Page 37 of Unrivaled

Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

I sit down heavily as my parents sag in their seats, their faces blank masks of shock.

Yeah, that’s about how I feel about the whole thing too.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” Mom says. “I think I must’ve misheard you.”

“There’s a girl. Tiffany. We met in high school. Well, I mean,metmight be too strong of a word. We … were at a party together. Things … progressed.” God, I’m talking to my parents about a high school hookup. Can life get any worse? I mean, maybe? But I can’t think how right at the moment.

I clear my throat. “Anyway. I never saw her again until recently. She, um, she has a kid. He’s three. And he’s my son.”

My parents just stare at me, Mom blinking owlishly, a range of indecipherable thoughts crossing Dad’s face.

After a long moment, he clears his throat. “You’re sure? Because with you poised to do well in the draft—”

I cut him off with a slash of my hand and a jerk of my head before he can finish that thought. While Tiffany wanted me to be involved originally, it’s clear that she accepted my supposed lack of interest and has been competently handling things herself. I can’t imagine that fierce and fiery woman trying to shake me down for money.

“I’m sure. We did a test.”

“What kind of test did you do?” Dad asks.

I flip a hand. “One I picked up at the pharmacy. I got the results last Thursday.”

“Thursday,” Mom breathes, looking around, her gaze abstract. “Why didn’t you say something?” She refocuses on me. “Why didn’t you tell us then?”

Lifting one shoulder, I turn my hand palm up on the table. “I didn’t want to announce it in front of everyone and ruin Thursday dinner. And I wasn’t sure exactly what would happen.”

“Does that mean you’re sure now?” Dad asks.

I flip my hand back over and tap my fingers on the table. “Not exactly. I mean, not all the logistics and details, but I met with Tiffany tonight, and we’re going to start slowly with me getting to know him and him getting to know me and then plan next steps from there with custody and visitation.” There are those words again. God, I feel like when my dad would put one of his ties on me, and I’d stomp around the house in his dress shoes pretending to be an architect and trying to boss around Piper. Of course, she’d just stick out her tongue at me and do whatever she wanted. Except this time I’m pretending to be a dad.

Hopefully Ben reacts better to me than Piper did.

“That’s … good, I guess,” says Mom.

I nod mutely to acknowledge the statement, and we all sit in silence, no one knowing what to say or how to deal with this.

“We should contact an attorney,” Dad says. “I’ll ask Mike if he knows any good family law attorneys.” Mike is the contract attorney at Dad’s firm. Leave it to Dad to go into problem solving mode.

I suck in a breath, ready to protest, but Dad holds up his hand. “I know you said you’re figuring things out, but these things can be messy, and it’s in everyone’s best interests, including the child’s, to have all the details in writing.” And before I can utter another word, Dad picks up his phone and taps out a message, obviously following through immediately on texting Mike.

He meets my eyes as he places his phone back on the table. “I’ll get in touch with Mike’s recommendations tomorrow, and we’ll make a plan of action for the best way to deal with this.”

Is this how Piper felt when Mom and Dad came in and withdrew her from school down in California last year? This sense of paralysis and loss of control? Like all your choices are being taken away?

Though if the worst I’m dealing with is my dad insisting on getting family attorney recommendations, I’m getting off pretty easy. My parents look upset, but no one’s screaming or crying or … doing anything. They’re remarkably calm.

What would they do if it were Piper announcing she’s pregnant?

God, I can’t even imagine how badly they’d lose their minds.

No wonder Piper was so pissed at everyone last semester. And then I betrayed her more …

I really need to apologize to her again. Another thing to add to the to-do list.

“What’s his name?” Mom asks, leaning on the table, her hands twisted together. “Your … son. What’s his name?”

“Ben. Benjamin. His mom sometimes calls him Benny.”

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