by Farlow, LK
“What we making?” she asks.
“Chicken and broccoli alfredo.”
“Yum! I love dat!”
I move around her and get a pot of water going on the stove.
“Oh! I forgot to grab the butter. Will you get it, baby?”
She dashes over to the fridge and grabs a stick of butter—mind you, it’s one I intentionally moved to where she could reach it while she was washing her hands. She brings it to me with a wide grin on her face.
“Thanks!” I move her stool over so that it is in front of the stove. In one pot we have our noodles boiling and in another our butter melting. When the microwave dings, I grab the chicken and add it to the pan of sizzling olive oil. I don’t let Tatum up onto her stool to help until the chicken is finished—I would hate for the oil to pop her.
After I transfer the chicken to a plate, Tatum climbs up onto her stool. I slide the broccoli off of the cutting board and into the pan the chicken was in. Then I let her help me add a little chicken broth to it before covering it with a lid.
I also let her help me stir in the heavy cream for our sauce, as well as the parmesan cheese.
I once again have Tatum hop down from her stool so that I can safely drain the pasta. When I finish that, I turn off the burners and together we pour the noodles into the sauce and add the chicken and broccoli. “It smells good, Mama!”
“It does,” I agree, an idea sparking in my mind. “Hang on, okay? Don’t move!” I grab my phone up from the counter. “Okay, baby, give everything a good stir for Mama!” I snap a few shots of Tatum at the stove stirring our dinner and attach them to a text to Alden that reads She may not know you as her father, but she is so much like you. Can we please talk soon?
20
Alden
Nate dropped me off at my car after our chat. Things may be okay between us, but I can tell he’s not totally okay with all of this. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m okay with it.
I mean, it’s a lot to digest. Not only did I sleep with my best friend’s little sister, but…oh shit. She said it was her first time. I was her first. Knowing that is kind of a mind fuck. On one hand, that caveman that lives inside every red-blooded, breathing male wants to stomp and shout in victory of claiming unconquered land.
But the sane, rational part of me also knows that has to be a shitty thing for her—for me not to even remember it, and then get knocked up on her first go. Knocked up with my kid. That she kept from me. At that, I tell the sane, rational part of me to fuck right off. She didn’t have to be a single mom. All she had to do was fucking sit down and talk to me—I would have been there for her, come hell or high water.
In an attempt to clear my mind, I kill a few hours driving aimlessly. My plan backfires spectacularly, though, when I cruise past a playground and instantly picture myself pushing a chubby, red-cheeked baby in a swing. It gets worse when I pass the ice cream shop my grandparents always took me to growing up. I can’t help but wonder if Tatum likes ice cream, and if so, what’s her favorite flavor? Is she all about the classics or is she more adventurous in her flavor choices? Toppings or no?
My low fuel alert dings, breaking me from my thoughts. But, hell, even the gas station has me feeling nostalgic. As soon as we were allowed to ride our bikes out of the neighborhood, Nate and I would pedal down here to get glass bottle Cokes and peanuts. Nate got his roasted and put them in his Coke; I got mine boiled. Meanwhile, I have a daughter and don’t even know if she has a peanut allergy—or any allergies, for that matter.
It’s late in the afternoon by the time I make it back to the house. The silence inside mocks me. It tempts me to delve into my psyche—into the issues that I love to bury and pretend as if they don’t exist. Issues named Mia.
But, after last night, I’m in no frame of mind to defuse that particular bomb, so I do what I do best, and mentally stick her back in her box, sliding it back up onto the shelf. She’s an entirely different issue for an entirely different day.
I wash my hands over my face and take a deep breath, noticing for the first time that I smell like a distillery mixed with stale cigarette smoke—gross. I toss my keys onto my dresser and plug my phone into the charger before shucking off my clothes and hitting the shower.
The hot water soothes my body but does nothing for my mind. I waffle back and forth between shock, anger, and denial.
Shock that I have a daughter.
Anger that I’m just now finding out about her.
And denial…well, this one’s a bit trickier. Because as much as I want to deny she’s mine, I can feel it in my soul. Not to mention, her features favor mine more than Natalie’s. Even still, maybe I should ask for a DNA test to be sure…even though I’m pretty damn positive of what it’s going to say. After last time, I’d be a fool not to cover all of my bases.
When the water runs cold, I step out, towel off, throw on a pair of sweats, and face plant onto my bed. The urge to sleep is strong, but I roll over and snatch up my phone and power it on.
As my home screen loads, notifications ping. A total of five missed calls—all from Natalie—along with a slew of texts, though shockingly only half are from her. The rest are from Carlos.
I open his thread, not ready to deal with Nat’s bullshit.
Carlos: Tara no called, no showed her shift tonight.
Carlos: Called her. She sounded drunk. This is her 2nd time pulling this shit.
Carlos: Also, you texted me some crazy shit asking me to find someone to cover Natalie’s shift last night…wanted to let you know Jenny agreed to.
Jesus. I quickly scroll up, making sure I didn’t make a total ass of myself, and for the most part, I’m okay. You know, aside from texting my GM at ten o’clock at night asking him to alter the schedule. I text him back a thumbs up emoji and toss my phone back down, still not ready to deal with Natalie, or anything really.
I know we need to sit down and talk, calmly and rationally, but I’m finding it really fucking hard to be either of those things at the moment. Instead of reading her texts, I pad out to the kitchen and whip myself up some dinner. I keep it simple, making quick work of a bowl of creamy avocado pasta, because as much as I love being in the kitchen, cooking for one isn’t all that satisfying.
I take my dinner out onto the patio and eat it to the sounds of my quiet, sleepy street. It’s peaceful, but would certainly be better enjoyed with company. Involuntarily my mind drifts to Natalie. I picture her and Tatum out here with me; the sounds of their laughter warming my belly far more than the meal.
Suddenly my appetite is ruined. I head back inside and toss my bowl into the sink—I’ll wash it tomorrow. Back in my room, I finally decide to man up and read her texts.
Natalie: I’m so sorry. Please know that.
Natalie: Alden, I’m worried. Are you okay?
Natalie: What a stupid question, of course you’re not. Please give me a chance to explain. Please?
The last message contains a picture of Tatum smiling and stirring a pot of what appears to be alfredo. The text attached fucking guts me.
Natalie: She may not know you as her father, but she is so much like you. Can we please talk soon?
I might come to regret this, but I pick up my phone and dial Natalie. The quicker I sort shit with her, the quicker I get to know my little girl. I’ve already missed out on enough. I’m not going to miss any more.
With every ring, my heart feels like it’s going to crack my ribs and beat right out of my chest. Finally, on the fourth ring, she answers.
“H-hello? Alden?”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out gruff. “We need to talk, Nat.”
I hear her exhale softly. “Yeah, we do.”
“Come by the café tomorrow for lunch—eleven-thirty. We’ll talk then.”
“Sure. S-sounds good. I really am sor—” I hang up before she can apologize…again.
21
Natalie
I hardly slept after my very brief but nerve-wracking phone call with Alden la
st night. Instead of getting much-needed sleep, I laid in bed and picked apart every last little detail of our conversation.
He didn’t sound as mad as he had the night before. Not happy, by any means, but less like he wanted to snap my neck. So, that’s a plus, I suppose. And he actually wants to talk. That has to be a good sign, right? Either way, that’s what I’m telling myself, because the alternative is downright unbearable.
It’s been less than an hour since I dropped Tatum off, and I’m already on my fourth cup of coffee. Usually I would be getting ready to head into work, but since, Alden gave me the day off, I have a bit of free time.
Mind you, every bit of that said free time will be spent obsessing over our lunch meeting. It really could go either way, but I am determined to think positive. I mean, it’s not like I expect all to be forgiven and forgotten in two seconds flat, and I certainly don’t expect him to ever want to pursue something romantically with me, but…I do expect him to want to get to know Tatum, and to do that, we at least have to be civil. Baby steps and whatnot.
I decide to make the best of my free time and do a little laundry—Lord knows it is easier to do while Tatum isn’t here. She likes to help fold, only we have very different definitions of the word.
With two loads down and one in the dryer, I hop in the shower. I take my time, washing and scrubbing and shaving. I’m hoping the whole look good, feel good can somehow extend to my meeting with Alden. If I look good and feel good, maybe things will go…good.
After drying off, I wrap my hair in my towel and slather on some lotion. I start on my makeup immediately after, opting for subtle and soft. I decide to toss my still-damp hair into a braid so it can air dry into waves. A few squirts of my sea salt spray and I’m good to go.
I check the time when I step back out into my bedroom. It’s only half past ten; that gives me plenty of time. I dress in a pair of black skinnies that are slightly distressed in the knee, pairing them with a simple slub knit gray top and gold sandals.
I still have about fifteen minutes to kill after getting dressed, but I’m too antsy to wait around. I grab my purse and head out to my car. The drive seems shorter than usual, but I’m not sure if its nerves or an actual lack of traffic—either way, I find myself rolling into the Bayside employee lot at 11:15 a.m. I guess in some circles, fifteen minutes early is considered on time.
So, with that in mind, I take down my braid, finger comb my hair, and head on in.
Giselle is at the hostess stand, and she greets me with a plastic smile. I used to think it was fake, but eventually learned it’s just her smile. “Hey Natalie, I thought you were off today? Lord knows Carlos called us all looking for someone to cover you. Is everything okay? Is Tatum okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Um…” Jesus, this is awkward. “Yeah, Nat’s fine. Um…”
Jenny walks up and saves me from answering. “Girlfriend. We need to talk.”
“We do?”
She nods and pulls me away. “Yes ma’am. I texted you this weekend and you never replied.”
I give her a sheepish look. “Did you? I’m sorry, J. This weekend was…a mess.”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll talk tonight.”
“Sounds good.” I start to talk away, toward Alden’s office, but Jenny speaks up, stopping me.
I slow my pace as I approach the office, taking a deep breath before approaching. The door is partially open, but I knock anyway.
“Come in,” Alden’s deep, masculine voice calls from inside.
I take a timid step into the room, taking great care to leave the door exactly as it was. “Hey,” I say lamely.
“Take a seat, Nat.” His voice is borderline emotionless, and that worries me.
“S-sure.” I lower down into one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk, looking everywhere but at him.
For several tense moments, we sit in silence until finally Alden stands. “Let me grab our food and then we can talk.”
He stalks out of the room, and I use the time he is gone to give myself a little pep talk. “You’ve got this, Nat. Just tell him your side of things. It’s okay.”
Alden steps back into the room, and I zip my lips. Unlike me, he doesn’t leave the door cracked. He shuts it completely, and I gulp.
“Hope you’re in the mood for a grilled shrimp Caesar.” He casually drops the plate in front of me along with a roll of silverware.
“Sounds great, thank you.”
I dig into my food, mostly to have something to do. I expect him to do the same, but instead, he slides open a desk drawer and pulls a bubble mailer from within it and sets it on the desk between us.
“You say she’s mine, and I believe you—mostly. But I’d be a fool not to get proof. I don’t want to drag this shit before a judge, so here.” He gestures toward the package. “I’ve already swabbed myself. All you need to do is swab her and mail it.”
Slowly, I pull it toward me and peek inside. A paternity test. My heart sinks a little, but deep down, I know he’s right to ask for this. Especially with him not remembering even sleeping with me. Still, it hurts, just a little.
“Sure.”
“If she’s mine, you’re not going to keep her from me, Nat.” His tone is hard and cold and so unlike the boy I fell in love with.
“That was…no. Never.” I stumble over my words and he scoffs.
“Never? That’s fucking rich.”
My eyes fill with tears, and I tilt my head back, desperate not to let them fall.
“Jesus Christ. Do you ever get tired of playing the victim?”
My sadness and hurt morph to anger. “Do you ever get tired of making assumptions and not letting people speak?”
“There’s not a damn thing you could say to justify keeping my daughter a secret from me for four goddamn years!” He yells the words, slamming his palms down onto his desk.
I shove my chair back and stand, getting in his face. Fuck being nice and understanding. “Did you ever, even once, stop to think I was seventeen and alone and scared? Did it ever fucking occur to you that I was trying to protect you?” I’m so mad that I’m crying. I fucking hate angry crying.
“Protecting me? Get fucking serious! The only person you were looking out for was you!”
“Right. You called it. I was looking out for me by going it alone. I was looking out for me by not getting any parenting support, much less fucking child support. You’re absolutely right. It was so easy and breezy for me.”
“Always the martyr, huh, Natalie?” He pitches his voice to mimic me, “Oh, poor me. I’m a single mom and my life is so hard.”
“Fuck. You.” I spit the words in his face like they’re venom. “I was terrified and so infatuated with you that I suffered the humiliation of letting my parents think I was a whore just to save you!” He starts to rebut, but I yell over him. “I was seventeen, Alden. You were twenty! I was scared you’d be charged with statutory rape and that your entire future would be destroyed. So, yes, you asshole. I. Was. Protecting. You!”
By the time I’m finished, we’re both breathing heavy. I’m still crying, and he looks utterly broken and on the verge of totally losing his shit. He parts his lips to speak, but the door flies open, silencing him.
We both turn and watch in horror as my father bursts in, looking ready to kill. My mom lingers outside the office with wide, worried eyes, while my brother is right behind Dad, grabbing him by the collar of shirt just as he rears back to punch Alden.
This day just went from awful to fucking awful in about two seconds flat.
22
Alden
I listen mutely as Mr. Reynold’s hurls insults my way left and right. “You sorry, sad sack of shit! You take advantage of my goddamn daughter after we practically raised you as one our own?”
Nate keeps him physically restrained, but barely.
This, right here, is my worst nightmare come to life. I’m honestly closer to the Reynolds family than I am my own. The love and kindness they showed me growing up
was no different than the love they gave their children—unconditional. But here and now, I can see that there absolutely are conditions. And sleeping with their little girl, fathering her child, and—as it seems to them—skirting my responsibilities, breaks those conditions.
“Dad, please,” Natalie sobs, but it’s no use. Mr. Reynolds is past the point of no return.
“It makes me sick to think of all the time we allowed you into our home. All the times you spent the night.”
I don’t bother trying to defend myself. He’s not going to listen to a word I say. Thankfully, Nate speaks up. “That’s. Enough.” His voice is deep and commanding, and his father instantly stops.
Natalie is quietly crying, her mother now consoling her while the three men in the room engage in a testosterone stare down, none of us willing to be the first to speak.
Carlos steps into the room, cutting the tension—slightly. With eyes straight on me, he says, “I’m gonna go suggest y’all either take this elsewhere or take the volume down. Customers and staff alike can hear every word. And while we want to be talked about in town, let’s reserve it for our food, not our gossip.” Just as quickly as he entered, he leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I collapse back into my chair. “Fuck,” I groan out, elongating the word.
“If I let you go, will you stay put?” Nate asks his father.
Mr. Reynolds grunts and nods.
Nate releases him and he lunges, popping me in the jaw. “Goddamn it, Dad!” Nate yells, yanking him away from me. Mrs. Reynolds begins to weep as well. I rub a hand over my aching jaw, and Natalie moves closer to me, placing her hand over mine.
“I’m s-s-sorry. This is all my f-fault.” Her words are barely understandable, and her touch feels like fire and ice. I want to haul her in closer and shove her away all at once. One thing’s for sure, though—this is her fault.
