Her face hardens.
“Don’t waste your breath. I’m not telling you anything.”
I sigh. “After everything you’ve put me through, after I spent my entire childhood feeling bad for existing, don’t you think you at least owe me that? I’m not asking for the moon here. I’m not even asking for a biography. Just his name.”
Unconvinced, she remains silent.
“Do this for me and you’ll never hear from me again.”
These seems to be the magic words.
She curses under her breath and gets up, venturing into one of the rooms of her tiny, clustered apartment. I hear her rattling through stuff.
Five minutes later, she’s back.
“Michael.” She hands me a faint, old-looking picture with writing on the back. “Your father’s name is Michael. But everyone called him Mike.”
I assess every inch of the photograph carefully. It’s a Polaroid, which I’d say was taken at some sort of fair from the colorful lights in the background. On the right is a laughing sixteen-year-old Lauren. Next to her is a smiling, brown-haired guy with dark eyes. He looks so obliviously happy, admiring my mom while she laughs her heart out. Man, they might have been young, but I would’ve believed any guy loved me too if he’d looked at me like that.
He’s a good-looking guy with unique features, not one of those people whose faces get lost in the crowd.
Crazy to think I come from him.
“He’s probably dead, if you ask me.” She shrugs. “He loved getting in trouble. Could’ve made it a profession.”
“Did he ever contact you again? After he left?”
“Not once. His friends just said he disappeared one day. Packed his bags and left town.”
“And his family?”
“Never met them. I was just a summer fling, remember?”
I nod.
“Thanks.” I mean it.
I rise up and hand her the photograph.
“You keep it. I never want to see his face again.”
I nod and walk over
to the door. Sliding the picture into my coat pocket, I tell her goodbye—although what I really mean is farewell—and exit her apartment.
I check my phone as I walk down the hall. Numerous texts await me.
Haze: Winter?
Haze: Please don’t do this. You can’t just ghost me after last night.
Haze: I meant what I said. Every single word.
Haze: Fuck, text me back.
Haze: I’m not giving up on us. Not this time.
His last messages hit the hardest.