Page 70 of Accidental Dad's Best Friend

I blink back the rush of tears that comes with the memory. The wave of remorse and guilt and shame is so overwhelming it’s crushing me. How could I be so stupid? How could I be ignorant enough to think that I could hide his father from him forever? I mean, eventually he would ask why he had a different last name. And telling him that you can choose any name you like for a baby and I liked that name would no longer be a good enough answer in a few years when he is smart enough to know that’s not how it works.

I honestly don’t know why I gave him Ethan’s name. I was alone, and I was scared. I faced the entire pregnancy by myself. Other than Cassie, I had no one around. No family to supportme. No one to invite to a baby shower or show ultrasound photos to. No one to tell when I found out I was having a boy. A boy!

I remember the hot, happy tears that came with that announcement. I didn’t care what I was having either way but there’s something about putting a gender to the little body inside of you that makes it even more incredible.

The day he was born was a blur. Crying and pushing and fear and pain and joy. So. Much. Joy.

The nurses bathed him and dressed him while the doctor stitched me up and changed my bedding. When they handed him to me, clean and cozy and absolutely perfect, I smiled down at him with more love than I’d ever felt. More than I knew was possible to hold in my heart. And then I saw his face.

His heart shaped jawline.

His pointed nose.

His arched eyebrows and dark lashes.

He looked like Ethan.

“All boys look like their father at first,” A nurse had told me. “It’s God’s design to keep males from killing their young.”

Maybe that’s true. The animal world is brutal. But that wasn’t the case with Jax. He looked like his father. Everything about him was similar. And as exhaustion and fear overtook me, I signed the birth certificate, giving him Ethan’s last name. I didn’t think about the consequences. I didn’t think about the future questions. A part of me just came to the realization that Jaxon was not just mine. And that scared the shit out of me. But at the same time? The part of me that always lusted after the idea of Ethan fantasized over the idea of us one day being a family.

Of course I never really believed it. It couldn’t be real. Could it? Jax’s sleepy words made me wonder…

But I’m not that stupid. Ethan isn’t going to accept that I’ve lied to him. And I don’t want Jax to hate him. I’d rather all of this be my fault. I pad out of the room and turn, looking back atthe closed door. My entire heart is on the other side of that door. If Ethan gets upset, if he wants nothing to do with us after he knows the truth, Jax will hate him forever.

I press my hand to the door and squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I will wait. At least until after the magazine hits the stands and the atomic bomb goes off. I don’t think we can handle more than one explosion at a time.

I pull my hand from the door and make my way into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It’s late. Later than I’d expected it to be and I haven’t heard from Ethan at all. I want to call him, to see if something went wrong. But at the same time, I know that this is no small task what he’s doing. There’s no room for mistakes or sloppiness. It’s a sensitive operation and I want him to be able to focus. If we are going to go through with this, it has to be done right.

Camomile it is. Maybe with a shot of whiskey just for good measure. I make my way, steaming cup in hand, to the bathroom. Maybe I need a bath. A deep, hot, bubbly bath. Even if it doesn’t ease my mind, it will calm my nerves. I have been so tense all day, my shoulders and neck are a ball of knots. I light a couple candles and pour some lavender soap in the tub. Then I undress and look at myself in the mirror.

I used to hate looking in the mirror. I don’t know a lot about my mother, what she looked like or even who she was. Any time I asked my dad if I could see photos, he got sad. And then he got mad. It made him snippy and then he’d end up feeling kind of bad. But he doesn’t know how to properly apologize so he’d just make me a bowl of ice cream, fix himself a drink and we’d turn on Pretty Woman. He’s always had a thing for Julia Roberts. I don’t know why. Part of me wondered if my mom looked like her. The other part of me wondered if she was a stripper. That thought makes me laugh from time to time. If she was, more power to her. I’ve imagined her as many women over the years,with many identities. Mostly, I like to think, she looked like me (not Julia Roberts) and that she was a writer too.

I put those thoughts aside for now and sink into the tub, letting every worry and wonder melt away in the bubbly water. I even close my eyes for a moment, nearly nodding off.

Until I hear a loud bang on the front door.

I jump, knocking one of the candles into the tub along with my tea.

“Shit,” I blurt out, getting out of the tub and wrapping in my robe. First, I check on Jax. Like last time, he is asleep. His window is still locked. Everything is as it should be. But my heart is still racing. I go to the living room, the kitchen, my bedroom, checking everything. Nothing looks out of place.

“Ethan?” I call out, thinking maybe he came home and the sound I heard was him coming inside, slamming the door. But he’s not here.

I check the security system and it’s still set. So I look at the door cam, replaying the last five minutes.

It’s dark. The occasional car passes by going the normal speed. The lens is empty–

Until a woman in a black coat, hood on, face down approaches the door.

One by one, every vertebra in my back turns to ice as I watch the faceless woman walk up the steps, reach in her pocket, drop something on the ground and slam her fist on the door before leaving.

She mumbles something as well and I turn up the volume. But the pound against the door makes it hard to hear, hard to recognize the voice. I am pretty sure I make it out though.

“Fucking whore.”

She turns and leaves, heading back down the street.

My heart is racing so fast that my chest hurts. Like my rib cage has been smashed. Still, I open the door.

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