“You know how radicalized so many people have become,” Natesaid. “But that’s enough about my work.” He set down his whiskey and turned to face me. I couldn’t tell if my every cell was electric with lust or confession nerves. “How about you? What’d you get up to today?”
I couldn’t bring myself to say I’d been trying to recover from hypothermia incurred after blowing up the aforementioned snowmobiles. So I told him about pole class and my comic attempt to master the martini spin.
A lesser man would’ve made a salacious comment, but Nate just listened. When I was done, he said he’d read an interview with Seinfeld once where Seinfeld said he knew lots of rich people, and you’d think they’d be happy, but they’re all miserable. According to Seinfeld, the key to happiness isn’t money. The key to happiness is trying to master a skill. “That’s why he’s always working on his jokes,” Nate said. “Even though he’s insanely successful and—at this point—kind of old.”
“But I haven’t written any jokes for months,” I said.
“No, no. I meant you’re learning an entirely new skill. Pole dancing.”
“A month ago I would’ve laughed in your face if you said I’d be learning pole.”
“Why?” he said.
Looking into his eyes was disconcerting. “Because it’s ridiculous!” I said.
“I think I might like ridiculous,” he said.
There was a gravitational pull to this gorgeous, smart, sexy man who seemed to really see me. An elemental chemistry bubbling between us. And if I failed to figure out who murdered Idaho Connor (or worse, if I discovered I was the culprit), this might be my last opportunity for an evening like this. At least for a long, long time.
That’s when I leaned in and kissed Nate. And, oh! That first kiss! It was like eating gelato in the sun after a lifetime of only ever having Froyo under gray skies. Suddenly I was ravenous for him, this lover from a past life. I peeled his flannel from his muscular arms. My hands ran over his strong bare shoulders. He was saying, “Are you sure?” And I was saying,yes, yes, yes.
Twenty-Nine
Five orgasms later (Tilly: three, Nate: two—those were my kind of stats!), I was in a postcoital love fog, floating on a mattress cloud, anxieties annihilated by the cocktail of dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin sloshing in my brain. With my head on Nate’s chest, his fingers twirling a lock of my hair, my loved-up hormones told me the ultimate lie—nothing bad could happen if I trusted him.
“I have something to tell you,” I said. I’d begin at the beginning, only leaving out Layna’s assistance. He would take care of me. He would get me out of this disastrous mess.
“All ears,” he said. “But hang tight.” He threw back the covers and sat up. That’s when I saw it, glowing in the moonlight. A birthmark on his lower back. An all-natural Florida tramp stamp. A perfect copy of Phoebe’s. Or hers was the copy.
It was like being slapped across the face with a dirty dish towel.
Because I suddenly understood why I’d felt such an instant connection.
As if I’d known Nate forever.
He’d donated sperm in Boise.
I’d received donor sperm in Boise.
Now I knew why his every gesture seemed familiar! When we’d gotten ice cream, the girls had shown Nate their double-jointed elbows, their ability to fold their tongues into that weird cloverleaf shape. Only he could bend his elbows back and fold up his tongue like origami too—because those were genetic anomalies they’d inherited from him!
As Nate padded—clueless and happy—to the bathroom, I curled upinto a literal ball of shock. The sperm I’d gotten had been from an eighteen-year-old donor. That was eight years ago, so I’d assumed the donor would now be twenty-six. Nate was at least forty-five. That math didn’t add up. But he’d been a freshman at Boise State when he sold his sperm. It could have sat in a freezer for twenty-something years before being released to me.
A gargling moan escaped me.
“You okay?” Nate called from the bathroom. The toilet flushed.
No biggie. Just realizing you’re probably the father of my children.“Fine!” I squeaked.
I’d been fifteen when I stared across the syrup-sticky Kansas City diner booth at my bio dad for the first time. A year before, I’d developed an overpowering urge to meet him. It didn’t come from a dissatisfaction with my mother—even during my resentful teenage years, I still deep down knew she was the greatest. It was more of a pressing need to solve the mystery of who I was and why. I had my mother’s sense of humor and limp hair, but I wanted to meet the man who’d bequeathed me my flat feet and strange cravings for Sun Chips with cottage cheese.
In that diner booth, I’d studied my father’s graying hair and puffy neck. The red veins that crisscrossed his nose and cheeks, alarming as cracking glass. What had I expected? That he’d be handsome and fascinated by me. That he’d ask me about my friends and interests. That he’d want me to explain how Alanis Morissette’s music was actually more important than grunge, but when looked at critically, could also be considered an attempt to cash in on the riot grrrl movement’s revolutionary sentiments. That he would gaze at me admiringly and say, “You are so hip and smart—just like I imagined.”
But after a perfunctory, “You’re pretty like your mother,” he’d ordered the meat lover’s breakfast plate for both of us—not even bothering to learn I was in my vegetarian phase—and proceeded to natter on about an import business scheme he was trying to get off the ground.
“You probably haven’t heard about it yet because you live in Boise,but button-up shirts worn backwards are about to be big,” he’d said, using his toast as a sponge for his revoltingly runny egg yolk. “My company’ll sell men’s dress shirts designed to fit perfectly when you wear ’em backwards.” He leaned forward as if to impart an insider trading secret. “It’s a style that’s gonna be huge.”
The year before, a hip-hop duo had had one irresistible top-of-the-charts banger. They’d done it while wearing their dads’ dress shirts backward. For about a month, tween boys across the land had copied them. Like a defective firework, the fad had never fully popped off. Yet my biological father was pontificating on this “future” trend as if he was Sir Mix-a-Lot predicting the comeback of the big booty.
