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She was a lot more forgiving than I thought I would’ve been in her position, and to me, that was astounding.
“So, Levi Stratton …” I found myself saying, needing a change in subject. “He’s David’s brother, isn’t he?”
Laura nodded solemnly.
“The last time I saw my mom, she was with him.”
“I know.” She poked at the fritter, now sitting on the table, only halfeatenand nearly forgotten. “If you’re going to ask me about that, I told you, I really don’t—”
“No, I know. I’m just …” I groaned, scrubbing my palms over my cheeks and beard. “I guess I’m just connecting the dots.”
“I understand, and I can’t say I blame you. But don’t let your curiosity get the better of you, okay? In the long run, none of it matters. Separate yourself from it. You’re here now, living a good life, and you know you’re better off.”
I hadn’t needed her to say it to know she was right. But I appreciated it anyway, and I expressed that gratitude with a nod.
But then a question I’d been wondering since I had known of David demanded to be asked. I knew I wouldn’t be happy until I got it out there, so I went for it.
“One more question before I get to my girlfriend’s meatloaf,” I said, swallowing in preparation. “Was David my father?”
Laura sucked in a deep breath, her somber gaze taking me in before she lifted one shoulder in a weary shrug. “I don’t know that anybody really knows,” she admitted. “Well, except for your mother, David, and maybe your grandparents and members of David’s family …”
“But?” I asked, almost hopeful in the way I put that little word out there.
“But … you know how tall your mother is and how tall your grandparents were, and, well …” She shrugged again. “David had to have been at least six foot five.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JUST LIKE HIM
She had said it didn’t matter if David was my father or not, and I’d told her she was right. But that night, after I ate the meatloaf Ray had saved for me and then went home to feed Eleven, I couldn’t get the thought of him out of my head.
David Stratton, six foot five—tall, just like me. Dead at twenty-four—not much older than I’d been when Billy died.
Lying in bed, with Eleven curled up at my side, I pulled up the old article regarding the crash that had taken David’s life. I looked at his face in black and white. I studied the grainy structure of his nose, his cheekbones. The ridge of his brow and the curve of his smile. Just to try and see how many features we shared, if we shared any at all, but, fuck, the picture was so small and fuzzy, so it was hard to make anything out.
He probably wasn’t your dad.
Shit … but what if he was?
I climbed out of bed, mind racing and heart hammering, and dropped to the floor to do a vigorous stream of push-upsin an attempt toclear my brain. Eleven watched me curiously as I counted aloud, the way one might count sheep.
“One … two … three …”
Did he know about me?
“Four … five … six …”
Did Gramma and Grampa know about him?
“Seven … eight … nine …”
Did he ever meetmeand I just don’t remember it?
“Ten … eleven …”
Did he care?
“Fuck.”
