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“We didn’t do anything wrong, not legally.”
“You’re a teenager, a fucking student.” I stand abruptly while his gaze follows the path of the hand used to accentuate my baby bump. “What did you do?”
His expression goes from remorse to disbelief as I round the desk and confront him face to face.
“Tell me, did you laugh to yourself the whole way home? Did you check some fucking sick fantasy off your list? Carve a T for teach in your bedpost?”
His eyes are still fixed on my stomach. “You’re—”
I reach back and slap him as hard as I can. Palm burning, I barely recognize the indignation in my own voice. “Don’t ever, ever, contact me. Don’t come looking for me, for us, ever. You will have nothing to do with this baby. This,” I emphasize, rubbing my belly, “is solely mine to love and a secret for you. A secret you will take to your grave and live with for the rest of your life.”
He palms his jaw, his face reddening from my slap. “I deserved that, but please—”
“Don’t even think about pleading your case. You don’t have one.”
He reaches out a hand to stop me when I attempt to step around him.
“This is not up for discussion. You’re a fucking child. Don’t touch me,” I jerk away from his grip. Tilting up to meet his watery gaze, I glare at him. “I mean it with every fiber of my being. I never want to see you again.” Opening the door, so he knows the discussion is over, I meet the stare of one Mrs. Garrison. She’ll be one of four that will ever know who the father of my baby is. I say a silent prayer, tears I’m unable to stop streaming from my eyes as she looks on at me with a slow nod. If she knew who I was, if she, for one second, knew the real reason for my outrage, I have zero doubts my life would be over. But she doesn’t, her eyes telling me that woman to woman, my secret is safe.
“Clarissa,” Troy calls to me weakly, standing where I left him in the office behind me. I glance back to see a thousand emotions swimming in his eyes, but my anger outweighs anything he may feel. “Please let me talk to you.”
“Stay away from us,” I hiss before walking out.
Troy
I saw my son for the first time on social media because Clarissa changed her profile pic. Her account was set to private, and I dare not think she would ever accept me as a friend. But I thanked God for mother’s pride when she updated her picture with his birth announcement.
Dante Oliver Arden was born October fifth, eight pounds two ounces, twenty-two inches long. If I had any doubts about her claim that I fathered him, which I didn’t, they would’ve been dismissed the minute I saw him. He had my hair color, my nose and chin, and her last name. But he was mine, and after laying eyes on him, I was his. After a stellar game where I scored three touchdowns, which earned me a visit from a scout, I found out I was a father. Once I’d returned from the out of town game, I’d visited every hospital within a ten-mile radius of the school she worked at and found she’d checked out the day before. At eighteen, I’d become a dad, which was both elating and devastating—because my son entered the world fatherless.
At the time, I was unprepared for all the responsibilities that title entailed. I had nothing to offer, but something inside me was dying to try and fill those shoes, at least in the sense of being present. In my eyes, any father who tried was better than none at all, which was the hand I got dealt. My dad is as deadbeat as they come. Something happened inside me with every promise he broke. I didn’t want to be that father to my own son, but I knew, without a doubt, Clarissa had meant what she’d said to me in that office. And because of the position I put her in, I had no choice but to sit back and watch.
Well, I always had a choice, but none that didn’t include jeopardizing her career or didn’t put her in a situation of defending herself and causing her more harm. Not only that, I had shit in the way of supporting them both. I figured Clarissa didn’t make much on a teacher’s salary, especially in the first few years, and I knew if I worked my ass off, I’d get a scholarship for ball putting me in a better position to help her financially. That I managed to do but was red-shirted my whole first year of college due to player ineligibility. They had no space for me to start, leaving me on the sidelines. The upside was I got to keep my full ride and without school and ball, I could concentrate on supporting them both. I’d managed to find a gig working for a shit load of cash. I’d saved a few thousand, bought a new truck, and was finally ready to approach her, to approach them both, when my Mom lost her job, putting me back at square one.
A few times over the years, and selfishly I’d give up for a while, justifying it with the thought they might be better off. And then I would study my son’s picture, watch his videos, and all notions would leave me.
So, I watched.
For years, I watched.
I’d follow her home from her school and watch Dante play in the little park across the street from her apartment. I stalked her on social media, which paid off because I got to see him take his first steps on Instagram. When he began talking on one of her videos, I was filled with a father’s pride but had no one to share it with. Not even my own mother, who I know without a doubt, will never forgive me once I finally reveal the truth.
Clarissa shared so many milestones on social media that I’d foolishly convinced myself she was throwing me a bone. So one night when he was three, after a little liquid courage, I finally made a move by leaving a new car seat on her porch along with some cash hidden between the pages of my favorite children’s book, A Light in the Attic. After that night, I’d catch her scanning the parking lot every so often when she carried him from the house, but when she spotted me, I was never acknowledged. Not once.
I felt like I was on trial every agonizing minute I watched but endured the punishment because I deserved it. In hindsight, it was the most selfish thing I’ve ever done, boldly deceiving Clarissa the way I did that night.
But now I long to hold my son, more than I fear her wrath. I long to tell him the good things I know about life. To give him his first football.
I know, without a doubt, now’s the time to take action, or I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
I’m done watching.
Today’s the day I meet my son.
I’m between places due to my old roommate moving in with his girl. And with Mom shacking up with her long-time boyfriend, I no longer have a room at the house I grew up in. So, the minute I spotted the ad for a vacant room in the house next to hers, I saw it as a sort of sign.
Dialing the number, I say a silent prayer.
“This is Theo.”
