Her presence in his life was intense at first. She wanted to go everywhere with him, watch everything he did, jet-set with us around the world. The girl clearly had daddy issues. But she was also fun. Frivolous. The life of the party in a way that I never could be. Raised by a former Hollywood A-list actress and a stepdad producer, Tatum was practically royalty and she owned it.
In retrospect, we had no business being together.
But she intrigued me with her fascinating brand of crazy, and she was one of the only women I’d ever met who understood the kind of pressure I was under and who could keep up with me between the sheets.
Looking back, I was blinded by lust.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty.
But everything’s crystal-fucking-clear.
“Just keep ignoring her,” Coach says. “She’ll calm down if you don’t feed into it. It’s like a dog, you can’t reinforce bad behavior or they’ll just keep doing it.”
I choke on a laugh. He did not just compare his daughter to a dog …
Although there are compelling similarities between Tatum and a yappy, palm-sized West Hollywood chihuahua.
“Been ignoring her for days.” I head toward the front door. “Anyway, if you could talk to her again, I’d appreciate it.”
Another message comes through—followed by a phone call.
I ignore both.
He groans. “I’ll try.”
“You’ll try?” I chuff. “Imagine if I said that to you on the court. You’d cut my fucking balls off with net string.”
He laughs. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll see if I can’t reason with her.”
Inside Rossi’s house, I pass the living room, where Carina and Lucia are spread out on the floor while Sesame Street plays on the TV.
“Hi, Baby Daddy,” she calls.
“Not sure if you were aware, but my name’s actually Fabian …” I tease before making my way to Rossi’s office and rapping on the door.
“Come in,” she calls.
“You’re still working?” I check the time.
“Just finishing up.” Her raspberry-colored nails clack on the keyboard. “Just finished one of the most complicated family trees I think I’ve ever done. Want to see?”
I take the seat in her guest chair and she turns her rose gold MacBook to face me.
“Look at this. This woman married this guy. He died after a year, so then she married his brother. Only it turns out it was his half-brother because his mother had an affair with the neighbor. And then the half-brother died, so the mom married a cousin. But the cousin was actually adopted into this huge family with, like, thirteen kids, so if you look here, I’ve got his bio parents and his adopted parents.”
I’m lost. But I nod like it all makes sense.
“Isn’t that crazy?” she asks. “All of this because a handful of relatives took DNA tests and submitted them to this database. That coupled with archived public records and I was able to make all of those connections. Insane, right?”
“Yeah, actually.” I scratch my temple, quietly grateful for my simple roots. A mom, a dad, a sister. A handful of aunts and uncles. Nothing crazy or complicated.
“You know, even if you didn’t want to find your sister, I could help you put together your family tree. I could potentially trace it back hundreds of years—depending on records, obviously. But I’ve had clients I was able to trace back to 15th century London.”
With my parents being in their forties when they had me, most of my aunts and uncles are getting up there in age, and some are no longer with us. Once they pass, they’ll take the family history with them. Not that I’ve ever given it much thought. I tend to focus on the future more than the past, and I always have. But once they’re gone, so, too, will be my opportunity to know about any cracks or interesting branches in the family lineage.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
“The DNA testing? Really?” She rises halfway, hovering over her desk.
“Yeah.”
Within seconds she’s digging some kit out of a drawer, unwrapping swabs and tubes and laying everything out on top of her desk. Snapping on a pair of gloves, she grins.
“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” I laugh.
“Obsessed with it.” She lifts a swab. “Now open wide.”
I try to picture my family tree now, the little dash beneath my name for Lucia. A dash I never would’ve even known about if it weren’t for the clinic’s error. While my parents are no longer with us, a part of them lives on in my daughter.
“Okay, all done.” Placing the swabs in a tube, she seals everything up in a biohazard bag before placing it carefully in a pre-labeled mailing envelope. “They should get this in two days, and then it could take a week or two to process. I know some people though, so I might be able to speed that up …”