Page 28 of Cut Off
Her response is immediate:
Zoe:Give him time. He’s adjusting. Don’t hover.
Easy for her to say. She’s not the one standing in her kitchen, listening to the silence upstairs, wondering if her kid’s plotting escape routes out the window.
I hear movement, then the door creaks open and shuts again. I resist the urge to go up and check on him. Don’t hover, Zoe said. Give him space.
God, this sucks.
I busy myself ordering pizza, because that seems safe, and checking emails from my agent about media requests. The video Zoe and I posted has over five million views now. Most of the responses have been positive, but there are the assholes who have to weigh in with their opinions about my “secret love child” and what a deadbeat I must be to not know about him for nine years.
I don’t bother explaining I would’ve moved heaven and earth to be there if I’d known. That I would’ve quit hockey in a heartbeat to be a father to my son. That the years I missed feel like a physical wound that won’t close.
Instead, I turn off all notifications.
When I go upstairs to check on Eli, I find him sitting on his bed, playing with his Flash action figure, well-worn and clearly loved. He hasn’t unpacked his backpack.
“Hey buddy,” I say, then immediately correct myself. “I mean, Eli. Sorry.”
He glances at me, then back at the wall. “It’s fine.”
I lean against the doorframe, not wanting to invade his space. “Pizza should be here any minute. I got cheese and pepperoni—wasn’t sure what you like.”
“I like cheese.”
“Great. Cool.” I shift my weight, searching for something else to say. I noticed the flicker of interest when I mentioned video games, so I say, “Do you play Minecraft?”
Eli shrugs, but his fingers twitch. “Sometimes.”
“I’ve got pretty much every game out there.” So much for not sounding too eager. “We could play after dinner if you want. Or not. No pressure.”
He hesitates, I think we’re good. Then the mask comes down again. “I’m pretty tired.”
“Right, of course. It’s been a long day.”
I’m saved by the doorbell. “That’s dinner. Come whenever you’re ready.”
I head downstairs, pay the delivery guy, and set the pizza boxes on the kitchen island. Then I stand there like a bonehead, at a loss. Should I go get him? Set the table? What’s the protocol here?
I set out plates, along with napkins and glasses for water. It looks too formal, so I move everything to the coffee table in front of the TV instead. More casual. Less pressure.
“Eli,” I call up the stairs.
No response. I wait a minute, then try again. “Eli? Food’s getting cold.”
I hear his door open, then the patter of feet on the hardwood. He appears at the top of the stairs, looking wary.
“I thought we could eat in front of the TV.” I gesture to the coffee table setup. “If you want.”
He nods and makes his way down, still moving like he’s afraid to make too much noise or take up too much space.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch, with the pizza boxes between us. I open them both—cheese for him, pepperoni for me—and wait for him to make the first move.
But when he just stares, I say, “Help yourself.”
He takes a slice of cheese pizza and sets it on his plate, but doesn’t eat it right away. I grab two slices of pepperoni and bite into one, trying to act normal, like we do this every day. Like I’m not counting every breath, every movement, searching desperately for signs that I’m not completely screwing this up.
“Do you want something to drink besides water?” I ask through a mouthful of pizza. “Soda? Milk?”
