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But Tazeem wasn’t one to give up. He would get at least a name from this child if it was the last thing he did. “You know, all great artists sign their work. If you plan to be an artist, then you should probably start signing your work.”
That caught the boy’s attention.
His pencil paused over the notepad for several seconds as if he was considering Tazeem’s words. Then proving that he was just a boy after all and not a wizened, old man locked in a little boy, he moved to the bottom of his drawing, and with a flourish, signed:by Jason Khan Winters.
For a second, Tazeem was elated that he’d tricked the boy into giving him a name. But when the name registered, shock swiftly shoved aside his elation.
Jason Khan Winters?
There was no possible way that that was the boy’s name, right? Yes, Chelsea and Tazeem had always said that they’d name their baby Jason, after Tazeem’s grandfather, and that he’d take both their surnames, but this was a coincidence, right?
The beating of Tazeem’s heart slowed almost as if it was preparing to stop beating, yet each thump was so powerful that he could feel it in his throat. His ears began ringing, his vision became hazier, and every muscle in his body stiffened.
Jason was a common name. Any child could have it. And yeah, there was less of a chance of a black American baby having Khan as a surname, but it was possible, right? Having a ‘Winters’ who wasn’t Chelsea attached to that Jason Khan was even less likely, but it could happen, right?
This couldn’t be the same Jason who’d died eight years ago, right? Right?
Tazeem’s fist flew to his heart to keep it from escaping his ribcage like it was trying so hard to do. A tight fist was squeezing his lungs, and breathing was becoming harder by the second.
This little boy wasn’t Tazeem’s Jason, right? Chess wasn’t evil enough to do something like this to Tazeem. She didn’t hate him this much, did she? This wasn’t his Jason. No way!
NO WAY!
As hard as it was to speak at this moment, Tazeem forced out, “Is- is your Mom called Chelsea Winters?”
The child immediately spun around to face him. “How do you know my mom?”
But Tazeem’s heart still wasn’t ready to admit what his mind already knew. Maybe Chess had had a baby with another man but was so attached to the name that she’d decided to use it.
Instead of answering the boy’s question, Tazeem asked, “How old are you?”
“Nun-ya,” the boy retorted.
“Eight!” Donna called out from her position behind the reception desk. “He’s eight years old.”
Tazeem was lucky to be seated because if he weren’t, he would’ve embarrassed himself by collapsing to the floor in utter shock.
12
C
HESS WAS AT H-STREET, HELPING them select the models who’d walk the runway for their show, when her phone rang. It was Kendall. She excused herself from the room to go and take the call.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Hi, Chess,” Kendall greeted. “I just wanted to let you know that I dropped off Jay at your office like you asked?”
“What?” Chess frowned. “I didn’t ask you to drop off Jay at my office.”
“But you did.” Kendall sounded just as confused as Chess was. “Someone from Synovent called me and gave me the message.”
“Someone from Synovent?” Now Chess was even more confused. “Who is this someone?”
Kendall said, “He said his name was Patrick Something.”
“We don’t have any Patrick at Synovent. At least none that I know of.”
“Well, then who was it who called me?”
