Page 106 of Lost Love on 6th Street

It might be easier not to know, but I also can’t imagine living with the itching question in the back of my mind.

What the hell happened between my dad and Diane?

“I knew your mom,” I say.

Eleanor’s grip tightens on my arm.

Claire's expression is unreadable at first. Her eyes start to widen, and she lifts her chin. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“How?”

We all know where this is going. Even if it’s a long shot, I think we’re all feeling it. “She was friends with . . .” I lick my lips. “She was friends with my parents. With my dad.”

Claire freezes. “What was your dad’s name?”

It would be foolish to think I can rewind time and back my way out of this moment. I’m already here. Nowhere to fall but forward.

“Frank,” I say in a ragged whisper. “Frank Wyatt.”

Eleanor goes rigid beside me. Another truth I didn’t tell her the entirety of. That one wasn’t to hurt her, wasn’t to keep her safe. It was to keep me safe. I needed answers before I could hear her questions.

She’d understand that, right?

Claire takes me in, letting her eyes peruse me. It’s not the kind of perusal you get in a bar or when you pass someone attractive on the street. She is adding me up, taking in the image of each of my parts, and creating a sum that is more similar to hers than either of us would like to admit. “I have some things to show you.”

* * *

Claire’s office is silent as she goes to her desk and opens one of the drawers.

Eleanor and I remain in the doorway. I’m afraid to step inside, but Eleanor gives me a small nod. Go on. It’s not like hanging back is going to change my reality. I step into the office, the wooden floor squeaking underneath me. The wolfhound in the corner raises his head, and when he realizes nothing has changed other than my arrival, he plops back down.

“Well, I guess I’ll just rip off the band-aid.” Claire reaches into her desk and produces two official-looking documents. She places them in front of me and points to the one on the right. “This is the birth certificate I’ve always used for government stuff.”

She places it in front of me. In the slot where the mother’s name is written is Diane Bloom. The place for a father’s name is blank.

“And this one . . .”

My eyes travel to the parentage lines again.

And this time the father’s slot is not blank.

Francis Wyatt.

There it is. In government ink.

“I found it buried in her stuff. I guess she had his name struck from the record when I was little. My last name has always been Bloom.”

I clear my throat in discomfort.

Claire sighs. “I’m sorry, I know this must be hard.”

Something surges inside me. “Did you know him? Did you ever—”

“No. Never,” Claire answers quickly.

I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.

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