“Yes, we can arrange that for you,” she says. “Will you be coming into the center or would you like us to mail you a kit?”
“I—um…I’d like to get it done as quickly as possible. But the father won’t be coming with me.”
“In person would be best, then,” she says. “That will save you some transit time.” I hear her typing on a keyboard on the other end of the line. She continues talking as she types. “With the Special Specimen test, we don’t need the potential father’s participation. We do need his consent, and we’ll need a toothbrush, piece of hair, or tissue sample. Will you be able to provide this?”
I walk towards the bedroom and push open the door.
“I think so,” I say, looking over the pillow that Garrett slept on last night. “Consent should be easy…he’s the one who wants the test, after all.” I can’t hide the resentment in my voice. “I’ll give you his phone number; will that work?”
“That would be fine,” she says. “And will you be able to bring in the sample? It looks here like I have an appointment available tomorrow afternoon, at two. Would that work for you?”
My eyes land on a three-inch-long, chestnut-brown hair. I pluck it off of the pillow.
“Yes,” I say. “That will work. I’ll take it.”
Chapter 11
Garrett
The studio apartment is small, utilitarian. No frills, just the necessities. Though Clint sent me the address months ago—so that I’d have a base camp for a string of jobs he had lined up in Austin—I never got around to unpacking.
It’s easier to live out of a suitcase. I can pick the whole thing up and take it to the laundromat. I can leave on a dime. I’m always ready to hit the road.
My phone beeps, and I lift it up to see the screen. I’m lying flat on my back on the mattress, which I’ve outfitted with a sleeping bag. The nylon bag is slippery under me as I move my arm.
The message is from Clint: Sending info on a target, will require surveillance. Read and respond.
His clipped message is a relief to me. It means that the next drug lord, trafficker, or general scumbag he’s going to target is one that requires some recon work, instead of immediate action.
I stare at the text, reading the details of my next target, and then rest the phone on my stomach. I reach my hand up to my face and scrub it up and down against the beard that’s grown in.
I’ve been in a total funk for days. Nothing seems to snap me out of it. Dealing with the job from Clint is the last thing I want to do, but he’s used to hearing from me almost immediately. If I don’t respond, he’ll text again. Or worse, call.
After a minute, I lift the phone up again.
Got it. Tell me when I start, I write. I press send and let the phone fall again.
Another minute passes and then my phone rings. I sigh, thinking that it’s Clint. The man rarely calls, and when he does, he uses a voice scrambler. I dread these calls. The measures Clint goes to protect his identity are all red flags. My employer definitely has something to hide. He might be just as crooked as the criminals he has me kill. I might be simply eliminating his competition.
I justify my work by telling myself that it doesn’t matter what Clint’s motivation is. I’m still killing bad guys, and that’s the bottom line. But I still hate the fact that I might be working for a guy who’s less-than honest. A lot less.
Begrudgingly, I lift the phone to my ear. It’s an unknown number, but that’s the norm with Clint. He usually uses disposable cells.
“Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, then,” I answer.
“Hi…is this Garrett Lawson?” a female voice asks.
Not Clint.
I sit up in the bed, my butt sliding against the sleeping bag’s slippery surface.
The voice continues. “This is Amy at Family First DNA Testing.”
“Yes, this is Garrett Lawson,” I say.
Now, I’m sitting up with my back propped against the bare wall behind me—as if that’s going to help me handle the news I’m about to receive.
It’s been four days since the center called me to get consent to run a DNA test. Since then, I’ve tried to come up with a plan regarding how I’ll handle the news. Every time, I come up blank.
I don’t know how I’m going to handle the news. But I’m about to find out now if I’m a father, whether I’m ready or not.
“Mr. Lawson, we’ve completed the paternity testing on Dylan Brown. The results confirmed that you are the child’s father. I can send you the blood analysis for your own records via email or the postal service. Which would you prefer?”
“Oh…uh, no, that’s not necessary,” I say. “Does—does Valerie know? Dylan’s mother? Have you told her yet?”
“Yes, Mr. Lawson. It’s our policy to inform both of the biological parents who gave consent for the test. Ms. Brown is aware of the results.”
“Okay,” I say. I run my fingers through my hair. “Thanks…thank you.”
“Mr. Lawson, do you have any other questions for me at this time?”
“No.”
“All right. Thank you, and please feel free to call if you do decide that you want a copy of those test results. We’ll be happy to send them.”
When the call ends, I simply stare down at my phone. A second text comes in from Clint, and then a third. I don’t read them.
Instead, I get up off of the bed. I reach for my suitcase and close it. My motions are automatic, and I feel as though I’m driven by some force entirely outside of me. I lift the suitcase and head for the door. After turning off the lights, I lock up. I don’t know when I’ll be back to this Austin apartment. San Antonio is an hour and a half away, and it’s clear to me now that I have to go there. That’s my next move.
I have a son.
My bike is built for travel. I strap my suitcase into position and jam my helmet on my head.
It’s funny what the human mind is capable of.
When I saw Valerie holding that infant in her arms, I knew instinctively that I was the father. Dylan had my eyes, my dark hair. But over the past few days, my mind has gone to work, finding ways that I could have been mistaken.
I was in shock. I told myself that I was imagining the resemblance. I managed to convince myself that the baby wasn’t mine.
Now, the DNA test has proven otherwise.
I’m a father.
I’m cruising up the highway’s onramp, and I notice for the first time how recklessly I’ve been driving. I barely swerve around a car to my right that’s merging as the two-lane onramp narrows down to one lane. It’s a reflex to curse at the car, but after a split-second, I realize the near miss was my own fault.
If I want to get to San Antonio in one piece, I need to rein it in. I manage a few deep breaths, then focus on the drive.
It’s early evening, and rush-hour traffic slows me down once I reach San Antonio’s city limits. Around six thirty, I pull into Valerie’s apartment parking lot.
I leave my suitcase on my bike and start towards her place. I take off my helmet as I climb the steps, and I hold it in the crook of my arm as I reach her doorway and ring her bell.
My heart is pounding in my chest. I’m acting completely on instinct, here. My mental capacities have mostly shut down.
A moment passes. Then, the door opens.
Valerie stands before me. God, she’s beautiful. Her hair is down, and she’s wearing a forest-green blouse that highlights her green eyes. Her pencil skirt and heels make me wonder if she just got home from work.
“Valerie…” I say.
She places a hand on her hip, waiting.
“I got the call. From the DNA center.” I shift my helmet to the other arm.
Damn, I’m nervous. This is all so new to me. I feel like I’m an actor who has recited the same memorized lines for a lifetime, and suddenly, I’m going off-script.
She’s just looking at me, waiting for more. Her expression is blank. It gives me nothing to feed off of.
&nbs
p; “I’m sorry,” I say. “Is he…here?” I crane my neck slightly, looking past Valerie into her apartment. I don’t know why. I know the set-up—it’s impossible to see past the apartment’s small entryway.
“Your son?” she asks.
“Yeah. Yes…my son.” This sounds absolutely fucking crazy to say out loud.
I’m reeling. I can barely believe that I just managed to drive nearly two hours in heavy city traffic, because suddenly, I feel like I can barely stand up straight. I reach for the railing on my right to steady myself.
Valerie looks down at my hand. She raises an eyebrow.
“You okay, Garrett?” she asks.
“Yeah…um…this is just a lot—a lot for me to handle.”
“I know,” she says. Finally, the cold, professional look has left her eyes. It’s replaced with the warm understanding that I find so alluring. “I get that,” she says. “This is pretty sudden. We spent one night together, and…”
She looks down and shakes her head.
When she looks back up, her eyes find mine. “I didn’t expect this, either, Garrett,” she says. “But it’s a blessing. It really is. I want you to know that I’m happy about this. And I have been since the beginning.”
I feel myself nodding. I’m still in overwhelmed mode, hanging onto the banister.
“I think it makes a difference,” she says. “How we act around him. I think it helped that I was so happy during the pregnancy, and so excited to welcome him into the world. I don’t want him to feel like he was a mistake, Garrett. Children pick up on things like that.”
I nod again. What she’s saying is making sense. I grew up knowing that my parents didn’t want me. I grew up feeling like a burden. I would never wish that on anyone, let alone my own son.
A tidal wave of emotions hit me, and as much as I want to tell her that I agree, I find that I’m unable to speak.
Valerie’s staring at me. She sniffles a little, and I see that she’s holding back tears. Though she’s trying to put up a cool and collected front, I see that this is just as hard and emotional for her as it is for me.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. It’s the only thing I can think to say.
“You don’t have to be sorry.” She wipes at the corner of her eye, trying desperately to hold back tears. “I know this isn’t easy.”
“I want to see him,” I say.
“You do?” she asks. She stands up straighter and sniffs again. “Garrett, I’ve given this a lot of thought. You don’t have to be here. I can’t force you to accept him as your son. If you don’t want to be a father, it’s better if Dylan doesn’t—”
I stop her mid-sentence.
“Valerie, I just drove all the way from Austin, the minute that I got the call from the DNA testing center. I shouldn’t have even ordered the test—he looks just like me. But I’m here now, and I’m telling you that I want to see him. You’re not forcing me to do anything. I’m here because it’s where I want to be.”
The side of her mouth lifts into a brief, subtle smile. She breathes out, quickly, as if trying to gather herself.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay, come in.” She steps aside, making room for me in the entryway.
It’s a room I know well, at this point. I’ve entered this little room in the dark of night, and I’ve escaped from it in the light of day.
This time, I know that once I enter her apartment, I’ll never be the same man I am right now. I’m stepping into the role of fatherhood.
I cross the threshold.
Valerie leads the way down a narrow hall, and when it opens up to the living room, I immediately spot the crib.
It’s set up below the window. The light that streams in through the opening is soft and pink. The sun is sinking lower in the sky, and the rays are hazy and golden.
“He stayed with my mom this afternoon,” Valerie says, her voice hushed. “I’m on maternity leave until the end of the month, but I still have a few committee meetings and training days to attend. My mom loves watching him, and she lives right down the road. I fed him when we got home around five. He usually sleeps for a few hours after each feeding.”
I’m stepping closer and closer to the small crib as she speaks.
“That’s what he does, mostly,” she says, with a soft chuckle. She’s at my side, now, approaching the crib with me. “Eat and sleep. And poop.” She laughs again. “There’s that, too.”
I laugh, and it feels good—like a release valve for my nervous energy. We reach the edge of the crib and I look down at the bundle of blankets, and the sleeping figure wrapped in them. He’s so small. Just four months old. His little face is turned to the side; his tiny hand lies by his face, his fingers curled.
His features are miniature; his cheeks are so chubby it looks like there are golf balls inside of them. The little shock of dark, almost black hair on his head forms a kind of Mohawk that makes him look like a tiny, round punk rocker. Despite my nerves, I feel myself smile.
“He’s perfect,” I say.
“He is, isn’t he?” Valerie replies.
She reaches into the crib, and in a smooth, practiced movement, cradling Dylan’s head, she scoops him up. He barely stirs.
I laugh. I don’t know why. It just comes out. I feel tears prickle my eyelids. I’m not quite sure where they’ve come from, and the sensation is completely strange. I haven’t cried in years—since I went into SEALs training at the age of twenty, and perhaps even before that.
I fight back the tears, blinking a few times, and try to get my laughter to stop. What’s wrong with me?
“Ready?” Valerie asks.
I hold my arms out.
“You have to support his head,” she says as she lays the bundle into my arms.
It happens fast. Suddenly, I’m holding him. I’m holding my son.
I look down at his sleeping face. He’s calm, serene. As if by magic, I feel his peace descend over me. Suddenly, I feel better and more whole and calm than I have in years—maybe even in my whole life.
I don’t know what kind of a father I’m going to be. I don’t know what will happen with Valerie. I don’t know how I’m going to be the man that I want to be, for the two of them.
All I know is that holding my son in my arms feels good. It feels right.
“Hi, buddy,” I whisper. He moves his hand a little bit, as if he’s heard me in his sleep. I glance up at Valerie. She’s looking at the two of us with soft, loving eyes.
Her presence at my side makes me feel even more tranquil.
There’s been so much that has been wrong in my life—so many sharp edges that I thought would never go away. As I stand here in this light-filled living room, with my son in my arms and Valerie at my side, for the first time, I feel like things are right. Finally right. The sharp edges have softened—and I never thought that would be possible. My anxiety and stress are replaced with a strange, wonderful sense of wellbeing.
I feel good. Truly good. For the first time in years.
And if I can feel this good—this whole and complete—maybe I’m not as broken as I thought I was. Maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to live in a constant state of tension.
Dylan moves again, this time wiggling his whole body. His face scrunches up and turns a pinkish-red color. He gives a loud cry, and at the same time, a smell starts to permeate the space around me.
What is that smell? I scrunch up my nose.
Valerie laughs. It takes me a minute to realize what’s just happened.
“He pooped, didn’t he?” I ask, laughing a little bit myself.
Valerie’s already in motion, moving to the changing table. “Ready to change your first diaper?” she asks.
Chapter 12
Garrett
The sound of crying jolts me from a sound sleep. As usual, my body wakes to the stimulus and springs into fight mode. I bolt up to a sitting position, and look around me for something that could be used as a weapon. I’m coming up blank, but at the same time, my brain is regist
ering my location.
I’m on Valerie’s couch.
That’s Dylan, crying, down the hallway.
My life isn’t in danger. I stop searching for a weapon and sit up further. My heart is pounding and I’m wide awake.
My eyes adjust quickly to the dark living room, and as I get my bearings, I turn my attention to the sounds drifting towards me from down the hall—Valerie’s bedroom.
Dylan’s cries are softening, as if he’s being soothed. Valerie is awake with him; that much is clear. I stand up, off of the couch. There’s no way I’m going to go back to sleep, and I want to offer my help.
I walk softly down the hallway in my bare feet. When I get to the bedroom’s entrance, I hesitate.
Is it intrusive of me to knock on her door in the middle of the night? I’ve been in that bedroom before—twice—but last night, Valerie set up a place for me on her couch.
She was nice, last night. Inviting. Warm. Understanding. All of the things that I’ve learned are just a part of her nature.
But at the same time, there was this new distance between us.
She didn’t make any moves to kiss me or touch me. I stayed a respectful distance from her, too. Our conversation felt strangely formal; she told me about her pregnancy and the birth and filled me in on Dylan’s first four months. Then, she dug some sheets and a blanket out of a hallway linen closet and set them in a pile on the couch, before disappearing into her bedroom to breastfeed Dylan and put him to bed.
I was left to lie awake for hours on the couch. I have a tall frame, and couches are usually way too short for me. This one was no exception.
Besides being uncomfortable, I also had a racing mind.
What is she thinking? I wondered. What does she feel about me, being here, out on her couch? Is she happy that I’m here?
Now, as I stand in front of her door, I feel like a stranger in this little home. What if I knock, and she asks me to go away?
I’m just standing here, paralyzed by fear. I’m a man who has busted into enemy compounds without a second thought, guns blazing, and yet this thin wooden door and the woman and baby behind it have me paralyzed.
Secret Daddy Surprise - A Secret Baby Romance (Once a SEAL, Always a SEAL Book 4) Page 8
