“Yeah,” I repeat.
There’s a long silence where I can hear my pulse pounding in my temples.
“Wasn’t gonna tell ya?” Bobby asks, finally.
“Doesn’t seem that way.” The pain of that realization hits anew, stabbing sharply in my chest. Her avoidance. The betrayal. “I basically put the pieces together myself at dinner last night, and she didn’t deny it when I confronted her.”
This grunt is an outraged one, and despite my devastation, I’m mildly amused by the realization that I’ve learned to discern his various noises.
“She’s got two boys, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So … the oldest?”
I swallow and nod. “Matt. Uh, Matthew … Jamison.” The last name is bitter on my tongue. It should be Walker, goddammit. And fuck if that thought doesn’t cause me to sit up straight in my seat, shocked at the wave of certainty and possessiveness that washes over me.
Holy shit.
But … he’smine, after all. The boy is mine. Just like his mother. They’rebothsupposed to be mine.
Bobby watches my face with interest as these thoughts no doubt flit across my features. Eventually, he leans over and pats me on the knee. “Let me get ya some water and somethin’ ta eat, and we’ll talk this all through.” He pauses, eyeing me some more. “Some aspirin, too, I think. Then you can start from the beginnin’ and we’ll see if we can’t sort this all out.”
I snort. “Sort it out?”
“What you’re gonna do.”
“I know what I’m gonna do.”
“Do ya, now?”
“I’m gonna be a fuckin’ dad.”
Despite the shock having yet to wear off, Idoknow I want that. I want to know my son.
Jesus, how crazy is that to say?
My son.
Bobby nods. “Won’t be easy, though. This kid doesn’t know you from Adam.”
“I know.”
I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. I have so much to make up for. Yet another person to add to the list of people I need to—
“And … his mother?”
Steph. Yeah, it’s true, I don’t know what to do about Steph. The fact that she’s kept this from me, that she’s continued to keep this from me since my return—since our talk on the ridge—it’s … heartbreaking. But at the same time, I see everything so clearly now. The pain, the worry, the fear I’d sometimes glimpsed on her face. Why she’s been so reluctant, so hot and cold with me, despite seemingly wanting to give me a second chance.
It hurts.
It really goddamn hurts that she didn’t tell me.
Pisses me right the fuck off, actually.
But then … who’ve I got to blame for that but myself? I’m the one who pushed her away, a little voice in my head reminds me. When exactly did I expect her to let me know? When I was in prison? Or when I got out but continued to hide from everyone who knew and loved me?
She still could have reached out to me, another voice argues. It’s not like I disappeared off the face of the earth. I stayed in touch with my mom. She could have found me, could have gotten me a message if she’d tried.
