Page 8 of The Best Bad Decision

“How old are you?”

We’re waiting to cross the road to the best taqueria in Santiago, and Amie’s arms are wrapped around her torso. She’s looking up at me with those pretty hazel eyes, and I think I’d answer just about anything she asked. But that one is an easy question.

“Thirty-nine,” I say. “How about you?”

“Thirty-one,” she replies with a small smile. Eight years younger than me. It’s not an outrageous difference, but it’s not insignificant, either. I rest a hand lightly on the small of her back as we cross the road and enter the dimly-lit restaurant.

“Where’d you learn Spanish?” I ask after our tacos are delivered to our table.

“Tengo una licenciatura en Español,” Amie winks.She has a degree.The woman is beautifulandsmart, and trouser-brain is rearing his ugly head. I shift slightly in my seat, willing him to cool his fucking jets. This is not the time, and it’s certainly not the place. “What about you?”

“I grew up in Phoenix, a couple hours from the Mexican border. I kinda had no choice,” I answer with a light chuckle, then change the subject back to her. “A whole degree in Spanish, though? That’s impressive as hell. Does Maisy speak Spanish too?”

“Solo un poco,” she says with a sigh. “It’s hard. I want her to, but other than me, no one else around us speaks Spanish.”

“Do you speak any other languages?”

“Spanish and German. I studied modern languages at university and I spent a year living in Madrid,” she answers almost hesitantly. I hope she’s not keeping a lid on her accomplishments out of humility, because I’m about to burst with pride for her.

“I used to bid mostly for South America flights, and the odd Asia trip. It’s just… harder to do those flights now,” she sighs. “It’s so far from London, the flights are so long. I’m away from home for so long. Maisy always has someone with her, you know, she’s either with my mum or one of my best friends. They’re amazing, her godmothers—they drop everything for her. For both of us. But it’s just such a long trip.”

I squeeze her fingers again. Suddenly, her earlier disdain for being in Santiago makes sense. My heart hurts. It’s an unwelcome sensation. Even more than the sadness of missing out on Amie’s pregnancy and so much of Maisy’s life, I feel sick to my stomachwith guilt that Amie has had to be both parents and raise Maisy alone—foot the bill for everything alone—for the last three years. I want to pay my fair share.

“Let me send you some money,” I say quietly. Amie’s proud, and I’m not surprised when she rebukes the offer. I expected it, even. But it still hurts to hear.

“I don’t want your money, Cam,” she snaps at me.

“I just want to be there for her—for both of you. I want to pay my share. When I said I’m in, Amie, I meant it. One hundred percent. For better or worse. The good days, the bad days, the expensive days. I’m in.”

Amie’s expression softens.

“Maisy and I are… we’re doing okay,” she says. “But maybe from here, we can split things. And maybe you can come and meet her soon.”

Holy fuck.

A daughter.

Amie got pregnant that night. Withmybaby. The woman I’ve wanted, missed, pined for every day for almost four years had my baby, and I had no fucking clue. I could kick myself. I hate myself for not making more of an effort, for not getting her phone number or giving her mine, for not even getting her last name. She had to do everything alone, and if I’d been less focused on getting my dick wet and more focused on the way I was feeling about her after just a few minutes of conversation, everything could’ve been different.

But I know now. It’s out in the open, and now I have some calls—and some decisions—to make.

“Hey Mom, is Dad with you?” I sit on the edge of the hotel bed, running a hand through my hair and then rubbing it down over my face, pausing for a moment and letting the stubble on my chin scratch at my palms. I’m exhausted, physically and mentally, but I can’t rest until I’ve made this call. My dad’s face appears beside Mom’s on the small screen of my phone.

“I’m here, son,” he says.

“I need to talk to you both,” I say, ready to rip off the Band-Aid. “I gotta tell you something.”

“Oh honey.” Mom’s face falls. “Are you okay, is it work? Are you sick? You’re not sick, are you?” Her concerned eyes search mine through the screen and I mentally kick myself for worrying her. Even something as simple and mild as a common cold worries her these days, ever since Dad’s cancer scare, even though he’s healthy as a horse and in remission now.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” I reassure her and try to smile. I catch my expression in the corner of my screen and it looks more like a grimace.

“I, uh…” This is harder than I thought. Amie’s awkwardness suddenly makes sense. How is it so hard to say four little words? I just need to man up and do it. “I have a daughter.”

“You have… what?” Mom’s hand flies to her mouth, whilst Dad narrows his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s kinda what I said when I found out, too.” I try to make a joke, but Mom just glares through the lens, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Let me send you a picture.”

I swipe at the screen and select one of the more recent photos Amie sent me. It’s the one of Maisy with ice cream all over her face, the oneI’ve already set as the lock screen on my iPad. Mom gasps, and I assume that means she’s seen the photo arrive on her phone.

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