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“Who the fuck is your father?” I repeat, shoving into her chest. The action causes her to bump into the wall.
“Hey! Don’t push me!” she shrieks, pushing off the wall and getting into my face, ready to slap me.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell when I allow this brat to lay a finger on me. So I do something, and in hindsight, it’s probably not the best idea I’ve ever had.
Reaching for my gun, I pull it out and aim it at her face. As soon as she sees my piece, she gasps and quickly raises her hands, freezing on the spot. Tears instantly spring to her eyes, but I don’t care because I want answers.
“Red!” Quinn yells from behind me, his voice rising in distress when he sees what I have done.
I ignore him. There is no way I’m dropping this gun until she starts talking.
“Answer the question!” I yell, waving the pistol when she remains mute, her eyes transfixed on the gun.
This only has her breaking out into a loud sob, her chest heaving with each intake of winded breath.
I feel a pinch of guilt for pulling a gun on her when she begins howling and squeezes her eyes shut, afraid to look at me. But if she answered the damn question, then I wouldn’t have pulled the gun.
“Red, you’re scaring her,” Quinn says softly, but he wisely stays put, leaving me to make a decision on what to do next.
Closing my eyes, I realize that no matter how mad I am, I’m no better than Phil for pulling a gun on an innocent person. I have no right to scare her, and I instantly feel sick for losing my temper in the worst possible way.
Quinn’s calmness has the desired effect, and I slowly lower my arm, placing the gun on the table. With my hands raised in surrender, I take a step toward a terrified Polly.
“Polly, I’m unarmed,” I say, hoping my voice conveys some composure.
Her sniffles are loud and amplified, but I continue to press, softer this time…and without a gun pointed at her.
“Who is your father?” I ask, watching her tremble when she opens her red-rimmed eyes.
“Chandler Ashfield,” she finally replies, shakily wiping away her fallen tears.
I take a step back at her confession, bumping into the sofa.
Who thefuckis Chandler Ashfield?
I shake my head, unable to process this information right now because it makes no sense. None of this makes any sense.
“Polly, I think it’s best you leave,” Quinn says, walking toward her as I stand catatonic. “Do you need money for a cab?”
Polly shakes her head, her long black hair sticking to her tears. “I…I…d-drove,” she stutters, her eyes still glued on me.
“Will you be okay to drive home?”
She nods as her lower lip quivers, and another stowaway tear slips down her cheek.
I would have apologized to her for my deplorable behavior if I could speak right now. But when she steps toward me, my intended apology gets kicked in the teeth.
“I wish I’d never met you! Stay away from me and my family. Mom deserted you for a reason, and although I don’t know why, I’m so glad she did. You’re obviously a huge, disgusting mistake. Neither she nor I want you here, so stay away!”
And she turns on her Prada heels, slamming the door shut behind her.
There is no way that what happened, just happened. There is no fucking way that my mother had an affair and had another child with someone named Chandler Ashfield.
But the guttural pain I feel in my chest tells me that it’s very,verytrue.
My mother got pregnant, and then she left. She chose her other family, leaving me behind like yesterday’s trash. How could she do that to me? I was three. I was three fucking years old! But she didn’t care.
She doesn’t care.
