Say It's Not Fake

I tucked my hands into my pockets so I wouldn’t be tempted to cross them over my chest defensively. “Not since two weeks ago,” I admitted.

My mother’s face turned instantly sour. She had tried to like Josie—for my sake. But during the five years we were together, Josie had always rubbed my mom the wrong way. I could never really understand why. Josie had been a sweet woman. A good girlfriend in all the ways that counted. It just hadn’t been meant to be. And it was only after she became pregnant that I saw her true nature. Maybe Mom had been able to see the inherent selfishness that bubbled below the surface better than I ever could.

Men were easily blinded by a nice pair of boobs and regular sex. Unfortunately, I had not been an exception. My only excuse was that I was young and inexperienced.

And I had been trying like hell to get over—in any way possible—the girl that had unceremoniously broken my heart.

My mom ran a hand over Katie’s head, her expression softening. “I don’t understand how anyone could abandon this beautiful little girl.”

“She didn’t abandon—” I started to argue but then stopped myself short. I had grown accustomed to defending Josie, more out conditioning rather than true belief. When someone asked where Josie was, it was easier to say, “She’s taking time for herself, but she’s planning to come back soon.” I didn’t want to have to tell the real story. Because that one was harder and uglier.

The truth was I was tired of defending a woman who, I was starting to feel, didn’t deserve my defense. Because she had abandoned her daughter. At first, I understood. She had postpartum depression. Allowances should be made for that. But the longer she stayed away and the less I heard from her, the rage that had been quietly simmering started to come to the surface.

My shoulders slouched slightly, feeling defeated—and it wasn’t even 8:30 in the morning. “Yeah, well it is what it is.” I plastered a smile on my face for my daughter, who was making silly noises in that adorable way she did. “I’m just lucky to have this little gal in my life, whatever the circumstances.”

I was relieved when my mom’s expression became gentle. “We can agree on that one,” she conceded, patting my cheek like I was still ten years old. “Okay, you better get to work. I was thinking of taking Katie to the garden center for lunch.”

“That sounds great.” I kissed my mom on the cheek before bending down to nuzzle the top of my daughter’s dark head, the same color of walnut as mine. “Love you, munchkin. Be good for Nommy.”

Katie held her arms out for a hug the way she always did. I squeezed her just enough. Leaving her would never get easy. Even if I was only leaving her to go to work, knowing she was in good hands.

“Da-da,” she said with a toothy grin, patting my cheek in an imitation of what she had seen my mother do.

“I’ll check in with you guys later,” I promised. My mom rolled her eyes, knowing later meant in about an hour. I never thought I’d be one of those neurotic helicopter parents. I was too laid back, too cool for that. Then I became a dad, and all those preconceived ideas of what a chill father I’d be went right out the window.

Mom all but shooed me out the door, handing me a cinnamon roll for the road. I gave a final wave to my dad before climbing back into my truck and heading to the center of town.

I made it to the town square in six minutes exactly. Southport wasn’t exactly a sprawling metropolis. It was quintessential small-town America with flags on every lamppost and pretty flowers overflowing from window boxes on every business along the main street. It was about as apple pie as you could get and was filled with a nostalgic familiarity that was both comforting and suffocating.

My family had moved there when I first started middle school. I hadn’t been too jazzed about leaving the excited, frenetic energy of Philadelphia for what felt like the backwoods of Pennsylvania. It sucked being the new kid. Particularly when you towered like a giant over all of your peers like some sort of Sasquatch.

But then I met Skylar Murphy in homeroom that first morning. She was surly with a mop of dyed black hair that hung in front of her face and a perpetual scowl. Most people gave her a wide berth, but that hadn’t been enough to deter me. Even though I was less than thrilled with the move and was feeling more than a little self-conscious, I was an outgoing guy. I made friends easily. People generally liked me. So, I reached a hand out to the goth in training and introduced myself.