Page 6 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

Max. My son. Mine and Sadie’s son.

My gut twists again. Worse than the day I was told I had lactose intolerance and Lennon dared me to drink a carton of milk.

Jake crouches in front of me and shoves a glass of water in my hand. “Sadie heard about Dad’s tell-all book deal and tracked E down in Windfall, where he’s living now. She wants to talk to you and introduce you to Max.”

I blink the burn from my eyes and sip the water, functioning by rote, trying to focus, even though it means remembering Dad’s infuriating book deal. The news shouldn’t have been a shock—some tell-all biography about what it was like working with the cartel, our father’s way to earn more money off of our pain. I have no clue what lies he’ll tell or what new truths will hurt our family and Mom when the book comes out at the start of next year. I can’t rehash his latest betrayal. Panic overrides my anger and nausea.

“How can I be a father?”

“Well,” Lennon says, giving me the condescending expression E calls his hipster smirk, “when the penis goes into the vagina and there’s rubbing, you—”

Jake punches his arm. “Now’s not the time.”

Lennon shrugs. “He was probably too busy preening for girls in sex ed. He needs to learn the basics.” And Lennon covers his discomfort with bad jokes.

My coping mechanism is more of an explosion.

“Fuck off,” I tell him while wincing. A sudden headache grips my temples. Maybe it’s a tumor and I’m hallucinating.

“Wait until you see Max.” E nudges my shin with his foot. “He has your thick eyelashes. Kid’s gonna break hearts.”

I try to latch on to that visual, but my body isn’t communicating with my brain. I grab the gross garbage bin and dry heave again. Fucking gag reflex making up for twenty-one years of slacking off.

“At least Des is sporting the man bun and we don’t have to hold his hair back,” Lennon says, snickering.

Without looking up, I give him the finger. I’m not sure what’s more shocking about Lennon, the fact that he started an outdoor education program and hasn’t earned a lawsuit with his blunt jokes, or that parents trust him with their kids.

A few more empty retches and stomach spasms later, I wipe my mouth. Get to my feet and pace, alternating between crossing my arms and uncrossing them, then glaring at each of my brothers, while the flickering light above the cracked mirror simulates the stroke I feel like I’m having.

Sadie must have gotten pregnant one of the last nights we were together. She was on the pill, but those things aren’t foolproof, and there were plenty of times she’d forget to take them. Evenings where she’d jump suddenly and rummage through her purse, laughing with an “I can’t believe I forgot again.”

She didn’t care. I didn’t care. Mostly out of the notion of youthful invincibility. In high school, I was voted Most Likely to Drink a Fifth of Vodka without Puking. While I’ve upheld that badge of honor, I was also voted Most Likely to Drive a Porsche and Most Likely to Grace the Cover of Forbes. I worked my ass off and planned my perfect future—finish Duke Law, land a job at a top firm, buy a swank house, escape on Caribbean vacations—never contemplating Sadie getting knocked up along the way. Mostly because I wouldn’t have been upset if we’d gotten pregnant.

Now? As horrible as it was thinking she had a family with some other guy, this jolt of fear is a whole other beast.

I stop my frantic pacing and stare at my fractured face in the cracked mirror. My mess of brown hair is knotted on my head. The left side of my neck has the blurred lion tattoo I acquired in a bathroom similar to this. The other side is cleaved by a scar I got in year two of WITSEC. That bar brawl started when a guy told me I should smile more. I’m not sure which fight broke my tooth or when the frown lines on my forehead became permanent. Nothing about me looks like the guy who surprised Sadie at her home with flowers, a cocky grin, and tickets to see Darius Rucker.

Except maybe my soot-colored eyelashes. Those haven’t changed.

The ones my son apparently inherited.

“Is he okay?” I manage. “Happy and healthy?”

E rubs the coiled muscles of my back. “He’s a great kid. Smart and sweet.”

“And happy?” I ask again. The strain in my throat is growing, and I can’t swallow. Max grew up without a father. I have no clue what Sadie told him about me, but he must have felt abandoned at times. Alone. Angry.

E’s hand presses heavier into my back. “He’s okay, Des. We’ve only met him a few times. He’s been a bit quiet and reserved with us, so I don’t know him super well yet. But on the surface, he seems happy.”

I nod, still barely able to swallow. I keep picturing what he might look like, worrying that my absence in his life hurt him deeply, scarred him in some unseen way. Or maybe Sadie fell for someone else, a man who loved Max and helped him thrive.

My stomach twists, and I grip the sink, refusing to turn around. “Is Sadie seeing someone?”

The scrawled writing on the plaster beside the mirror reads Go home, you’re drunk. Above that sage advice is a blotch of water stains. I squint at the splotches, picture them as one of Sadie’s silly art pieces. I’d call it The Cliff’s Edge.

“Funny thing about that.” E’s hesitant reply forces me to face him. He shrugs a shoulder, as though his next words don’t have the power to annihilate me. “I don’t know if she’s seeing anyone.”

I fist and release my hands. “How could you not know?”