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“For fuck’s sake,” I say.
“Okay, calm down. I’m a lawyer, I realize I need to have proof before you can believe me,” she says, reaching into the black purse in her hand.
“What are you even doing here in Arcola? I’m pretty sure it’s not for your ex-boyfriend’s wedding.”
“I know it’s hard for you even on a good day, but try not to be an ass,” she states.
I stare at her. “I have no idea what that means, and I don’t care. What are you doing back here?”
She sniffs. “And here I thought you missed me.”
I give her an unimpressed look.
“Fine, I got fired. Turns out, being a lawyer doesn’t suit me.”
I study her for a moment. “So, you’re giving up? You studied law for how long? You worked your butt off and now, what? You’re deciding you’ve had enough?”
“Because I’m not good enough!” she says defensively. “I would have worked harder if I was only doing this for myself. But I have a kid to take care of, Michael. I’m sure your condescending self will never understand, but don’t judge me without knowing everything.”
I blink. “Well, that was dramatic.”
“Sorry,” she says on a sigh. “I’m too wound up. I just need you to believe me right now. You have a son, Michael. His name is Noah and he’s an amazing kid.”
“Noah,” I repeat.
“Noah Marcus Lawson,” she says softly.
My head snaps up and I clench my jaw.
“You named him after my father?” I ask in anger.
“I named him after his grandfather,” she replies simply.
“You had no fucking right to do that, Christine. And you need to leave. I don’t know what has made you this delusional, but I’m done. I listened to you, and I still don’t believe you. That’ll be all,” I tell her, getting to my feet.
“Just look at this,” she says, shoving her phone in my face.
On the screen is a picture of her and a little boy. He looks about six years old. In the picture, he’s holding Christine’s hand while smiling at the camera. His two front teeth are missing and his green eyes are practically sparkling. My heart thuds in my chest as I stare at the picture. He looks like Christine—he has her hair and her eyes—but there’s something about his face that seems scarily familiar.
“He’s your son,” I say on a ragged breath.
“He’sourson, Michael,” Christine corrects softly.
She leaves not long after and I’m left to deal with implications of her revelations. I’m still not sure I believe her, and all I feel right now is numb. And desensitized to the entire ordeal.
I get a text from my mom later that night, asking where I am. I decide to head back home lest she worry.
My aunt’s the first person I see upon my arrival. She’s seated in the dark kitchen, sipping some wine. I take a seat beside her.
“Hey, Mel,” I say, pouring myself a glass as well. “Didn’t drink enough at the wedding?”
“Didn’t drink at all. I was trying to be the sober one. Your mom was tossing shots like a teenager,” she says with a smile.
“Sounds like her. I’m glad she was happy.”
“Yeah, me too.”
We descend into silence for a few minutes, sipping our wine.
