“I’ll have to disconnect the call to send it.”
“I don’t care. Just send me the fucking picture.”
I hang up the call and wait.
It seems to take forever before my cell beeps with a text.
I take a fortifying breath.
This is stupid. I’m being stupid. This kid isn’t mine. She’s just some psycho chick making crank calls.
But…what if she’s not?
Decision made, I open the text, click on the picture, and stare at my screen, waiting for it to load.
Then, it does.
Holy fuck.
I can’t breathe. Staring back at me is a blue-eyed little boy with dirty-blond hair and a smile that could bring the sun down, and he looks exactly like me.
But how can I be sure? He might just be a kid who looks like me.
Looks a lot like me.
His eyes…he has my eyes.
I race into my bedroom, into the closet, and I pull down a shoebox that contains some old photos.
I drop to the floor, opening up the box. I search through the family photos, some of me and Jake from high school, and then I find what I’ve been looking for—a picture of me from the first grade.
I hold my phone with the picture next to the photo of me at the same age.
Jesus Christ.
We look like twins.
My heart starts to pump as my cell starts to ring in my hand.
I answer, pressing the phone to my ear, my hand shaking.
“You got the picture?” she says before I get chance to speak.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And you know he looks like me. What exactly do you want from me? Money?”
“I don’t want money.” She sounds appalled that I even suggested it.
I guess that’s when the final nail sinks into the coffin.
“I want Storm to have a chance to know his dad. That’s all. Tiffany will never tell you herself. But I think Storm has a right to know who his father is.”
Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose, a sudden headache coming on.
I push to my feet, walking out of the closet, heading for my bathroom. “Does Tiffany still live in New York?” I ask.
“No, she lives in Queens.”
“Give me her address.”
There’s a pause. I grab some aspirin out of the cabinet and swallow down two.
“Why?” she asks in a tentative voice.
“Why do you think?” I say impatiently. “You called me for a reason. That reason is so my son can know me, right?”
“Yes…” she says slowly.
“Then, give me her fucking address.”
“Maybe you should call her first.”
“And scare her away? No fucking way. Address now.”
There’s a pause, then, she says, “It’s the apartment above Marie’s Country Bakery on North Street in Queens.”
“Got it. I’m catching a flight out tonight. Don’t you dare tell her I’m coming. I don’t want her running off again.”
“I won’t tell,” she says softly.
I hang up the phone. My heart pounding, I grip the edge of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
I don’t like what’s staring back at me. I look a mess. My eyes are dark and hollow.
I have a son.
Jesus, I can’t take care of myself, let alone another human being.
But I have to because I have a kid…a child that’s mine.
I’m not afraid to admit that I’m fucking terrified though.
Maybe I should call Dad? Ask for his advice.
No. I want to be sure that this kid’s mine before I tell my parents. Once I see him, I’ll know for sure.
Who am I kidding? I already know for sure.
That kid looks exactly like me.
I could call Jake and get him to come with me.
But if I do, I know he’ll talk me out of going to see Storm. He’ll tell me to do it the legal way—to get my lawyer to contact the mother, get DNA tests and all that shit done first.
And I will do that.
But first, I need to see him with my own eyes.
I just need to meet him.
I need to meet my son.
Walking back into my bedroom, I click back to the picture, staring into my own blue eyes reflecting back at me, as I sit down on the edge of my bed.
I have a son. And he’s beautiful.
My heart starts to race, and I notice my hands are shaking again. Worse this time.
I eye the bottle of Diazepam on my nightstand.
Just a couple to take the edge off.
Grabbing the bottle, I shake out two and then changing my mind, I increase it to four.
Walking over to my dresser, I pick up an already open half-drunk bottle of gin. Unscrewing the cap, I put the pills in my mouth and take a long drink of gin, swallowing them down.
I place the bottle back on the dresser and just stare out the window, running a hand through my hair.
I need to go to Queens, now.
Getting my phone, I check the times for a direct flight from LAX to JFK. There’s a red-eye going out in a few hours.
Perfect.
Leaving my bedroom, I jog downstairs. I grab my jacket off the coat hook and my wallet and car keys off the hallway stand. Leaving my house, I lock up and head for my car parked in the driveway.
Unlocking my car, I climb in and fire her up. The headlights automatically come on in the dark. I shift the car into drive and open my security gate with the remote I keep in my car. As I pull out onto the deserted road, the gate starts to close behind me.
I press my foot on the gas, propelling me forward.