Page 19 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

If this is some kind of joke, I don’t understand it.

You’re a pathetic coward. How could you do this?

I hit the bottle hard after that last one and got my first tattoo—a knife over my heart. It was supposed to be realistic, showing the knife in three dimensions, as though halfway through my chest, but I was drunk and wandered into a subpar shop. The finished piece looks like a penis lying on my pec.

I breathe through the memory, wait for her to tell me about those horrible days.

“At first,” she finally says, “I was more scared than angry. Didn’t believe you’d leave without a good reason.”

“You have to know—I almost called you a thousand times. It was a physical effort holding back.”

The gold flecks in her brown eyes shine with sadness. “I slept outside your old house for two weeks. Set up a tent.”

Jesus. I pass my hand over my mouth, can’t even drink my coffee. “You were all I thought about. All I cared about. I knew you must have been freaking out. I obviously didn’t know the extent of”—I gesture toward her stomach, feeling like my lungs are underwater—“what you were dealing with. But—”

“Des, stop.” She presses her fingers to the inside corners of her eyes and blinks. “I’ve spoken with E and your mom a lot. I know none of what happened was your fault. I won’t lie and tell you I wasn’t shattered back then and furious. It’s just not something I want to rehash. Not right now, at least. We’ve both been through hell, and we both survived. Our son is what matters now.”

She’s right, but a tear pushes from her glassy eyes. And dammit. I hate seeing her cry.

I was always there for Sadie when she was having a rough time. Especially with her folks. The night her father yelled at her mother for spending too much money and her mother lied, blaming the spending on Sadie, her father had shouted that Sadie was a mistake who never should’ve happened—the surprise child they hadn’t planned. I kept Sadie on the phone afterward, listening to her quiet sobs, telling her funny stories about my brothers until she was tired enough to fall asleep.

Making Sadie happy made me happy. Seeing her hurt made me hurt.

Like now.

I don’t know where her family fit into her pregnancy and her early years with Max. She hasn’t mentioned them, and I’m scared to hear they were cruel. Still, my tear ducts react, burning and watering, as I ready myself to ask the tough stuff.

But a pint-size Black girl appears next to our table. “Did you know forty-one percent of male air travelers cry while on an airplane?” Her braided hair is in a complicated twist, her bright outfit has a nineties vibe, and she’s scrutinizing us like she’s peering through a microscope at a rare cell mutation. “It was in a Virgin Atlantic survey. Some people think it’s the slight oxygen deprivation. I think it’s all that thinking time. People get weird when they have time to think.” Her alarmingly wise gaze lands on me. “Have you had a lot of time to think?”

Jesus. Who is this mini Freud? “My bet’s on oxygen deprivation.”

“Except sixty-seven percent of men say they feel more emotion than they let on. Which basically means sixty-seven percent of men are liars.” She stares at me, unblinking.

I’m shuttled back to high school, sitting in front of Principal Osorio, telling her it wasn’t me who toilet-papered the girls’ locker room overnight, when we both totally knew it was me.

“Maybe you should mind your own business,” I tell the kid.

“Maybe you shouldn’t lie to your friend.”

Okay. We’re done here. I tip my head to the side, as though I hear something fascinating. “I think that’s your mom calling. She said to quit bothering the nice people at this table.”

“Nice people don’t lie about hearing things and their repressed emotions.” She looks at Sadie and smiles pityingly. “Make good choices.”

Sadie sputters out a laugh while I search the diner for a hidden camera. Maybe Lennon sent this miniature tormenter to get back at me for infiltrating his business. A pint-size spy to ensure I toe the line. Or she’s a run-of-the-mill kid, one of the billions of know-it-alls who can see right through me. I wouldn’t know. I’ve spent zero time with children, including mine, and I’m suddenly regretting putting up flyers around here. What if this girl joins my hikes?

The smells of fried potatoes and searing burgers suddenly make me queasy. My T-shirt’s crew neck feels too tight. Learning secondhand details about Max won’t erase our years apart. Reading books and taking leadership courses won’t prepare me for face-to-face interactions with kids. And here I am, planning to lead a troop of preteens, including Max—who might be as terrifying as that little girl—on hikes like I’m some granola-eating, nature-loving molder of young minds. Just me and a gang of preteen psychotherapists.

And I’ll have to be nice.

Sweat slicks the back of my neck. “Is this what all kids are like?”

Sadie’s hand lands on my knee, sending a wave of awareness through me. My stomach flips. Honest to God. Flips like I’m a lovesick pancake.

“Is that part of why you want to meet Max without him knowing who you are?” She glances toward the bathrooms, where the girl went. “You’re worried you’re not good with kids?”

More like petrified. “No. Not at all. I just think it will be best for Max.”

Those 67 percent of male liars have nothing on me.