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“That’s impossible,” I cry, allowing myself to fall against his chest. Despite everything, it offers the smallest amount of comfort.
“I know it’s hard,” he says. And something in his tone tells me he really does sympathize with me. Something hints that it’s more than that. His heart is racing in his chest, but it’s not from proximity or anything like that. He’s afraid too. He cares too.
He loves Jamie because Jamie is his.
I pull back a little, though Marcus still has his arms around me. No amount of comfort is helping me right now, despite everyone’s efforts. But it’s not just that Jamie is God knows where with my crazy sister. It’s that the man who is comforting me, worrying with me, promising to bring him home to me at any cost, doesn’t know the whole truth. Or at least he hasn’t heard me say it. Several encounters we have had recently have done more than hint that he knows the truth. And honestly, considering the current circumstances, I can’t keep it bottled up anymore.
“Marcus,” I begin, my voice shaking. “I need to talk to you about something.”
Marcus’s eyes hold mine as his face grows serious. “Okay.”
I take a breath. Hold it. And dive in. “There was no poet in the coffee shop,” I say. Why I chose to start there, with that sentence, I couldn’t tell you. But here we are.
“Poet in the coffee shop?” he parrots.
“Matteo. Valenti. The man I told you I met at a coffee shop and had a fling with, and then never saw or spoke to again. He’s not real,” I say.
“So…you made him up,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Meaning you didn’t sleep with him,” he says.
“No,” I admit.
“Meaning…he’s not Jamie’s father.”
“No,” I answer quietly.
Marcus nods slowly. And while he doesn’t scoot away from me on the couch, his arms do fall to his sides.
“Do you know who the father is?” he asks.
My heart is pounding so loudly in my chest I swear he can hear it. But I force the words out. “It’s…you.”
“I am Jamie’s father?” he says.
“You are Jamie’s father,” I admit.
“You’re certain?” he asks with zero emotion.
Oh God. Oh God.
I expected anger. Surprise. Shock. Something. Anything. But no emotion? I mean, I know not saying anything is fucked up, but throw me a bone here. Let me know where we are at.
“I am,” I say. “I wasn’t with anyone else. I haven’t…been…with anyone else.”
“No one?” he asks.
“No one,” I repeat. “Not once.”
His face softens the slightest bit. “I know,” he says.
“What?” I ask shakily.
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean…it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? No father to speak of other than the fake one who, no offense, doesn’t sound like someone you would give the time of day.”
I almost giggle at that. Almost. We still aren’t out of the woods just yet.
