Someone Else's Ocean

Daddy? What’s wrong?

My gaze drifted over Ella—she had pale skin to my olive complexion, light hair to my dark, and deep-sea blue eyes to my gray.

In an attempt to mask the fear racing through me, I forced a smile worthy of an Oscar as my gaze drifted to Tara. If it was guilt etched all over her face, if I was reading her right—which I’d become a pro at over the years—every-fucking-thing was wrong.

Ella raised her hands, a frightened look on her face. What’s wrong?

I glared at Tara who sank in her chair confirming my worst fear. Apparently, there was a feeling worse than what I felt just hours ago.

Ella waved frantically for my attention.

Daddy, what is it?

It’s okay, sweetheart. I just need a minute with your mother. Tara, I need to speak to you outside.

I walked the hall quietly, trying to steady my heartbeat with even breaths as she followed slightly behind me. I made it to the garage barely able to handle the rattle under my skin from the rage that threatened.

I turned on Tara abruptly and she stopped just short of hitting my chest. She was beautiful. At one point in time, I thought she was the most beautiful woman alive. At one point in time, I couldn’t imagine a life without her. At one point in time, I would’ve taken a bullet for her, no questions asked. She had been my life. She had been my purpose, my meaning, my everything. Seething, I fisted my hands at my sides and tried to hold my bite, but it was impossible. I prayed I would owe her an apology for the thoughts that surfaced.

“I’ve always given you credit for being more intelligent than you actually are. But by the look on your face, you’re frightened about something that can’t be true.”

Tara stared at the stripes on my necktie.

“Look at me.”

Her eyes shot to mine and were full of fear, tears threatening.

“Because in order to determine paternity, it would require more than a blood test.”

“Ian—”

“I know my damned name. Fourteen years I was your husband, and fifteen her father. Tell me now, Tara. Right. Fucking. Now. Tell me my suspicions are ridiculous. Tell me Ella belongs to me in every sense. Tell me.”

“Ian—”

“Tell me!”

Fear and trepidation marked every inch of her as all the anger dissipated out of me in one breath and devastation took its place.

Don’t ask her, Ian. It doesn’t matter. Don’t ask her!

I pointed behind her. “Tell me that’s my little girl in that room that calls me, Daddy, not his. Tell me I didn’t lose my life to your selfish fucking whims. Tell me!”

Incredulous tears fell down my face as my heart bottomed out.

“Tell me she’s mine, Tara,” I croaked, my face soaked, my heart obliterated. “Don’t do this to me. Please, I’m begging you. If you ever loved me at all, tell me she’s mine.”

“She is your daughter,” she offered weakly.

“But I didn’t father her, did I?”

I DON’T ALWAYS FEEL LIKE a failure, but as I picked up the iguana crap from the side of the pool, a small glimpse of the life I left behind hit me in a flash—sipping a designer martini with a killer view of the city from the thirty-fifth floor, a healthy bank account, and the feel of a new pair of heels.

“Freezing your ass off in those heels,” I muttered, studying my chipped blue toenails in the flip-flops I wore.

“Pardon?” Mrs. Osborne asked as I removed the ‘excrement’ that she had called about fifteen minutes after I thought I’d finished my day.

Holding the warm crap in my hand, I studied Mrs. Osborne lying in a lounge chair covering herself with thick glue-colored sunblock while inside the house, Mr. Osborne scoured the five-bedroom rental opening every single cabinet and drawer. “I think we’re all set.”