Page 39 of Finding Noah

“I dunno,” I muttered as an opener, knowing he'd take the bait.

“You wanna talk?”

So predictable.

I almost smirked, but instead, I muttered, “Sure.”

Dad stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Then he took a seat on the edge of my bed and asked, “What's goin' on?”

“Just … thinking a lot.”

“About?”

I wasn't sure how I wanted to word it, not sure what the right thing to say was, and I continued to gnaw at my bottom lip, digging through the recesses of my mind.

“Is it a, uh … a girl thing?” he asked warily.

I lifted my eyes to him and frowned. “What?”

“You know,” he said with a shrug, “you're at that age where you're probably wanting to date and shit, so … we … I just thought that maybe—”

“It's not a girl thing,” I insisted, incredulous and almost, almost, horrified that he'd even think it was.

His brow crumpled. “No?”

“No!”

“So, this isn't … you, like … needing the talk or something?”

“What the hell, Dad?” I groaned, rolling my eyes away from his face to stare at the glowing TV screen. “I don't need the freakin' talk.”

He grunted. “Oh … okay. Then … what's up?”

I screwed my lips up, twisting them to the side, before I asked, “Do you know how I was … how I was born?”

The words were fired from my mouth with enough force for Dad to lean back a couple of inches, startled by the abrupt, unexpected question.

“How you were born?” he repeated, speaking slowly. “Noah, dude, I'm sorry. But you just said you didn't need the—”

“No,” I interrupted harshly, thrusting my hands out before clapping them over my face. “I mean”—with a groan, I dropped my palms to my stomach—“how did I … how was I …”

God, how the fuck was I supposed to ask this question?

I clamped my lips shut and gave my head a shake. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Dad was quiet for a moment. His eyes were on my face, and though I wouldn't look at him and show him just how embarrassed I was, I could feel him. His stare, boring a hole through the side of my face to burrow deep into my skull. His thoughts, grinding like gears inside his mind. And, see, the thing about him was, he was smart. People wouldn’t expect it because of the whole prison thing—they liked to pass judgment like that—but he understood things. And it didn't take long for him to understand me and what I was trying to say.

In a low, hushed voice, he asked, “Are you asking if your … conception … was, um … wanted?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Yeah, I guess that's what I'm asking.”

He swallowed and tipped his head to the side. “I, uh … I kinda think this is a question for your mom, bud.”

I took a deep breath and leaned my head back until it banged against the headboard. I had been afraid he'd say that. I had been afraid he wouldn't have this conversation without Mom's consent.

But I didn't want to talk to her about it.

I didn't want to make her relive things she'd rather keep in the past. The same way I didn't want to tell anyone about what had happened at Tommy's house, even though Seth had been gone for years now and was no longer there to make good on his threats.