He poked my chest. “You jinxed my kid, you fucking loser! You jinxed the whole team! And you need to get the fuck out of here before I show you with my fist how I feel about that!”

I smirked. “Go ahead and show me, if you think you can.”

The guy immediately took a swing at my face, but I blocked it easily and delivered a quick, hard jab to his solar plexus that knocked the wind out of him and sent him sprawling back across the table. It was clear he was not going to get up and fight back.

At that point, the manager of the place came rushing over, but I was already on my way out. “Sorry,” I said to him as I took off for the door.

Adrenaline pumping, I stormed down the street to where I’d parked, got in my car, and slammed the door shut.

Motherfucker. I’d just punched a parent.

He’d deserved it, but still. David was going to kill me. Virgil was going to be disappointed. And given the media attention to my “dark side,” the school board was probably going to ban me from all future events.

Angrily, I banged the heel of my sore hand on the steering wheel and started the engine.

Why couldn’t I get anything right?

I drove over to April’s, stopping on the way to pick up a bottle of whiskey. My anger and self-loathing were at an all-time high, and I needed something to numb it. Using the key she’d given me this morning, I let myself into her condo and went straight to the kitchen, pulling a glass from the cupboard and pouring myself a shot of Templeton Rye.

After tossing it back, I poured another, and I was just lifting it to my mouth when I noticed a photograph on the floor by the kitchen table. Carrying the glass with me, I went over and picked it up.

Right away I recognized Chip Carswell and wondered why the hell April would have a photograph of him. I turned the picture over. On the back was written Charles Andrew, age 17.

Huh, his real name was Charles. I hadn’t realized that. I tossed back the second shot and looked at the front again.

Wait a fucking minute.

I froze and stared at the kid in the photograph.

At his dark eyes. And his long arms and legs. And his big hands. And his cocky grin, complete with dimple.

It was a boy. They named him Charles, after his father and grandfather.

The floor quaked beneath my feet. Sirens went off in my head. My vision clouded over.

My empty glass clattered to the floor. I grabbed the back of a kitchen chair to keep my body from going down next.

I couldn’t believe it. It was too crazy, too out there. Real life couldn’t be this fucked up, could it?

But the proof was right there in front of me.

Chip Carswell was my son.

Twenty-One

April

All day long, I’d been in a state of panic.

What should I do? Tell Tyler right away? Wait until I saw him? Say nothing at all?

No. I had to tell him. But how was he going to take it? Would the realization throw him too far off balance? Would he panic and retreat? Or was I overreacting? Maybe once he got over the shock, he’d see the blessing in knowing his son. After all, he’d matured a lot since the day he’d asked me not to put his name on the birth certificate. He wasn’t that freaked-out kid anymore. Maybe he’d see it as a sign from the universe that it was time to unlock that box and own that part of his identity.

Was it too much to hope for?

As Coco and I set up for that evening’s huge wedding reception, I fretted endlessly. Picked up my phone a thousand times and set it down again without calling or messaging him. Imagined every possible response on his part, from shock and denial to pride and acceptance.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Coco would ask every now and again, looking at me suspiciously.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

But I wasn’t. The knowledge was burning a hole in my brain, and it was growing bigger with every passing hour. The reception began, but I was distracted and withdrawn all night. People would come to me with easy questions or requests, and I’d stare at them blankly like they’d spoken a foreign language. Coco had to pick up a lot of the slack.

Eventually, she just sent me home.

“Look, I can handle this,” she assured me. “You’re not yourself tonight. Go home and get some rest.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes. Go.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.” But as I packed up to go, part of me dreaded the conversation ahead. As I drove home, the knots in my stomach pulled tighter. As I walked up to my own front door, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so nervous. Actually, maybe I could—it felt a lot like going over to Tyler’s house the night I told him I was pregnant.

That night had ended with me crying alone in my bed.

Please, God, let this one be different.

I let myself in, and the first thing I noticed was the silence. “Tyler?” I called, heading for the kitchen.

That’s when I saw him sitting alone at the table, staring morosely at the surface.

No, not at the surface—at the photograph of Chip.

My stomach dropped, and I sucked in my breath, grabbing the wall for support. I’d thought the picture was in my bag with the letter. It must have slipped out when I’d tucked the envelope in my bag. I closed my eyes and swallowed.

“How long have you known?” he asked angrily.

I looked at him and took a breath. “Just today.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to.” I moved closer and set my bag on the table. “But I didn’t want to do it over the phone, and I had to go to work.”

“I feel like I’ve been hit head-on by a fucking freight train.” He shook his head. “You realize this is the lefty? The one I’ve been working with?”

“Oh, God.” My stomach turned over again. “No, I didn’t realize that. You never mentioned him by name, Tyler.”

“Well, it’s him.”

I took the letter from my purse, telling myself to be patient. Of course he was going to be upset. “I opened this right before I left for work,” I said, sliding the handwritten pages across the table. “The photo was inside.”

He started to read, but then pushed them aside and stood up. “No,” he snapped. “I don’t want to know this. I don’t want to know any of it. I don’t want to know him, and I sure as hell don’t want him to know me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly, my throat growing tight. “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way, but Tyler—I didn’t know! I had no idea he lived so close, or attended Central, or played baseball!”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault.”

“What are you saying?”

Agitated, he began to pace, one hand on the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know I don’t want to be Chip’s father. He doesn’t need me fucking up his life.”

“Tyler, what are you talking about? You don’t have to be his father!”

“Are you planning to keep it a secret, who you are to him?”

“No. That’s kind of the point—I don’t want to keep it buried anymore. But your name never has to come up.”