by B. N. Toler
“Is Neena here?” Ashley asks, stretching her neck to look over my shoulder and down the hall.
“Neena?” I question. “Who the hell is that?”
Ashley’s expression falls into a look of confusion as her gaze meets mine. Then she looks to Marcus. “He doesn’t know about the ad or Neena yet?”
“You need to go. Now,” Clara interjects as she charges in. “This is a place of business and if you’re not here to skydive then you have no reason to be here.”
“Freedom of the press, lady,” Zane quips, but backs away when Clara steps toward him. The woman has a mean look that could cower a grizzly bear. I don’t blame him.
“I imagine you’re all skipping school right now, yes?”
The three look at each other, but Ashley, the boldest of the crew, shrugs nonchalantly. I want to smile a little because in some ways she reminds me of Clara. “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices to get the story,” she replies. “Like Tom Brokaw in Baghdad.”
“Well, kid, this ain’t Baghdad and you sure as hell ain’t Tom Brokaw,” Marcus announces as he moves to herd them toward the door.
“And if we don’t leave?” Zane asks, standing firmly.
“I may look small, kid, but I can kick your ass,” Marcus threatens, jabbing his finger at Zane. “I’m the perfect height to headbutt you right in the balls.”
“We’re underage,” Ashley argues. “You can’t touch us.”
Turning to Clara, Marcus gives her a look before he falls back, landing on his ass. He howls in pain as he grabs his gut and rolls to his side. “He just kicked me, Clara. Did you see that shit?”
Rushing to Marcus’s side, Clara kneels and acts as if she’s checking him over. Then she looks up to the trio. “How could you kick this poor innocent man?”
“We didn’t do anything to him,” Ashley cries as Marcus moans louder.
“Hate crime!” he shouts, jerking out a hand and pointing a finger at them, only to pull it back in to his stomach, feigning pain.
“How could you kick this tiny man?” Clara stands, her tone angry. “Get out. Now!”
All three of them have their mouths open in utter shock, but after a moment Ashley smirks a little and snorts, realizing they’ve been defeated. Jutting her chin, she motions for Zane and Mills to go. “We’ll be back,” she warns.
“Why?” Marcus yells dramatically, his face red and voice deep with emotion. “So you can finish me off? Haven’t you tortured me enough?”
The bell on the door jingles as the three rush out. Marcus stands and watches them, and Clara remains on her knees beside him. When they finally look at one another, they smile widely and Marcus helps her to her feet.
“What in the hell was that?” I ask in disbelief. What were those kids talking about?
“That was phenomenal acting,” Marcus answers as he takes a bow.
“You missed your calling,” Clara compliments him.
“Yeah, well, the world of skydiving needed me more.”
“Holy shit!” Someone gasps and we all turn to see the woman waiting to jump holding a piece of paper, looking from it to me and back again. Marcus must have dropped the paper Ashley was trying to hand to me and this woman picked it up. “You’re her father.”
The room goes silent until I chuckle. “I don’t have a kid, lady.”
The woman ignores me and looks at Clara. “Aren’t you Neena’s mother?”
I dart my gaze to Clara who is standing as still as a statue, blinking profusely. When Clara doesn’t answer, the woman’s boyfriend stands and takes the paper from her. “Babe . . . I don’t think this is any of our business.”
As he hands the paper to Marcus, the woman apologizes. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . It’s just with it being all over the Internet and on the news . . .”
“With what being on the internet and news? Will someone please tell me what in the hell is going on?” I say, my voice rising and my frustration skyrocketing. It’s been like a goddamn zoo in here this morning and I’m tired of it. I just wanted to meet with Clara and piss her off to the point where she’d give me my money and never ask me for an annual meeting ever again. I didn’t sign up for these theatrics.
“Mom,” a small voice interrupts, and we all turn to the back hall where a tiny girl stands wearing black yoga pants and a sweater jacket. Her head is wrapped in a purple scarf. She’s thin and pale, but her eyes . . . something about them has me fixated, and I can’t stop looking.
“Neena,” Clara sighs and rushes toward her. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“It sounded like Marcus was hurt. I was worried,” the girl responds as Clara tries to shoo her back down the hall.
“I’m okay, kiddo. Don’t worry,” Marcus assures her. “Go back to bed.”
Even as Clara gently pushes Neena back, Neena and I remain with our eyes locked. Her eyes. What is it about her eyes? After a minute, Clara wins and manages to get Neena down the hall. The room is silent for a moment until Bowman and some other guy I haven’t met before come out, suited up, ready to jump. Bowman gives me an awkward wave as he moves his gaze to Marcus. Marcus quickly shakes his head, indicating for Bowman not to say anything.
“We have to head to the airfield,” Marcus tells me. “You should stick around. There’s a lot you’ve missed since you’ve been gone.” Then he hands me the paper and leaves.
I can’t even read it yet. I’m still lost in thought. What is it about her eyes? I scratch my head, wondering why they look so familiar when suddenly it hits me.
They’re my eyes.
She has my eyes.
But that’s . . . impossible. I’m numb with shock. And fear. I look at the paper in my hand and begin to read it.
DESPERATELY SEEKING EPIC.
You’re my father.
The words seem to blur together forcing me to stop reading. And before I realize it, I’m sitting on the couch with the paper clenched tightly in my hand. I can’t will myself to read any more. It just can’t be true. How could it? How could it be true? Because if it is true, it means I have a kid that’s been fatherless for her entire life. It means Clara hid her from me. It simply can’t be true. Surely she doesn’t hate me that much that she’d omit the fact we have a child together. The longer I sit, the more horrendous my thoughts become.
“Paul,” Clara says my name, her voice faint. Jerking my gaze to hers, she swallows and her eyes go wide. She can see how angry I am.
“Is it true?”
She drops her head, frowning a little. Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, and she hunches them ever so lightly. She doesn’t speak, just nods yes.
I stand and grab fistfuls of my hair as I pace back and forth. “So she’s what? Thirteen?”
“Twelve,” Clara answers, her voice raspy. She still hasn’t looked up.
I laugh with disdain. “Aw, fucking perfect, Clara. You hate me that much you’d hide our kid from me?”
Whipping her head up, she glares at me. “I tried contacting you for months after she was born. You didn’t respond to one email.”
“I don’t check that shit. You know that.”
“How else was I supposed to reach you? You didn’t even get a cell phone until two years ago, and the only way I found out about that is because Richard told me.”
“Well, cutting my money off worked. Why didn’t you do that sooner?”
“Because I didn’t think about it until now. And before she wasn’t . . .” She pauses as if choking on her next word.
“She wasn’t what, Clara?” I snap, sick of her theatrics.
“She wasn’t dying,” she growls at me through clenched teeth.
I stumble back a bit. Dying? This day has been a mind-fuck of emotions. First seeing Clara, which initially brought on the old feelings of want and lust, and oddly wanting to strangle her. Then hearing I have a kid I didn’t know about. I’m still trying to digest that one. Now my kid is dying? That’s a lot, even for a fuck-up like me.
&nbs
p; “Of what?” I manage.
“Leukemia,” Clara answers softly.
“What about chemo or—”
“She’s been through two rounds.” Clara cuts me off. “She needs a bone marrow transplant. Even with it, her odds are poor, but it’s her last hope.”
“Or what?” I ask stupidly.
Clara closes her eyes and inhales deeply, making me hold my breath. “Or she dies. A few months ago they said six months to a year. That’s when I cut your money off. There’s a very small chance you could be a match, and if you are . . . Paul . . .”
“Don’t even say it.” I hold my hand up, stopping her, and her face falls, transforming into despair. Did she think I’d say no? That I’m that big of a bastard? “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
She swallows hard, her chest convulsing as she tries to keep her emotion at bay. “Thank you.”
“I want to meet her, Clara,” I say.
Inhaling a deep breath, Clara nods a few times. “Yeah, okay. Dinner? Tonight at my house?”
“Yeah, sure,” I agree. “You still living in that shithole?” I jest, trying to lighten things a tad.
She snorts. “You mean my home with character?” she jokes back. “Why yes . . . yes I am.”
I chuckle a little. “Should I bring anything?”
“Paul . . .” she replies, her tone serious. “She’s a little girl. Don’t . . . hurt her. Don’t make her fall in love with you if you know you’re just going to take off again.”
I don’t know what to say. A part of me wants to yell at her and tell her to stop busting my balls and acting like I’m some kind of asshole. Another part of me knows I kind of am an asshole. But not completely. I’m not a complete asshole by any means. Okay, maybe half of one. So I reply lamely with a simple, “Okay.”
“Seven.”
“See ya then.”
Opening the oven, smoke wafts out, hitting me in the face, burning my eyes and making me choke. “Shit,” I grumble as I close the oven door and turn it off. The smoke detector goes off, shrieking, and I quickly grab the broom and bang it until it crashes to the ground, spitting the battery out, which disappears under the fridge.
“Out of all nights, you pick this one to cook,” Marcus murmurs before sipping his wine as he sits at my kitchen table. Leaving the smoke detector where it dropped on the floor, I ignore him and turn back to dicing cucumbers for the salad.
“We’ll just order a pizza,” I snap.
Marcus grins. “Neena will be pleased.”
“Why didn’t you bring Mei-ling?”
“She had to work,” Marcus grumbles. Mei-ling, Marcus’s barely-speaks-English Chinese girlfriend, works at a strip club, although he prefers to call it a gentlemen’s club. I guess it makes him feel better about the situation. She’s an incredibly sweet young (and by young, I mean young, but she’s at least of legal drinking age) woman.
“You’re nervous,” he observes.
“No I’m not,” I mumble.
“Yes, you are. I can tell.”
“And how is that?”
“Your foundation isn’t blended all the way. You’re way too detail-oriented to let that happen.”
Immediately, I drop the knife in my hand, rush to the hall bathroom, and look in the mirror. Damn. Did I put my makeup on in the dark or something? I curse as I rub at my jawline and neck, until it’s blended. As I walk back in the kitchen, I roll my eyes as Marcus grins behind his wine glass. Jackass.
“You look beautiful, Clara,” Marcus adds, and I smile faintly.
“It’s not about . . . that. This is about Neena. Besides, Paul is a shit.”
“Yet you put on makeup, attempted to cook a meal, and you’re wearing a dress I haven’t seen you in since Bowman got married.”
Looking down at my sundress, I sigh. He’s right. I’m ridiculous. “I’m going to go change,” I say, but the doorbell rings.
“It’s go time.” Marcus lets out a deep breath.
“Thanks for being here tonight.”
Marcus nods once and motions a hand toward the living room. “After you.”
I walk quickly to the front door after the bell goes off again. “Neena,” I call up the stairs as I pass by. “Come on down. He’s here.” When I open the door, Paul is turned, facing the front yard with both hands in his pockets. Turning, his gaze meets mine before trailing down my body and back up again. My right hand holds the door and my grip tightens as a familiar feeling from so long ago rushes through me. My cheeks heat and I smile slightly, trying my damnedest not to full-out grin. It’s been a long time since a man looked at me that way—at least any I’ve noticed.
He steps to me, one step, then another, until he’s right in front of me. Leaning in, he kisses my cheek. My head rears back slightly; I’m shocked by the greeting.
“Clara.” His voice is deep, in all the right ways, making my belly clench.
“Paul,” I reply in an even tone.
He looks to the left where my hand still holds the door, then his hand brushes against the wood of it. “Glad to see the door is still holding up,” he quips.
I want to chuckle, and remember that moment of heat and passion when he pressed me against this door and kissed me like I’d never been kissed before in my life. But that little voice inside of me pipes up. He left you, Clara.
“Come in,” I add, stepping back so he may enter.
“Marcus!” Paul beams.
“Where’s my kiss on the cheek?” Marcus jests as they shake hands.
“Saving yours for later,” Paul replies as they laugh. When he turns back to me, he wipes his palms on his shorts and lets out a long breath. He’s nervous. I didn’t realize that Paul James could get nervous. “She here?”
“Yeah. She’s in her room. She’ll be down in a minute.”
“Does she know I’m coming?”
“Yes, she does,” I tell him. “You ready?”
“I think so.”
Shutting the door, I move to the bottom of the stairs. “Neena?” I call, louder this time.
“I’m right here,” she groans, and we all whip our heads to the living room. She was hiding behind the recliner. Her camcorder is in her hand; red light on.
“Can we turn the camera off for a moment, Neena?” I beg.
“It’s not on,” she lies, like always. But I can’t ever seem to be upset with her for more than a second.
“Neena,” I warn lightly.
“Fine,” she huffs and powers it down. She’s wearing one of her favorite scarves around her head; it was mine once. It’s green and has a soft flowery design made up of pink, white, and brown. She’s traded her usual yoga pants and rock T-shirt for a frilly black skirt and pink tank top. She’s a sight for sore eyes and I can’t help grinning. At least I’m not the only one that dressed up.
“Will you come here, please?” I ask her, holding my hand out. Her eyes dart nervously between me and Paul before moving to Marcus. Marcus nods once, letting her know it’s okay; she has nothing to be afraid of. Hesitantly, she moves from around the recliner and walks over to us. When I look at Paul, he seems transfixed; he can’t stop staring at her. His expression is stoic, but it could mean anything. I can’t tell if he wants to smile, puke, run away, or hug her. When Neena reaches me, she curls into my side and lowers her head, peeking up at Paul.
“Neena,” I say, quietly. “Honey, this is Paul James. Your father.”
Paul swallows hard and plasters on what I assume is his best smile, but it looks forced and incredibly uncomfortable. “Hi, Neena,” he utters as he holds out his hand to shake hers. Neena lifts her head and gives him a whisper of a smile as she takes his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” she replies.
“You have my eyes,” Paul states as he moves his awed gaze to me. “She looks just like me.”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I know.”
“But way better looking,” Marcus cuts in.
“Agreed.” Paul nods.
The room falls awk
wardly silent, but Marcus breaks it when he says, “I’ll go order the pizza.”
As he turns to walk back to the kitchen, Neena darts off after him. “I want Giovanni’s!”
Dinner runs smoothly even though I’m incredibly tense. It’s like my body is aware of Paul; if he moves, I sense it. I practically lose my shit when he stares at the corner of the table and smirks at me, his fingers tracing over my engraved initials in the wood, slowly, as if he’s taunting me. There are few opportunities for awkward silence at the table because Paul goes on and on about the places he’s been to and the people he’s met. Neena is practically panting, her eyes filled with wonder. She’s wanted so badly to travel; see the world. But her health has prevented it.
“Have you been to China?”
“A few times,” Paul replies before taking a bite of pizza. “Maybe we can go together.” He shrugs. Insert awkward silence. Neena leans back in her chair and smiles sadly. Marcus frowns and my eyes well up with tears. Neena may never go anywhere. Not if Paul isn’t a match, and even if he is . . . maybe not.
“Who wants cake?” I chirp, standing and rushing to the counter. I need a moment to collect myself, because I don’t want to cry in front of her.
Paul seems to pick up on his fubarred comment and clears his throat. “What kind of music do you like, Neena?”
For the next twenty minutes Neena excitedly discusses her favorite bands, ending with her favorite one, Masters of the V. I inwardly cringe every time she says the band’s pervy name out loud.
She grins from ear to ear before continuing. “I want to meet Zack, and all the guys of Masters of the V, soooo bad. They sell these awesome wristbands that mention their current number one hit, Lick the Cat!”
Paul frowns and blinks a few times—unsure if he heard her correctly. “Lick the . . . what?”
“Yes,” I intervene, giving Neena a stern look. “And I told her I wouldn’t let her wear such a thing unless this Zack guy, the lead singer, delivers it to our door himself.” Neena quirks her mouth to the side in mild annoyance.
