Page 32 of Freefall

During one of our long playdate chats, TJ told me he and Ella’s mother were high school sweethearts, but they never married. She got pregnant with Ella during his senior year, and TJ did the best he could to support them, but she was in love with another man. She married not long after Ella was born, and TJ decided to mend his broken heart by traveling the world. I know he regrets having missed out on part of his daughter’s life, but I also know that a broken heart will make a sane person do just about anything to take some of the pain away. He came back when Ella was three, and he’s been in her life ever since. He has shared custody with her mom, and while he sometimes complains about the logistics of co-parenting, he says it’s not too bad. It helps that he and Ella’s mom get along.

Suddenly, a thought hits me. Is that what’s going to happen with us? Will Nate want shared custody? I’m not sure why that wasn’t the first thing that popped into my head when I saw all those nines, or even when Nate first requested the paternity test. I assumed he would want to see her, but there’s no way he expects me to co-parent with him after all this time. Right?

Shaking the thought away, I type out a quick “of course, I’d be happy to” and close out of the lab website. Then I shut my laptop and grab my keys.

On the drive to school, I can’t seem to shake the nagging thought. If Nate were willing to send me a certified letter from his lawyer requesting—no, demanding—a paternity test, what else would he do? Would he take me to court to try to win custody? I can’t imagine he would put me through that, but the darkness in his eyes when I told him that Daisy was his made me think he’s changed. At least, his feelings toward me have changed.

There’s also the pang of guilt I feel at having lied to Daisy, first about Nate being an old friend and then about the cheek swab. I told her it was a routine test she needed since she recently started a new school.

I’ve never lied outright to her about her dad, but I also haven’t told her the whole truth, which I suppose is technically lying by omission.

I’ll never forget the first time she asked me about it. I knew it was coming because they were working on family trees in her kindergarten class. I wasn’t sure what I would say when the time came, but luckily her teacher had already done some of the heavy lifting.

“Ms. Park says every family is different. Is that true?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Is that why Lainey has two daddies, and I don’t have any?”

The words make my throat clog, and I attempt to hide the crack in my voice threatening to surface. “Yeah, sweetie. Something like that.”

“So I really don’t have a daddy? Or another mommy? How come Lainey got two?”

I run my hand along her soft blonde hair. “Because every family is different, remember? So the members are different too.” When she looks confused, I choose my next words carefully. “You do have a daddy, but he’s not a part of our family at the moment. There’s you and me and Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Tessa. That’s our family.”

Her eyes crinkle. “And Uncle Jace?”

I laugh. “Yes, of course. And Uncle Jace.”

“So if my daddy isn’t a part of our family now, does that mean he will be someday?”

My chest constricts painfully at the memory of my sweet five-year-old asking if her father will ever be a part of our family. I told her it was possible. Not to give her false hope, but because I truly believe anything is possible.

After all, nothing in this world is one hundred percent.

“Uncle Jace!” Daisy squeals as she unfastens her seatbelt and jumps out of the car.

“Hey, baby girl.” He picks her up, enveloping her in a hug and spinning her around before putting her back on the ground. “How are you so big? You must have grown another foot since I saw you last.”

She giggles in the way kids do when they know grown-ups are teasing them. “I’m the same height, Uncle Jace,” she insists. “You saw me last week.”

He raises an incredulous brow. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” Then, looking up at me, “Hey, sis.”

“Hi, Jace.” He wraps me in a hug, and I notice the strong scent of laundry detergent mixed with only a hint of cigarette smoke. He must have changed his shirt when I texted him that we were going to stop by after I dropped Ella off. It used to bother me that he smoked, but now it fills me with relief. He only smokes cigarettes when he’s sober, and if he’s telling the truth, he’s been sober for fifteen days now. Before that, it was three years—the longest stretch he’s ever gone since he started using in high school.

Since we’re talking numbers, it’s been eighty-two days since my mother called me in a panic after my parents found Jace completely naked, passed out on their front lawn the day after the Fourth of July with no recollection of how he got there. It was just alcohol, he had said—a few shots with friends. He miscalculated his tolerance because it had been so long. He swore up and down that he didn’t use, but I had been through this enough times to know that’s how it starts for him.

I knew in that moment that I couldn’t go back to the way it was before. Thinking the worst when I didn’t hear from him for a few days. The aching pit in my stomach every time the phone rang, wondering if it would be the phone call—the one I had started to dread from the first time I found Jace mumbling incoherently on our front porch when I was fourteen, his pupils blown, a dark patch on his jeans from having pissed himself. So a few weeks later, Daisy and I packed up everything we could fit into two suitcases and hopped a plane to Connecticut.

I love my parents. I really do. They’re hardworking, intelligent, loving. They were always there for me. They encouraged my interests and attended every single one of my art shows and photography exhibits. They taught me how to be independent while still knowing when to ask for help, and perhaps most importantly, they never judged me for getting pregnant my sophomore year of college. They voiced their concerns when I decided to move across the country, sure, but they never once told me how I should handle the pregnancy. When Daisy was born, they dropped everything and flew to Colorado to be with us for a few weeks while I got the hang of being a mom. They’re amazing grandparents and love that little girl with their whole hearts.

But Jace? Jace is a different story. They never knew how to handle him. Being a parent myself now, I can understand how difficult it must have been when their son started doing drugs, but it was more than that. Even at a young age, Jace was antsy. He never wanted to stay in one place for long. While I found something I loved at a fairly young age and threw everything I had into it, Jace hopped around from activity to activity the way people scroll through social media videos. First, it was soccer, then chess, then skateboarding. He was in a band once for all of seven days. Nothing could keep his attention. It wasn’t until he started working at that country club that he found his true passion. I suppose it started with alcohol, then weed, then the pills. Then he discovered Oxy and fell in love.

If my parents didn’t know what to do with him before, they certainly didn’t after he started using. They freaked out the first time they found pills in his room. I’ll never forget that fight—my mother’s tear-streaked face, my father coming close to putting his hands on Jace, the awful things he said to them. I never wanted it to happen again, so when I found him on the porch that night and he begged me not to tell them, I didn’t. I kept his secret, covered for him, and cleaned up his messes for an entire year before I finally broke down and told my parents everything. I still get sick to my stomach when I think about how I used to give him some of the money I made waitressing after he got fired from the country club. I was quite literally feeding his addiction.

“Harpsichord?”

My brother’s voice pierces through the memories, and the nickname makes me smile. He started calling me that when he discovered the instrument during his one-week stint in our middle school band. I look up at his swirling hazel eyes, the same color as mine. We both got them from our mother.