by Margot Scott
“I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” he said. “You’re stunning, and you’ve always been stunning. I have sketches I made of you as a child hanging in my studio. People ask me all the time, who’s that gorgeous girl with the wide eyes? I tell them, that’s my daughter. That’s my little girl.”
But I’m not his little girl, I thought, even as my arm hairs stood on end.
I’d always wondered what happened to those drawings, proof of all the times I had sat like a stone until my father’s hand grew tired, no matter how bad my back ached or how numb my legs felt. I’d welcomed the suffering because I wanted him to look at me. For as long as he sketched me, I was the center of his universe. It was exhilarating, being on the receiving end of his concentration, like drunkenness, or falling in love.
Not that I had much experience with either.
“You look so much like Gretchen did at your age,” he said, “only not as defensive. She’s always been a granite wall, whereas you’re translucent, like glass. You know how to let people in. There’s beauty in that kind of openness. There’s strength.”
Though I knew Mason wasn’t my father, I had to admit, it was easy to slip back into the role of the painter’s daughter. Hearing him talk about my mother and our shared past, calling me his little girl, made me want to crawl onto his lap again. At the same time, it felt like trying to squeeze my feet into a cute pair of slippers that no longer fit.
“I miss sitting for you,” I confessed, wondering if he missed sketching me. “Mom lets me draw her sometimes, but she fidgets.”
“She always did.” He studied me for a long moment. “She doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”
I stiffened. “She knows I’m in New York.”
“But she doesn’t know you’re here to see me.”
Funny, how the man who’d deceived me all those years could still make me feel guilty for lying to my mother.
When Mason and I began texting a few weeks ago, I still believed he was my father. One day, my mom saw his number flash across my phone, and in a flurry of tears and shouting, the likes of which I’d never seen from her before, she spluttered the truth: Mason wasn’t my father, so there was no point in trying to reconnect with him—and no, she wasn’t going to tell me who my real father was, no matter how hard I begged her.
Learning the truth just about shattered me all over again. I typed up a scathing message to Mason and came close to hitting send before I realized…if Mason had known my mother around the time she was pregnant with me, he might know something about my real father. At the very least, I wanted the chance to confront him in person about lying to me.
I still had every intention of confronting him today—assuming I could resist the temptation of slipping into old, familiar roles.
“She thinks I’m staying with friends,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m eighteen. I don’t need her permission to visit you, or anyone.”
Mason speared a piece of my cold gnocchi and brought it to his lips. His gaze never left me, not even as he chewed.
“She told you, didn’t she?”
I blinked, frozen. “Told me what?”
“We’ve been sitting across from each other for almost two hours, and not once have you called me Dad. I have a hunch it’s because you know the truth.”
“Which is?”
His throat shifted as he swallowed. “I’m not your biological father.”
There it was, the truth from the lying horse’s mouth. I thought hearing him say it would feel vindicating, but all I felt was disheartened, and embarrassed at the tiny, vulnerable part of me that’d hoped it wasn’t true.
“Why are you really here, Jetty?”
I had considered saving my interrogation for another day, but with the truth hanging in the air between us and the questions burning a pit in my stomach, I couldn’t hold back.
“I want you to tell me who my real father is.”
Chapter Two
I don’t know who your father is,” Mason said. “Gretchen never told me.”
Bullshit. “You’re telling me you agreed to raise some stranger’s kid without knowing all the details first?”
He blinked slowly. “I didn’t agree to raise a stranger’s kid. I thought I was raising my own.”
I winced at the flash of pain in his eyes. The possibility that my mother had lied to both of us had occurred to me, but I’d dismissed the notion outright. Frankly, it was easier to be mad at both of them.
“When did you find out I wasn’t yours?”
“The night I took you out for ice cream after the movie. I thought Gretchen was going to chew me out for keeping you up on a school night... Turns out, she had other things to discuss.”
I wished I could recall the details of that outing; if I’d known it would be our last, I’d have paid better attention.
I could only imagine how painful it must’ve been to discover the daughter he’d helped raise belonged to someone else. Still, it didn’t justify his disappearing act after he’d been my father for twelve years.
“Is that why you left?” I asked. “Because you found out I wasn’t really yours?”
His mouth tipped into a smirk. “I’m surprised Gretchen didn’t tell you that part.”
“Guess she thought it’d be better to make me spend my life wondering if it was something I did.”
Mason’s gaze softened. “No, Jett. None of it was ever your fault.”
I studied his handsome yet guarded expression, growing more and more impatient. When he didn’t move to elaborate, I pressed.
“Then, why did you go?”
He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say anything other than that it was the only thing I could do, given the circumstances.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means it’s not my story to tell. Your mother’s had a hard life, Jett. She doesn’t like to talk about it, and I’ve done my best to respect that.”
“What about my life? Do you think it’s been easy for me, going through life thinking my father abandoned me?”
“No, I don’t. And I’ll go to the grave feeling sorry for the pain I caused you. But if Gretchen wanted you to know why, she’d have told you.”
I couldn’t believe I’d come all this way just to slam headfirst into a brick wall.
“But it is your story. Half of it, at least. Why can’t you just tell me?”
“Because I made a promise, and I’m a man of my word.”
My chair creaked as I slumped against it. The sad, hurt little girl inside me shouted to keep pushing, keep arguing, but the finality in his tone made me bite my tongue. Whatever his reasons for leaving, he wasn’t going to share them. I was used to this kind of withholding from my mother. I’d hoped Mason would be more forthcoming. No such luck.
“I know that’s not the answer you hoped for,” he said, “but it’s the only one I can give you. Sometimes it’s better to let the past stay buried.”
Easy to say when you’re the one who buried it, I thought.
Mason slid his hand across the table toward me.
“Jett, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for taking off. You deserve an explanation, and it kills me that I can’t give you one. I understand if you don’t want to hear this, but I need you to know that, regardless of whether or not you’re my daughter, I’ve never stopped loving you.”
My stomach dropped into my Doc Martens. I didn’t want to believe him. At the same time, I knew it was possible to love someone long after they’d disappeared. I wasn’t sure how I could still love Mason after all the lies and missed birthdays and Christmases, but I did.
If I could love him after everything he’d missed, then perhaps it was possible that a part of him still loved me, too.
“Can you at least tell me where you’ve been, Mason?” Unlike the title Dad, his name felt awkward in my mouth, like a misshapen candy.
“I did some traveling after The Family series took off. But for the most part I’
ve just been here in New York, working.”
“Working so hard you couldn’t find one free weekend to come see me? Or five spare minutes to make a call?”
“I know how it looks, Jett, but—”
“But you made a promise.”
He slid his hand back to his side of the table.
“I did. And part of that promise involved keeping my distance.”
“So, what the hell changed? Why is it okay for me to visit you now? Enlighten me, because I’m having a hard time understanding why you suddenly give a shit.”
“I’ve always given a shit, Jett. My leaving didn’t change that. What changed is that you’re old enough to make your own decisions. You chose to come here. I think that should count for something, don’t you?”
“I came because I want answers.”
“And I’ve told you that I don’t have any. None that I can give you. So, where does that leave you now?”
“On a bus back to New Hampshire, I guess.”
“Sure, you could go home, work a boring summer job at The Burger Barn, keep pressing your mom for answers she’ll never give you. Or, you could stay here. Spend the summer getting to know the city, let me introduce you to other artists and dealers. My studio is yours, if you want to use it. So is my guest room. It’s got a beautiful view of the park.”
“You think you can bribe me with fancy paints and a nice view?”
“They are very fancy paints, and it’s a damn fine view.”
His playful smile almost made me lose my cool, but I held firm. I wasn’t going to give in just because he was offering me the world—though his world was the one where I longed to live.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me today,” he said. “I have no right to ask you for anything, but I can make you a promise. I’ll never leave you again, Jett. Not unless you want me to.”
“Why would I want you to?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I realized I’d just betrayed my position. I was angry and frustrated, but I wanted to stay with him, and he knew it.
He shrugged. I almost missed the wounded glint in his eye.
“You might prefer the memory of the father I was to the man in front of you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. Clearly, I hadn’t really known him back then either.
Still, whatever we were to each other, then versus now, I had a choice to make. I could hold tight to my anger and buy myself a bus ticket home, closing the door on this new, mysterious Mason and his former role in my life forever. Or, I could accept his apology, allow him to make room for me in the world he’d built around himself, and spend the summer making up for lost time.
Unlike my mother, I’d never been very good at holding grudges.
“I don’t know if I can get used to calling you Mason.”
“So call me Dad—” His hazel eyes darkened as his mouth curved into another pulse-fluttering smile. “—or Daddy.”
Chapter Three
As it turned out, this new, mysterious Mason owned two adjacent lofts on the top floor of a historic building in Manhattan.
We stepped out of the elevator into a white-walled corridor with two sets of double doors. He opened one set of doors and motioned for me to enter.
“My studio is across the hall,” he said. “I do have some work to do in there later today. Think you can keep yourself busy for a few hours?”
I twirled in a circle, face turned up toward the exposed beams and copper piping. The living room was massive.
“I’m sure I’ll manage.” I squinted against the natural light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “So, this is how the other half lives.”
“This is how you live for the next few months.” He took my bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Come see your room.”
I followed him upstairs to the loft and down the hall to a good-sized bedroom with brick walls and more natural light. He’d been right about the very nice view.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said. “My room’s just past that. Towels are in the closet at the end of the hall. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.”
He set my bag on the bed and then showed me how to operate the electronic curtains in case I didn’t want to wake up with the dawn. I sat on the bed and scanned the room, taking in the potted ferns on the windowsill, the linens in turquoise and violet. He’d remembered the color palette in my bedroom at the old house. The thought made me smile.
I stood as he turned to go.
“Dad?”
He paused in the doorway.
“Thank you for lunch,” I said.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
The epithet wrapped itself around my chest like ribbon, making it hard to breathe. I took a tentative step toward him. “Can I have a hug?”
Mason’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Of course.”
He wrapped his arms around me, cupping the back of my head with his palm. I pressed my nose to his throat. He smelled good, like pine and cloves and peppermint, just as I remembered.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he whispered into my hair.
I couldn’t help chuckling at his mindreading abilities. I angled my mouth toward his cheek, intending to give him a quick peck. He must’ve had the same idea, because when I turned my face, our lips met.
The room held its breath. My eyes drifted shut as my fingers closed around his shirt collar. His stubble tickled my chin. Every inch of me tingled as tension gathered in my stomach, sliding low, then lower, between my legs.
A voice inside my head shouted, stop. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be a misfire, bad wiring, mistaken identity. My thoughts sprinted alongside my pulse, trying to make sense of my misplaced desire.
Plenty of parents kiss their children on the mouth, I told myself. It wasn’t inherently sexual. Mason hadn’t been a father to me since I was twelve, but he’d played the role long enough that my body should’ve known better.
I drew back. Mason’s eyes snapped open, taking in my darting gaze. Mortified, I let my feet carry me back to the bed where I forced my hands to start unpacking.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to... It was an accident.”
When I could no longer stand the heat of his stare on my back, I spun to face him.
“Would you please say something—”
There was no one else in the room.
Chapter Four
My mind swam as I sat on the bed and touched my fingers to my lips. It was only a kiss. Accidental and embarrassing, sure, but it could’ve happened with anyone.
I needed to believe that.
The intercom buzzed in the living room. Mason’s shoes thudded down the stairs. There came another buzz, the squeal and bang of the door as it opened and closed, then silence, loud and accusatory.
I sat there, unmoving, until I couldn’t take the stillness any longer. With twitchy hands, I unpacked my toiletries and clothes before venturing out to explore the rest of the apartment.
Downstairs, the kitchen was fully stocked with food and flavored seltzer. I used to drink lemon and lime seltzer as a kid. I wondered if Mason had started drinking it after he left, or if he’d bought them just for my visit. I tried to watch TV but nothing held my interest.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.
The sun was halfway to setting when I heard a woman’s laughter on the other side of the door. Curious, I got up to investigate.
Easing the door open a couple of inches, I peered into the hall. Mason stood by the elevator, across from a dark-skinned woman with enviable curves. Her voice dripped with affection when she said his name.
Jealousy, sharp and inexplicable, flared in my gut. Mason was a handsome man, and she was obviously an attractive woman. Who was I to begrudge them a flirtation, or anything else?
I forced myself to return to the couch.
Mason sauntered in shortly after and sat in one of the recliners. I pretended to be riveted by the selecti
on of on-demand movies.
“Sorry that took longer than expected,” he said. “I’m starting a new piece and the planning always takes twice as long as the painting. I hope you weren’t too bored.”
“I’m fine.” I fiddled with the volume settings and pleaded with my voice to sound less pained. “Who was she?”
“My model,” he said. “Her name’s Krista. I’ll introduce you next time.”
I looked at him and then had to look away. He was assessing me again, his gaze penetrating my strained veneer of calm.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“I could eat.”
He rose from the chair. “I’ll make us dinner.”
Normally I would have offered to help, but I needed to maintain some distance, at least until I’d forgotten about what happened in my bedroom. Thankfully, as we sat down to eat, Mason seemed content to pretend we had never kissed, which was fine by me.
After dinner, he asked me to show him some of my sketches. We spent the rest of the evening paging through my sketchbook, with Mason pointing out the drawings he liked and how I could improve others. I felt buoyant, high on validation. I’d almost forgotten about our kiss entirely, until his hand captured mine on the sofa and I felt a jolt like a spark in my chest.
I prayed he wouldn’t notice my nipples stiffening beneath my shirt.
When he stopped at my door to say goodnight, he didn’t cross the threshold. He simply asked if there was anything I needed.
“I’m all set,” I said. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” He smiled warmly. “I love you, Jett. You don’t have to say it back. I just want you to know.”
The words nestled somewhere between my heart and my hips. I nodded, struggling against the full-body flush.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said.
“Night, Dad.” I clasped my hands together to stop myself from reaching for him.
