Page 111 of Embracing the Beat
“I-I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. Not today. Not tomorrow.”
“I made a mistake,” I try again.
He snorts. “Yeah, so did I. In being friends with a dick.”
“You’re right,” I agree, and his eyes round in surprise. “I am a dick. I was a massive asshole when I accused Mi”—the glare he shoots my way has me swallowing her name—“when I said the baby wasn’t mine.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he remains silent.
“I don’t need these.” I hold up the envelope. “To tell me what I already know.”
“And what’s that?”
“She’s carrying my baby.”
He gives me a look that says welcome to the conversation.
“I-I want to be there for them. For the baby and for Michaela.”
“You have a shittastic way of showing it.”
“Please. I need your help.” I’ll beg if I must.
“I’m not helping you.” He steps away and walks down the stairs.
“Why didn’t you tell your mom and dad?” I lean over the banister, calling after him.
He waits until he’s on the cracked, dirty concrete before looking up at me.
“Not my story to tell.”
With that answer, he walks toward a car and drives away. There’s no hesitation. I’m still staring after him a few minutes later when my neighbor’s door opens, startling me from my position against the rail.
Reluctantly, I go inside and drop my bag on the chair. I pull the chain up and slide it across, the envelope clutched against my chest. My heart thumps painfully with the reminder that this doesn’t need to be my life. I shouldn’t be holding results like I’m on a private episode of some sleazy daytime talk show. Regret and sadness are my constant companions, but tonight they’re a little heavier, and I sink onto the scratchy polyester couch that groans under my weight.
Running my finger against the flap, I pull out a stack of papers. The first is authorization for the noninvasive testing method in lieu of waiting until the baby is born. The next is a grainy copy of a report from the laboratory. At the top is a side-by-side comparison of my DNA and Michaela’s, followed by a small box at the bottom.
Probability of Paternity: 99.845%
This hurts. Not only emotionally, but the physical ache in my chest—the regret is overpowering. I set the papers down next to me, covering my face with my hands and taking several deep breaths.
If I could go back in time and change how I reacted when I saw that pregnancy test, I would. I’d have pulled Michaela into my arms and kissed her for those three minutes we waited. Reminded her she wasn’t alone anymore, that we were in this together.
“God,” I groan, leaning my head back on the couch. “What the fuck do I do?”
The burn behind my eyes is telling. I haven’t cried since I was a kid, but I want to sob now.
Blinking rapidly, I sit up and scan the rest of the papers. Testing procedures, the calibration of the process, another letter from an attorney indicating the intent to pursue a child support order in the state of California and, tucked between two pages, is a folded-up piece of paper with my name scrawled across it.
West,
I’m sure by now you read through the results. You’re going to be a dad. I’m not sure if you’re happy or sad about the news. I hope happy.
That she questions my reaction has the burning sensation back behind my eyes, this time stronger, and my fingers tighten on the paper, crumpling the edges.
I have to admit. I’m scared. Not about the baby, I mean for the baby. I’ve seen a doctor and everything is fine. I’m more worried about the kind of mom I’ll be. I’ve made some crappy decisions, and I hope those don’t come back to haunt our child.
