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“So what are you gonna do?” I ask. “About your job?”
She shrugs. “No idea. I just became a pariah in the greater Asheville educational community, so I doubt I’ll be able to get a position anywhere. Not until I can repair my reputation, anyway. In the meantime, I was fired with cause, which means I don’t get any kind of severance, and my savings account is, well . . . I didn’t get into education for the money.” She laughs mirthlessly, tipping back her cocktail. “In short, I’m screwed.”
I wince. “Fuck. I don’t know what to say. That really, really sucks.”
“It does,” she says, sniffing. “I’m trying not to panic, but I don’t have a plan B. Teaching at Woodward is what I’ve always wanted to do. I was just hitting my stride as a teacher. And I started working with the development office to learn how fundraising works.”
“Fundraising?”
“For scholarships, yeah. Eventually, we’d like to be able to offer financial aid to one hundred percent of our students. Woodward had big plans to make that happen, and I was really excited to finally be a part of it all. I’m furious with myself for—”
“Dating a guy you assumed told the truth.” Resisting the urge to grab her hand, I run my fingers through my hair. “Which would have been the case if that guy hadn’t been a douchebag.”
Her fingers curl into a fist. The sadness in her eyes darkens to something like fury. “He is a douchebag. He’s a liar. And a fucking cheat.”
“Yup.”
She pulls her lips into a tight, hard line. Shakes her head. Swallows, flicking her hand. “Whatever. I don’t want to talk about Jim anymore—I’m just gonna get myself all wound up. I feel like you didn’t get a chance to finish your train of thought. You know, about making fatherhood work for you.”
“Amelia?”
“Yeah?”
“You know you just need to say the word. Well, and give me an address.”
She grins. “Tell me what’s scaring you, besides the possibility of not winning a championship.”
Leaning back in my chair, I say, “Having a kid—doing it on my own at twenty-seven—that was not part of the plan. Saying that makes me a dick, doesn’t it? I’m a selfish, spineless dick—”
“Stop.”
“That’s just the thing, though,” I say, thrusting out my arms in a quick, hard gesture of I’m fucked. I spill some whiskey, which lands on my forearm and beads on the skin there. “I can’t stop feeling sorry for myself, even though I should feel even sorrier for this poor kid and his mother, who’s dead. I’m not fit to be a dad, clearly. It’s not like I had the best model for one.”
Amelia tilts her head and cuts me a look from underneath the dark fringe of her eyelashes. “You’re being way, way too hard on yourself. As usual. You’re not overreacting, and you’re definitely not your dad.”
Her kindness makes a lump form in my throat. I swallow. “I’m not ready for this, Amelia.”
“I wasn’t ready to lose my boyfriend, my job, and probably my future in education either. Oh, and my reputation and my new car too. But here we are.” She sets her drink down on the table beside her chair and digs her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. Sitting up in her chair, she smooths her hair back from her face. The afternoon light is softening, coating her skin in liquid gold. “I can’t tell you exactly what you’ll need to toddler-proof the slick mountain-man bachelor pad you have here. But I can help you with developmental stuff. Books—the touch and feel ones are great for this age. Toys. Routines.”
“Thank you,” I breathe, even as panic sets in at the idea of reading a fucking touch and feel book to my son.
What the hell is a touch and feel book?
Is there a naughty version I can read with Amelia instead?
“I’ll make a note of the most popular pediatricians our parents at Woodward use.” Her thumbs move furiously over her screen. “Do you have any other cars besides the Porsche?”
“I do. I keep most of ’em in Vegas. But I’ve got a couple more here.” I gulp my whiskey. “I don’t think a car seat is going to fit in any of them, though.”
Without looking up from her phone, Amelia says, “Don’t tell me they’re all douchemobiles.”
“What’s a douchemobile?” I smile despite myself.
“You know exactly what a douchemobile is. Sports car, rims, engine in the trunk. An obnoxious color like lime green or orange or matte black. Possibly assembled by hand in Europe.”
My smile grows. “All my cars qualify.”
“Thought so. Hate to break it to you, but I think you’re going to have to buy a new one.”
More whiskey. “What do you recommend?”
Her thumbs pause as she thinks. At last, she smiles. “A minivan would be perfect.”
