Page 106 of Embracing the Beat
I don’t respond—what can I say? He nods once and leaves me behind with nothing but the acid of my memories to keep me company.
But his walking away still doesn’t hurt as bad as the realization that I destroyed the relationship that means more to me than anything.
??????
It’s been one hell of a week. In the span of an afternoon, I lost my home, my girlfriend, my best friend, and my baby. So when I’m called down to the office the following Thursday, I’m terrified I’m going to lose my job.
“Weston Abbott?” A bored-looking man in a pair of slacks and a rumpled button-down stands from the bench next to the office.
“Yes?” I ask warily.
“You’ve been served,” is all he says before handing me a large envelope.
“What?” I glance up in confusion, but he’s already walking out of the school. “Hey, wait, what is this about?”
He doesn’t respond, and I stare at the nondescript envelope in my hands with my name chicken scratched across the front.
The regret in my stomach hasn’t left me in a week. Not when I got back to Dan and Kelly’s to find them all gone—it was worse leaving them behind like a criminal. Without goodbye, without explanation. But I had no doubt Sawyer would fill them in. Which didn’t explain why I kept ignoring Kelly’s calls and voicemails.
The dread didn’t get any better when I got the key to a room at an efficiency hotel on the edge of a run-down area of north Philadelphia. The couch looked like it had been found in a dumpster, and only one burner worked on the three-burner stove. But the bed was clean, if not lumpy, and eventually I grew used to the sounds of arguing and police sirens lasting throughout the night.
I’m surviving.
Searching for an apartment has been an exercise in futility. Nothing I can afford feels like home. The hotel is a place to sleep—I come to school each morning and stay until after the janitors have all gone home. Every night I drag my ass to my car to grab fast food on my way back. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d stay at the school all night.
“What the hell is this?” I murmur to myself, twisting the envelope every which way as I search for a clue. Finding none, I lift the flap and pull out the sheaf of papers.
Order for Genetic (DNA) Testing
My vision tunnels, and I sit on the bench quickly to avoid falling over. Pain drags a razor’s edge across my chest, and I suck in a breath, continuing to read.
Plaintiff, Michaela Grace King, filed a Motion and Affidavit for Genetic (DNA) Testing. Given that the Defendant, Weston James Abbott, did not contest the motion in person or in writing on or before the required date of October 17, this court has hereby ordered that the motion is GRANTED. The Defendant will contact one of the laboratories listed below within ten (10) days of receiving this order and will submit himself for genetic testing to establish or disestablish paternity of the unborn child.
“West?” Phil tilts his head as he walks up. “You’re positively pale. Everything all right?”
I tuck the papers back into the envelope and attempt to smile, the movement foreign to my lips. “Absolutely.”
“I stopped by your class, and one of your students said the office called you. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Should we talk while we walk back?”
He nods, and we move away from the office and down the muted hallway.
“Why did you need me?” I ask after several moments of silence broken only by our footfalls against the linoleum.
“I wanted to give you an update.”
He stops, and I do as well, waiting for him to speak.
“There are no changes to the original plans we spoke about last month. And interviews for my replacement will happen in two weeks.”
I sputter, coughing as I choke on nothing but air.
“What?” I croak after several more coughs.
“Interviews. You are still interested, right?”
A year ago, I would have jumped at the chance. A week ago, I had happily submitted my resume. Now I’m second-guessing everything.
