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Spreading pain seems to be my specialty.
Fuck. I could kill Frederick for this. I often wished I’d never met him. His manipulating, conniving persona that ruled my mind and life for way too long. But never before have I wished him dead.
The violent thought startles me, but it’s planted firmly. I let him destroy my life and the collateral damage is too big. Too dear to my heart.
I wish I could have a moment with Sebastien before he meets his father. But I know I don’t have the right to ask for that. What must he think? What was going through his head when Frederick told him?
The minor consolation is that my beautiful, smart boy chose to come here. Chose to find his father. I hang on to that thin thread of optimism with all my might as the clock ticks backward in this stupid, unmoving car.
Massi is a ball of nerves beside me. His muscles taut, his jaw rigid, I worry he will snap any minute. I can’t help it and reach out gingerly, placing my palm on his thigh. His quad tenses, but then he relaxes. Dropping his shoulders, he sighs.
There is so much said with that soft sound. The relief and annoyance mingled. I know I still have an effect on him and it guts him. Forever we’ll stand on the opposite sides of the river, attracted by the beauty and the peace of the other bank. The bridge between us always missing planks or crumbling into the wild rapids.
“Stop here,” Massi orders the driver. “We can walk faster, for fuck’s sake.”
We trot down the busy street, almost running. By the time we reach the restaurant I’m drenched in sweat, and half-dead with worry.
Massi halts in front of the entrance but I dash past him, unable to wait a second longer. I enter, startled by the activity. In my mind’s eye I was picturing Sebastien standing in the middle of an empty diner.
But of course it’s lunchtime and everyone is running around in a hectic, but well-performed choreography. Sharon greets me, but doesn’t stop to talk to me. It takes me a few moments to focus and sort through all the movements and sounds before I locate him.
God, I spent the weekend with him two short weeks ago and he looks taller, older, more mature. He’s sitting at the corner table, his profile to me, eating and talking to Mila and Phillip. Rely on a teenager to stuff his face with a spoonful of something while I’m losing my mind with fear.
Mila spots me and waves. I dash toward them, my heart hammering inside my chest. But it’s when Sebastien raises his head that all the joy dies in me.
He stands up and I pause briefly, but then, despite the contempt written all over his face, I gather him in my arms and hold his uncooperative, stiff body in my embrace.
“You have every right to be mad at me, Seb, but let me have this moment. I was worried sick.”
I feel—or imagine, most probably—him lean into me briefly before he pushes away. “Is he here?” The defiance in his eyes disappears, replaced by hope, expectation, trepidation.
I look over my shoulder, surprised Massi is not right behind. My eyes find him quickly.
Watching our interaction, Massi is frozen in the door, blocking the entrance. He doesn’t look at me, his eyes focused on his son.
I look at my boy. Jesus. I’ve always known that in Sebastien I had a younger version of Massi, but seeing the startling resemblance firsthand shocks me.
Both of them too stunned to move, they assess each other across the floor. The moment is filled with recognition, even though they have never met or even known about each other before now.
Sharon pulls Massi inside to allow patrons to leave, but no one else seems to notice this life-changing moment happening. It occurs unobserved in the background of a busy lunch hour, and yet it will forever stay engraved in my mind.
Snapped out of his hesitation, Massi marches toward us. I step aside, suddenly sure that I’m disturbing the air, the creation of a memory. Nothing about this moment matches my fantasy. Nothing about this moment screams happy family. Everything about this moment is my fault.
Both men, father and son, stare at each other and then simultaneously look at me with expectation. Lost for words and void of any action, I sag into the seat beside Mila.
“Why don’t the two of you join Sebastien for lunch? When was the last time you ordered at your own place, Massi?” Mila saves us and everyone seems relieved.
Phillip excuses himself, but Mila stays and I’m grateful for her willingness to pose as a buffer in this weirdly stalled situation.
“What are you having?” Massi asks, eying Sebastien’s bowl.
“Chicken soup. Mila said it’s good for my soul.” He rolls his eyes but continues assessing Massi.
“Do you want a burger?” Massi asks, and Seb nods enthusiastically.
The waitress comes and hesitates, not sure if we’re customers or just having a meeting. I save her and ask for a pitcher of water, and a soda for Seb, and she rushes away.
“Do you want to help me make it?” Massi stands up.
