Page 22 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

I make a garbled sound and search frantically for my asshole brother, unsure what the hell he was thinking. I can’t lead hikes with Sadie. I’m a mess around her. Awkward. Frazzled. When I finally spot Lennon, I catch his hipster smirk as he makes a mad dash for his truck, disappearing inside it before I can burst his head with my eyes.

I am so screwed.

“Maybe hiking won’t be so bad,” Olivia says, way too amused for my liking. Her eyes dart between Sadie and me.

“Do not ruin this for me, kid.”

“Ruin what?”

“Nothing.” It’s the first time I’ve seen Olivia smile, and I don’t like it. There’s evil in this child.

“I’m sure you’ll ruin whatever this is just fine on your own.” She slides another knowing look to Sadie, then back to me. “Men generally do.”

I’m not sure how this twelve-year-old wound up as pessimistic as me. I’m not sure why Lennon thought hiring Sadie would help me, when what I need is to focus on Max. The only thing I do know is I am not prepared for this.

Thanks to this warm June day, the sun’s shining through the forest canopy, and Sadie’s wearing cute shorts that dry my mouth. Her yellow T-shirt’s even worse. The fit is snug like mine, but where my shirt makes me look like a gym bro who was dressed by his mother, hers is perky and cute and showcases the feminine dip of her waist. She’s as tiny as ever, with slender arms and delicate features, but there’s a softness to her body that wasn’t there a decade ago. The softness of a woman. Of a mother.

I blink hard and dart my focus to Max, try to see him more clearly.

Finally, he pushes his door open, and I hold my breath. His head is hung so low I can’t see his face, but my insides go berserk. I bite my cheek, attempt to stem this wave of emotion from knocking me over. He looks up, and it’s no use. My eyes burn. My throat attempts to crush my Adam’s apple.

My son.

Max is skinny, like Sadie said. And tall. Not that I know how tall a ten-year-old should be. Or anything about age-related norms. But yeah. He’s tall with hair the same dark brown as mine. He’s tentative, barely moving from the car. My cheek hurts from biting it, and my throat burns hotter. I want to weep for the years I lost. Sadie. Max. The family that was supposed to be mine. But this isn’t the time or place to fall apart.

Max starts walking my way, and I stand straighter.

Aside from poking holes in my skin while needlepointing this week, I’ve practiced this moment—finally saying hi to Max and introducing myself.

I actually stood in front of the mirror and rehearsed lines.

Max, hey. Thrilled to have you join us.

Hi, Max. We’re gonna learn so much together.

Hey there, Max. You sure are tall for your age.

It was as pathetic as it sounds, but I will not falter. Lennon’s stunt bringing Sadie here doesn’t matter, especially if he’s trying to push us together. Whatever happens or doesn’t happen between Sadie and me is separate from being a dad.

More cars arrive and park. Max wanders forward on his own, squints at the sun. He glances at the towering trees and trailhead sign, his attention settling on the picnic bench with our supplies.

Ready to own this moment, I swallow the emotion crowding my throat, walk right up to him, and say, “Max. Hey. Hi.”

Clearly, I should have practiced more.

He looks up at me, his attention darting to the ink on my arms. His eyes widen, and I consider lodging a complaint with the health board to arrest all seedy tattoo artists who prey on angry-at-life drunk idiots like me. I’m also struck by just how similar Max’s eyes are to mine—dark and intense, thickly lashed. A fresh wave of heartache blindsides me. So many years lost. My clipboard tremors in my grasp.

Keeping my shades firmly in place, I crouch in front of my son. “It’s great to meet you, Max.”

A hiccupy gasp comes from my right—Sadie. Her lips are pressed tight, her eyes so wide I bet they sting as much as mine. Abruptly, she turns and fumbles for something in her purse. And hell. I hate seeing her like this, upset because of me. Our whole tangled situation is beyond messed up. We still have so much talking to do, mountains of baggage to unpack. For now, it’ll have to wait.

I blow out a breath and focus on my son. “Glad to have you with us, Max. I’m . . .” Desmond, I want to say. Give him my real name. But my insides go haywire. “I’m Daniel,” I force out.

“Hey.” He scratches his skinny arm. The mosquito bites there are already red and inflamed. I used to scratch my bites raw too. Never listening when Mom told me to stop.

Since I’m a practicing parent, I say, “You shouldn’t scratch those bites. It’ll make them worse.”

He curls his hand into a fist and drops it to his side, looking chastised.