Page 77 of Forever King

“I think you might be mistaken. She would have told me if she had a baby, wouldn’t she?” I ask, not trying to be rude.

Amelia knew who I was and the kind of money I had. It’s not like I ever hid that detail. If she had a baby, she would have come after me for child support, wouldn’t she?

“I don’t know why she didn’t tell you about Elias. He’s four, and to be honest, he’s the spitting image of you. I’m his guardian now that his mother is gone, and although she never wanted to tell you about him, I didn’t think my sister was right in keeping that from you. I think you have a right to know your son, and I think he should know his father. That’s all I wanted when I called today. To let you know you have a son and invite you to meet him and be in his life.”

This isn’t possible. I can’t have a son. I don’t even want kids. How could this have happened?

“Emily, I think there’s been a mistake,” I mutter, not even sure I believe that.

“No, but I understand this has come out of nowhere for you. I know this has to be quite a shock. We don’t want anything from you. That’s not what this is. I just think Elias deserves a chance to know his father. I hope you’ll think about it.”

I don’t know what to say, so I say I will, and the call ends.

Holy fuck, how is this my life?

28

Kellen

When I can finally think straight,I run full speed up to my brother’s office, even taking the stairs because I don’t want to wait for the elevator. His assistant Melody, a woman who has a voice like a man who’s smoked cigarettes for his entire life, smiles at me when I walk into the office suite, but I barely acknowledge her before rushing into his office.

Matthias sits behind his desk talking on the phone, so I flop down in the chair in front of him and try to get my thoughts together. A woman I spent a few nights with four years ago before I met the woman I love is dead. She had a child, a son who’s mine, whose name is Elias. How could any of this be true? I can’t believe it.

Unable to sit still because adrenaline courses through my body, I jump up and start pacing back and forth across the carpet, from the window facing the street below to the bar in the corner of my brother’s office. Matthias stares at me in a mix of confusion and worry as the person he’s talking to continues onwith their conversation. It’s like a normal day at work for him, while my life is literally falling apart around me.

He finishes his call a minute or two later and immediately asks, “What the hell is going on with you? Are you okay?”

I shake my head, not knowing what part to tell him first. The part about the dead woman or the part about the kid I didn’t know existed until a few minutes ago.

“No, I’m not okay. I’m the farthest from fucking okay that you can find on a damn map. If you locate okay, you’ll see it’s a million fucking miles from this spot right here,” I say, starting to ramble as I continue to pace through his office.

“What’s going on?” he asks, as if it’s a question I could answer like I would normally.

I stop in front of his desk and try to piece the words in my head into a coherent sentence. All that comes out is, “My life is a goddamned trainwreck.”

Instantly, I regret my choice of words, but I start walking again anyway. I don’t know where to start with this story.

Still calm, Matthias asks, “Why? What happened in the past half hour between you interrupting my pulled pork sandwich and you running into my office like you’re on fire?”

As I walk past his desk again, I look over at him. “What happened? The end of my life as I know it. That’s what fucking happened. When Salem finds out, she’s going to leave me so fast my head is going to fucking spin off my shoulders. And I won’t blame her. Jesus, how the hell did this happen?”

My frantic ravings make him stand up, and he walks around his desk to intercept me on my next pass through his office. Grabbing me by the shoulders, he stops me, forcing me to answer him.

“You’re out of control, Kellen. Settle down. Tell me what’s wrong. Does it have to do with your work here?”

I roll my eyes at that question. I guess I have it coming, but in my defense, I haven’t been an HR problem, except for that issue with my last assistant and lunchtime, in over four years.

Four years. Jesus, that’s how old that kid is. Do four-year-olds know how to talk already? They must, right? Matthias’s kid is four, isn’t he? He knows how to talk.

Jesus, I have a son who already talks. What else do four-year-olds do? Fuck! I don’t know. As an uncle, I don’t really have to pay attention to things like that.

“What do four-year-old boys do?” I ask him, sure he can help me figure that out.

“What? Why are you asking me that? You know what they do. Theo is that old. What the hell is all of this about?”

I open my mouth to explain what I’m talking about, but nothing comes out. Even my damn vocal cords are stunned by this news, I guess.

Matthias guides me to one of the chairs in front of his desk and sits me down. “Okay, from the top. I’m hoping to God you asking about what four-year-olds do that this problem isn’t with work. You didn’t offend someone who brought their kid to work today, did you?”