“Then I guess I sold myself a little short.”
Story of my life.
* * *
We make the short drive home, the pizza arrives, and when Wilder eventually putters his way to bed, I almost inhale two glasses of wine to take off the edge. My body has been fighting panic the whole evening, pushing away intrusive thoughts of the worst-case scenario type. I’d plastered on a fake smile, keeping it there for Wilder by the sheer force of my will. I’d also tried not to frighten him by hugging the life out of him as I’d tucked him in. So two generous glasses of cheap chardonnay later, and my hands are still shaking as I pull out my phone. I told Roman I’d find him, in no way ready to confess we’d be within a few dozen feet of each other as our heads hit our respective pillows tonight. I know texting is the chicken way out, but you know what? CLUCK!
I am not yet ready to face him as I swipe the screen and—
—oh
—my
—cluck
I mean, fuck.
He didn’t. Only, yes. Yes, he did.
Jesus H Christ, I am going to need a vat of wine to be anywhere near this man. If I’m perma-drunk, maybe I won’t have the hand-eye coordination to throttle him! I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and narrow my gaze at his name in my phonebook. His nom de guerre? His chance to annoy me, more specifically.
Does he think I need a reminder? That I haven’t made enough mistakes in my life?
I’m suddenly angry—so angry—as I begin to stomp around the kitchen when I really want to slam drawers and doors, stamp my feet in frustration, and swear to the high heavens while shaking my fists. But Wilder might not be asleep yet, and he’s never seen me truly angry. But this is a strange kind of anger. It warms, and it feels inexplicably better than it should. It feels better than it ought to, I silently censure. Because the man made a power move. A little flexing reminder that makes me quiver from more than just anger.
Wrong, Kennedy. Bad Kennedy!
Do not be flattered by him.
He’s only been here five minutes, and you’re already lusting after him?
But I can’t help but admit that a tiny part of me is flattered. Flattered by his reaction, that initial hug and smile seemed to expose his very heart. Right or wrong, I’m also flattered by the whole phone nonsense, the way he’s sought to remind me because it means he remembers, too.
I suddenly get a whiff of artificial lemons and glance down. I have a bottle of Lysol in one hand and the cloth in the other. It’s been a while since I’d gone into overthinking mode and cleaned the whole kitchen without realising, but if anything was going to do it, it’d be this situation, right here. That man in my home. I mean, almost. At least there’s a plus side to this manifestation of anxiety, I decide, glancing around the gleaming countertops. I swap out the Lysol for wine, splashing a little more into my glass. Pulling out a chair at the kitchen table, I ease into it to contemplate my phone a little more. I consider changing Roman’s piece of ridiculous title for his actual name. Or maybe asshole. But decide there are more important things to take care of. And it only takes me a half dozen attempts to type out a semi-coherent message. At least, one that I’m satisfied with.
This is Kennedy. I thought we might meet tomorrow to talk about . . .
To talk about what?
How you didn’t know you had a son?
Why you didn’t know?
Talk about this piece of nonsense on my phone?
Hi Roman, I eventually settle on. This is Kennedy. I thought we might meet tomorrow to talk about things.
Things. It’s such a small and unassuming word to encompass this traumatic clusterfuck of a situation. Do you feel traumatised, Roman, because I’m rapidly getting there?
I brush my hand through my hair and notice it’s shaking. It’s like, now that I’m alone, my body recognises the enormity of what happened earlier. Of what’s about to happen. How my life, and more importantly, Wilder’s life, is about to change forever. And the fact that I have no idea how is scaring the bejesus out of me.
What happens if he only wants to know the facts without knowing the boy?
Might that be a good thing? At least, for me? But judging by his earlier expression—the granite set to his jaw and that low, adamant tone—I can’t think that’s the case. If you think I’m gonna ignore this, you’re wrong, my mind intones in some approximation of his deep voice. I’ve fucked up somehow.
That’s what he’d said. But that’s just one side of the story.