worth every cent of the two-and-a-half million I paid. But is it kid-friendly? That's a question I never thought I would have to ask.
And now, as I pull into my parking spot I’m contemplating that very thought as I stare out the window again. I hear a gentle coo in the back. Was that a coo? Do kids his age coo? What age is he anyway? Oh, I am so beyond fucked.
“I get it. This is a lot. Is there any way we can go inside?” Mallory asks. Again she is insanely calm. “I need to feed him something and let him stretch his legs.”
"Stretch his legs? Like, walk around? Run?" I pull my eyes from the Reserved sign nailed to the wall in front of my spot and look at Mallory—reallylook for the first time since she appeared at the arena.
Mallory Echolls looks exhausted. The skin under her eyes is puffy and holds a grayish tinge. Her eyes are bloodshot. Her hair… well she’s had better hair days. “You both must be exhausted.”
"Yes," she says and twists in her seat so she can see the kid. Her shirt pulls a little, exposing her collarbone, which is blue. Well, actually more of a dark, angry purple.
“Fuck. What happened to your?—”
She moves like she’s been jolted with electricity, quickly facing forward and yanking at the collar of her shirt and then she winces. Loudly. But she changes the topic. “Tate. He needs to get out of this car. He needs space and food. And no, to answer your earlier question, he isn’t walking yet. He’s only slightly over nine months old but he can pull himself up to a standing position and he loves to do it and kind of bounce. Like he’s listening to music we can’t hear.”
"Oh. Okay. Yeah. I mean, I can let him bounce," I say stupidly because I have been rendered absolutely brain-dead by this news.
Like a robot, I get out of the car. Leaving their suitcases, I walk around to the trunk and grab her shoulder bag as she gets him out of the car seat. "I'm going to need the other suitcases the Uber was supposed to deliver.”
“Ray should have them.”
“Ray?”
I point to the small box-like building by the entrance gate. “Our night security guard for the complex.”
I leave her by the car and jog over to the booth. Ray is happy and friendly, like always, and I try not to cut off his small talk too much. He glances out his booth door as he hands me the suitcases. “You want me to bring these to your door?”
I shake my head even though, yeah, that would help since I have two other suitcases in the car. But then I have to introduce him to Mallory and the kid, and I would lie. Say this is my friend and her kid and that feels shitty and also, if he catches one look at the kid… “I’ll do it. My friend just got here from Europe and she’s… they’re exhausted.”
“Okay. Well, have a great night, Tate.”
“Thanks. You too, Ray.”
