I shake my head, trying to clear the bad memories as I finish mixing up some formula in his bottle and walk over, pick up Dylan, and place him in his travel highchair. I hand him the bottle and he immediately starts sucking. I head back to the kitchen to dice some chives and spinach I found in Tate’s fridge for the omelet. I keep tabs on Dylan through the breakfast bar opening that looks directly into the dining area.
I reluctantly open Tate's phone. Thankfully the notes app is still open so I don't see anything else on his device. Not a call history, names, or text messages, nothing. I don't want to know what is going on in Tate's life. I just want to settle Dylan and get the hell out. I jot down step-by-step instructions like he's never made food himself before, which I know he has.
By the time the omelet is made and broken up in a Tupperware I place in front of Dylan, I'm deep into two new notes for Tate. I make a list of things he needs to buy for this place for Dylan and a list of things he needs to baby-proof. This townhouse is quite possibly the worst place I could imagine for an infant about to start walking. So many stairs and virtually no outdoor space. If I were Tate, I would move. But I’m not and that’s too big a suggestion to make. If he asks my opinion I’ll tell him though.
Where the hell is Tate anyway? It shouldn’t take that long to store a coffee table. As Dylan finishes his omelet I wet some paper towels and clean up his face and hands. Tate’s phone rings and I see a WhatsApp video chat request come up with his dad’s name. A jolt of panic hits me and I take Dylan and back away from the phone like it’s dangerous. It is. I don’t want to hit the wrong button by mistake and end up face-to-face with Mr. Garrison. That isnothow his dad can find out.
I decide to go outside and hunt down Tate. With Dylan on my hip, I walk out the front door. Southern California hits me full force. I have only ever been here once before, but the feel of the Los Angeles heat is unforgettable.
It's barely nine in the morning and it's hot. Not sweat-inducing but close. The traffic is zipping by at a relentless rate on Abbott Kinney just past the metal fence and palm trees. The air swirls with scents of tar from the heated pavement and salt from the ocean a few blocks away. And yeah, it's hot but the sky is full-on slate gray. Tate told me, that first morning Diana and I visited, that the locals call it June Gloom, but that it's actually year-round in the coastal areas like Santa Monica, Malibu, and Venice. I liked it. I still like it.
I see him wedged in between the bumper of his fancy car and the closed door to the storage locker. His shoulders are hunched and… moving. “Hey.”
He startles. His hands move up to his face but he doesn’t turn to face me. “What?”
Did he just snap at me?
“I was just wondering if you needed help,” I lie, my tone a little sharp but nothing like his. “You’ve been gone a while. Where is the table?”
“Already in the unit,” he barks.Barks. Yeah, I am not deserving of this attitude.
“Well, your dad tried to video chat you,” I add.
Now he spins to face me. He looks… weird. His skin is… red. From the exertion of dealing with the table by himself? But something twists in my gut.
“Tell me you didn’t answer it.”
“No,” I spit out, confused by the fact that he is still coming at me like an angry animal. All bite and bark. “I am not going to be the one to tell your parents about any of this.”
"Neither am I," he replies, and before his words even register he brushes past me.
“What?” I heard what he said, I just can’t believe it. I start to follow him back to his townhouse. A car pulls into the parking and slowly drives past. It’s a cherry red Porsche. I swear everyone in Los Angeles spends more on their cars than the average American makes in a year. “What do you mean you aren’t going to tell them? Today? Or… ever?”
Tate keeps stomping toward his house. I follow, ignoring the rustling palms, the hot air blowing them, and the sun finally trying to push through the gray haze above us. Tate’s hair has a rusty tint to it when the sun hits it a certain way. He gets that from his mom who has auburn hair. “I can’t lock him away in a dungeon and pretend he doesn’t exist, Mal. So obviously they’ll find out eventually. Everyone will.”
“So when?” I demand as we round the corner on the flagstone path and reach the steps to his front patio.
Tate stops and turns to face me. He's much taller than me. It wasn't always the case. Back in fifth grade, I was taller than him by half an inch. I miss those days when my biggest worry was my crush was shorter than me. Instead of whether this gorgeous, talented, rich man was going to reject this child I love so much. And how I was going to get over losing my best friend. And what the hell I was going to do next with my life. And if my ribs would ever stop hurting or my head would ever stop pounding. I've had a low-grade headache since the accident.
"I… I will… tell them. Everyone. I just need…" Tate's stuttering pulls me from my reverie. "I just need to figure some stuff out. And a lot is going on right now with the team and my career."
"Sorry, his mother couldn't die at a more convenient time."
Yeah. I said that. And as soon as it comes out of my mouth I regret it. His face goes ghost white and his light eyes somehow darken and his whole body goes rigid. And I open my mouth to say something else, but I have no idea what to say so it just hangs open, wordless. He turns and storms into his house, not bothering to wait for us. I throw open the metal storm door and step inside, pausing to lock it because that's who I am. He is standing in the middle of the living room just staring straight ahead at nothing. He's breathing so heavily I can see the rise and fall of his chest across the room.
“You can keep judging me, Mallory,” Tate says, his voice so hard and venomous it’s unrecognizable. “I can learn very easily not to give a fuck about you or your opinions of me, so do your worst. But the fact is, this is a catastrophic level of shock and I am doing my best to figure out how to cope with it. You don’t like it, then perhaps you should have picked up the fucking phone and told me I was a father before showing up here. Before Diana died. Before he was even fucking born. I had a right to knowbeforethis.”
The guilt I feel over my comment grows as heavy and thick as concrete in my gut. "I begged her almost every day to tell you until she told me if I kept asking she would never speak to me again."
“Youcould have told me.”
“It wasn’t my place.” I swallow and feel tears sting the corners of my eyes. “Her body. Her baby. Her choice. I know you know that.”
"I wouldn't have asked her to get rid of him," Tate snaps, and now his eyes look glossy like he's fighting his own tears. "What the fuck, Mal. Do you think I would have done that? I just… I would have been there."
“She had found someone else.” My ribs are starting to ache from holding Dylan who has been extremely patient throughout this. I move to put him back on the floor, by his toys, but the motion makes me wince as sharp, stabbing needles of pain attack my side.
“What is wrong with you?” Tate asks. “You wince a lot.”
