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He stands up and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Tackle the social media. I’ll talk to Henri about the new menu options and see what he comes up with.” He claps his hand on my shoulder and heads for the office door.
“Hey Dad, one last thing—”
“Yeah?”
“We need to hire someone to learn from you on being a pitmaster. You love that stuff, but I don’t. Find someone you can train to take over. Not just for whenever you retire, but for now, too. You need to spend less time here. Plus, you have a granddaughter who really likes hanging out with you. Don’t get me wrong, I loved growing up here, but her time with you shouldn’t just be spent here.”
He smiles and nods. “Proud. I’ll talk to your mother.”
Exhaling, I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. At least I’m getting something right.
It’s been a long day. I started at The Pit around five this morning, then I had school for several hours. As soon as I finished, I went right back to The Pit. Unexpectedly, my dad got amped up about my suggestions. I sat with him and our head cook, Henri, for almost two hours going over options. Then I manned the register for the pre-dinner rush.
I’m beat as hell.
But I’m supposed to meet the guys at Nick’s for wing night, and I know I should go. It’ll be good for me. Hopefully get me out of my head and start pulling me out of this funk.
When I walk into my room, I see a pile of mail on the bed. Despite my desire to throw it on my desk and ignore it, if it was only junkmail, my mom wouldn’t have put it on my bed.
I grab the pile and look through it. Bank statement. My college’s magazine. And something from Seneca County—over two hours away, where my uncle lives.
Weird.
I rip it open and nausea hits my stomach.
Court summons for paternity.
I drop the paper in my lap.
Fuck.
My chest tightens as I pick the paper back up again. It’s a bunch of legal jargon, but the gist is that I’m due in court in Seneca County in two weeks over paternity of Maddie’s baby.
Maddie, my uncle’s neighbor’s daughter, has a kid? And she thinks I might be the father?
Fuck my life.
I want to scream that we used condoms, that she said she was on birth control, that there’s no way. I mean, if she thinks I’m the father, how could she not have told me she was pregnant?
I might’ve been a mess, but I would’ve figured it out.
Holy hell. The thought that I could’ve fathered two kids before I’m twenty does not feel good. The thought that I’ve essentially abandoned one—if not by choice—is horrific. Knowing that I now have to relive one of the worst times of my life? I can’t take it. I can’t handle it.
This is too much. I—
I launch off my bed as negative thoughts swirl through my mind again.
This is too much to deal with.
I feel myself slipping as memories of the guy I was mix with who I am.
Grabbing my keys from the hook—at least I have my own car again—I make my way outside knowingexactlywhat I need to deal with this.
