“More of an acquaintance. Scott was here for business, so he took me to this party, and Jason was there, too. We got to talking. The rest is history.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, I don’t even know. What’s it been? Two months or so? About that, yes.” She pauses and lets out a dreamy sigh. “The happiest two months of my life.”
“Yeah, wonderful,” I say distractedly. “You don’t know what it’s about? He just woke up one day and wanted to make amends?”
“Suppose so,” she says before she laughs again. “That or he’s under the impression that you’re a bit of a liability and doesn’t want to ruffle any feathers, even though I told him my Lake is not a vindictive person at all, so I don’t know where he got that silly idea from.”
It’s one of those moments when I get a firsthand account about how my mother really doesn’t know me at all. I’m not vindictive? Please and what the fuck? I watch TV series that revolve around revenge as research.
I’m so busy being indignant about not being considered vindictive that it takes a moment for the first part of that sentence to register.
“A liability?” I repeat.
“I know. What a ridiculous thing to come up with. Don’t even?—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I mean a liability because of what?”
“Because of that whole gubernatorial race thing of his.”
I stare across the street at the darkened windows of the businesses that have closed for the night. “He’s running for governor?”
“Laying the groundwork, at least,” Mom says flippantly. “Says he wants to give back to society or something. In Connecticut, of all places.”
“He doesn’t even live in Connecticut.”
Mom makes some kind of impatient noise, like she’s getting bored of that topic. “He bought a house in Greenwich a while ago.”
She starts to talk about the mansion Scott owns, but I don’t pay attention anymore because I’ve just figured out where the dog lies buried, haven’t I?
It’s not that Scott is interested in getting to know me or having a relationship with his son. It’s that he plans to run for office and is doing damage control. Because I know he’s my biological father, and he doesn’t want me to… Well, I’m not entirely sure what exactly he imagines I’ll do, but the gist of it, I guess, is he doesn’t want me to show up somewhere and bring this whole thing up at an inopportune moment or in front of people who might be put off by this information.
‘I knocked up my brother’s fiancé and then told her to fuck off and never acknowledged the kid was mine’ doesn’t really scream trustworthy and reputable.
“Honey, do you?” My mom’s voice snaps me back to the present. The present where I’m clutching my phone so hard the edges are sawing into my palm.
“Do I what?”
“You’re not even listening,” she says with clear disapproval.
I automatically start to apologize, but the words get stuck somewhere in my throat. Stuck behind the numb betrayal that is spiraling through me.
What kind of a fucking sociopath treats other people like this? What kind of person sits on the other side of the table from his fucking son and lies that he wants to get to know him? Who does that?
“Darling, I have to go. Somebody’s at the door. We’ll talk soon, okay?” Mom says.
I don’t bother with a goodbye.
My head is spinning from what I’ve just learned.
Somehow, some-fucking-how, this knocks me off my feet.
I should never have met up with him.
I should never have listened to him.
I should never have trusted what he was saying.