After Ever Happy (After 4)

“Spare me the fucking details.” I clench my fists on my lap, forcing my mouth to close so he can finish.

“Okay, okay, yeah.” He stares out the windshield. “Well, one thing led to another, and we were having a full-blown affair at this point. Ken had no idea. Max and Denise suspected something, but neither of them spoke up. I begged your mum to leave him for neglecting her—I know it’s fucked-up, but I loved her.”

His brows knit together. “She was the only escape I had from my own self-destructive behaviors. I cared about Ken, but I couldn’t see past my love for her. I never could see past it.” He blows out a hard breath.

“And . . .” I press after a few seconds of silence.

“Yes . . . Well, and so when she announced that she was pregnant, I thought we would run away together and that she would marry me instead of him. I promised her that if she chose me, I would quit fucking off and would be there for her . . . for you.”

I feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look into them.

“Your mum felt I wasn’t stable enough for her, and I sat there biting my tongue while she and your—Ken—announced that they were expecting and that they would be married that same week.”

What the fuck? I look over at him, but he’s clearly lost in the past as he stares at the road ahead.

“I wanted the best for her, and I couldn’t drag her through the mud and ruin her reputation by telling Ken or anyone the truth of what happened between us. I kept telling myself that he had to know deep down that it wasn’t his child growing inside of her. Your mum swore that he had not touched her in months.” Vance’s shoulders shake lightly as an evident chill runs through him. “I stood there in my suit at their small wedding as his best man. I knew he would give her what I couldn’t. I wasn’t even planning to go to university. All I did with my time was pine after a married woman and memorize pages from old novels that would never become my life. I had no plan, no money, and she needed both of those things.” He sighs, trying to escape the memory.

Watching him, I’m surprised by what comes to mind and what I feel compelled to say. I form a fist, then relax, trying to resist.

Then I form a fist again, and I don’t recognize my voice as I ask, “So basically my mum used you for her entertainment and tossed you aside because you had no money?”

Vance lets out a deep breath. “No. She didn’t use me.” He glances in my direction. “I know it seems that way, and it’s such a fucked-up situation, but she had to think of you and your future. I was a complete and utter fuckup—complete rubbish. And I had nothing going for me.”

“And now you have millions,” I bitterly remark. How can he defend my mum after all this shit? What is wrong with him? But then something in me turns, and I think about my mother, losing two men who later turned out to be rich, while she toils away at her job, coming home to her sad little house.

Vance nods. “Yes, but there was no way to know how I would turn out. Ken had his shit together, and I didn’t. Period.”

“Until he started getting shit-faced every night.” My anger starts building again. I feel as if I will never escape this anger as the sharp sting of betrayal cuts through me. I spent my childhood with a fucking drunk while Vance was living the high life.

“That was another one of my fuckups,” says this man who I was so sure for so long that I knew, that I really knew. “I went through a lot of shit after you were born, but I enrolled in university and loved your mum from afar . . .”

“Until?”

“Until you were about five years old. It was your birthday, and we were all there for your party. You came running into the kitchen, yelling for your daddy—” Vance’s voice cracks, and I ball my fist tighter. “You had a book clutched to your chest, and for a second I forgot that you weren’t talking about me.”

I slam my fist on the dashboard. “Let me out of the car,” I demand. I can’t listen to this anymore. This is so fucked-up. It’s too much for me to comprehend at once.

Vance ignores my outburst and keeps driving along this residential street. “I lost it that day. I demanded that your mum tell Ken the truth. I was sick of watching you grow up, and by then I had already secured my plans to move to America. I begged her to come with me, and to bring you, my son.”

My son.

My stomach lurches. I should just jump out of the car, moving or not. I look out at the pleasant little houses we travel past, thinking I will take physical pain over this any day.

“But she refused and told me that she had some testing done and . . . and that you weren’t my child after all.”

“What?” I reach up to rub my temples. I would crack the dashboard with my skull if I thought it would help.

I look over at him and see him looking left and right quickly. Then I notice the speed we’re traveling at and realize that he’s running every stoplight and stop sign, trying to make sure I don’t jump out. “She panicked, I guess. I don’t know.” He eyes me. “I knew she was lying—she admitted there were no tests many years later. But at the time, she was adamant; she told me to leave it alone and apologized for making me think you were mine.”

I focus on my fist. Flex, release. Flex, release . . .

“Another year went by, and we began speaking again . . .” he starts, but something is off in his tone.

“You mean fucking again.”

Another hard exhale escapes his mouth. “Yes . . . every time we were near one another, we made the same mistake. Ken was working a lot, studying for his master’s by that point, and she was home with you. You were always so much like me; every time I came over, you had your face buried between pages. I don’t know if you remember, but I would always bring books to you. I gave you my copy of The Great Gats—”