“If you love him, and you’ve ever wanted him back, then this is your chance,” Leyla responded. “Here’s what I’m thinking. I’ll set up a GoFundMe and publicize it all over social media, make it really splashy so that perhaps you would have come upon it organically. Then, you make a donation—however much, I don’t really think the amount matters—and add in a note or something so that he sees it’s from you. He’ll reach out, and you can take it from there.”
“Does he need money? Because I’ll gladly donate if he does.”
“He won’t be able to work for a while, so yeah, he’ll need financial help. This isn’t like some get rich quick scheme. The money we raise will help him and Brett stay afloat while I’m in California. Then, once we wrap, I’ll come back this summer and bring Brett out to the West Coast with me.”
“What about Matt? Don’t you think he’ll want to be near his kid?”
“Obviously we’ll share her. Anyway, we can cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, we just need to focus on next steps.”
~
I spoke to Jess to ask for her opinion.
“I don’t trust any of it,” she said, matter-of-factly. “How do you know he evenhada stroke? She sounds crazy, and I would stay far away from that if I were you.”
“But, Jess, if Matt's sick—”
“Then that’s awful, and I’m sorry to hear it.”
“What if it was Seth? What if you guys missed your chance at being together and you found out he had a stroke? What if he needed you?”
“Honestly, Taylor, I don’t know what I would do. All I’m saying is that I don’t trust Leyla. This has nothing to do with Matt. Whatshe’ssuggesting is sneaky and manipulative. Think about it. This is his heart you’re talking about. Literally.”
“But if what she’s saying is true, then he’s going to need help.”
“It doesn’t have to come from you, though. I’m sorry. Taylor. I love you, but I think this is a mistake. I feel like you’d be making a deal with the devil.”
“What if this is the only way I’ll ever get to be with him?”
“It’s your call. Just be careful.”
I will be. I won’t believe anything unless I see it with my own eyes.
With that in mind, a plan was formed.
Ten days later, after much deliberation, I appeared on Matt’s doorstep with a letter and a check for $10,000.
But then, a little over two months after that, Leyla changed her mind.
Chapter thirty-three
7 Years Ago
Iwas 24 years-old the second time I left Matt Thompson.
By Friday morning, everyone had packed up and gone except for Pat, Dottie, Matt and me. I showered and blew out my hair—a rarity in the summer—in preparation for my interview. I threw on a touch of makeup and packed the essentials—gum, Chapstick, my phone, keys and wallet—into a purse, hoping to look less like a summer camp misfit and more like a youth development professional. I sized myself up in the mirror and was surprisingly satisfied with the reflection looking back at me.
Since Matt wrote the interview off as nothing other than “good practice,” I didn’t make a big to-do over keeping him in the loop. I shot him a text on my way out and promised to come find him as soon as I got back. I could tell he thought it was a waste of gas, and probably a waste of time, but I was trying to figure out what my next steps should be given all we were going through. There was a nagging voice in the back of my head that I struggled to ignore, a voice that kept reminding me that I was the only thing standing between that baby and the love of his or her father. But I couldn’t do the right thing without a safe place to land. With no job and no housing prospects, all I had was amaster’s degree and an empty bedroom at Aunt Lucy’s house. Which really wasn’t enough.
I arrived at Trinity Youth Services, a converted old school building on the property of a church, 15 minutes early. It was located just off Jamaica Avenue, less than five miles from the neighborhood where I grew up. I hadn’t been back to Queens since cleaning out my apartment with Aunt Lucy. The air smelled of hot asphalt and fried plantains from the Peruvian restaurant next door. I watched as a trio of little girls jumped rope in the parking lot out front. Smiling at them, I entered the building.
The front desk was manned by an older lady with a colorful head wrap who was fanning herself leisurely with a folder.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“My name’s Taylor Roberts. I have an appointment with Gabby Rodriguez at noon.”
“She’s mine,” a tall woman called from inside an office with a window overlooking the dim, green-tiled lobby. A large bulletin board hung on the wall next to the office, touting programs and events that were coming up in the days and weeks to follow. A few photos of children in their summer day camp were hung in the corner of the board. In one, two boys wearing swim trunks splashed one another in a city park sprinkler.Far cry from Sound Hollow, that’s for sure.
