The wrong address.
Not inviting me in.
The setbacks in going to law school.
Minutes. Moments. Seconds. Each one I’ve spent with her need to be dissected and reconsidered and mind-fucked to death, but the only things my mind can focus on right now is getting to her house.
Is finding out the truth for myself.
Is knowing if Jagger is real or not.
Is plowing a fist through my old man’s face.
I pull up to the curb, yank my SUV into park, and then realize the kid might not even be here. Her work. His school. A babysitter. Who the fuck knows.
But I jog up the sidewalk anyway, knowing that if I have a son, he’s here.
But how is it even possible? We used a condom each and every time that night. There’s no way this is possible.
Can’t be.
I pound on the door. One fist after another.
“What is the prob . . . lem,” Cathy says when she opens the door to find me there.
Her eyes are wide. Her lips are lax. And the last conversation we ever had comes zooming back in a way that makes more sense than ever before.
She knows that I know.
“Vince.” My name is a whisper that I don’t hear as I shove past her and into the small apartment.
But all my gusto, all my reasons why this isn’t real, how he cannot be mine, goes to shit when I see the little boy sitting on the couch. He’s so little. His head is down, a mop of dark hair falling over his forehead as he focuses on a small acoustic guitar braced across his lap. He makes out-of-tune noises as his small fingers try to operate the fret and strings on the face of it.
He angles his head to the side and purses his lips in concentration, much like I’ve seen in hundreds of photographs taken of myself.
Words escape me.
My head shakes back and forth as I’m frozen in place staring at something I told myself I’d never allow to happen.
Everything else disappears when that little face looks up and sees me there. I’m met with my own eyes looking back at me. With a crooked smile that’s the mirror image of mine smiling in return.
The wind is knocked out of me.
Every image I’ve seen of myself as a kid is sitting across from me, staring at me with a curiosity in his expression and an innocence in his eyes.
“Hey. Who are you?” he asks in a raspy voice.
“I . . .” I glance over to where Cathy stands, tears welling in her eyes, before she smiles as if to tell me it’s okay to talk. “I—I’m a friend of your mom’s.”
“Huh.” He angles his head to the side and takes me in, his eyes lingering on my tattoos, making me feel self-conscious about them when I never have been before. “How do you know her?”
“From a long time ago. We’ve known each other longer than we haven’t.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing. Just that . . . we’ve known each other a long time.” I smooth my palms down my jeans, needing something, anything to do with my hands. It doesn’t stop them from trembling. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
He gives the subtlest of nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “You kind of look like that singer we see on TV, doesn’t he, Nana?” He looks at Cathy. “The one that makes Momma sometimes get tears in her eyes.”
“Kind of,” Cathy murmurs, her hand resting over her heart, her smile concerned yet hopeful.
“Are you him?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I whisper and finally find the courage to move farther into the room so I can sit across from him.
“Then does that mean you know how to play this?” He lifts the guitar. “My papa bought it for me. It has some scratches but he says scratches give it character. Momma’s saving up for lessons for me but I’m trying anyway.”
My throat burns with emotion. “I do know how to, yes. Maybe I could teach you sometime if your mom and dad don’t mind.”
His smile falls. “Just Momma.”
“Oh?” The sound gets caught in my throat.
“My dadda loves me more than the world, but he wasn’t ready to handle all this awesomeness,” Jagger says, with a sheepish but bittersweet smile on his face. “Maybe someday.”
I open my mouth, but words don’t come. I’m still overwhelmed with such violent contrasts of emotions. Disbelief married with shock. Hurt with anger. Awe warring against skepticism.
“A huge amount of awesomeness,” I say, my voice breaking. “How old are you?”
I ask but already know the answer. He’s six. The empty restaurant. The limo ride. The hotel. The walking away without looking back. Her voicemails that I erased because it was too hard to listen to them, and her calls I then blocked.
“Six. It’s a good age, don’t you think?”
I laugh, and for the first time I feel like when I inhale, oxygen reaches my lungs. “It is definitely a good age.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“That’s old.” His eyes grow wide as he catches himself. “Sorry, Nan. It’s not old.”
She laughs, and it’s like the sound eases some of the tension in the room. But the barbed wire that’s wrapped around every goddamn sensation inside me remains.
“I think someone really wants to get ahold of you,” he says, pointing to my pocket where my phone buzzes incessantly.
“Oh well. I don’t want to talk to them.” I toss my phone, and it lands with a thud on the floor.
He giggles, and I’m not sure if it’s the best or the worst thing I’ve ever heard. Best because . . . Jesus. Worst because he’s six, and it’s the first time I’m hearing it.
“I’m Jagger,” he says and holds out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I reach out and take his hand. It’s tiny and mine engulfs it . . . but his touch. It’s knowing he’s really real that has me choking over my own name. “Vince.” I offer a smile but am not sure if I manage to pull one off. “So nice to finally meet you too.”
I hold on to that little hand, the weight of the moment crushing, as I stare at this little human and struggle with comprehending what and who I’m looking at.
My son.
The son I’ve never known about . . . because Bristol believes I’m unworthy of knowing.
“Maybe someday.” No, she never would have told me.
I’m just the fuck-up.
The useless piece of shit.
A worthless, talentless hack.
His words ring true, don’t they?
Over and over again, they run laps through my head.
And now I know that all along, Bristol has felt the same way.
I may have blocked her before, prevented her from reaching me, but she’s had weeks to tell me now.
But why tell me about a son when she wants nothing from me?
The panic attack hits me out of nowhere.
Head dizzy. Mouth dry. Heart beating a million miles a minute.
“Mom? Jagger?” Bristol’s shouts are heard seconds before the front door bangs open. A choked sob comes from her throat, and then she sees me. Tears stain her cheeks and her eyes beg me, for what? I’m not certain. “Vince.” Measured. Apologetic. Terrified.
I rise from my seat as I struggle to breathe, and my vision begins to tunnel. The awe of Jagger diminished by Bristol’s betrayal. By the panic clawing its way up my throat.
I should say goodbye to him.
I should promise to teach him how to play the guitar.
I should hold on tight to him and not let go.
Instead, I offer him a smile, even though it wars with the chaos inside me.
I pick up my phone and walk the short distance to the front door, every part of me rioting against the other.
“Vince.” This time it’s a strangled, desperate cry of my name as Bristol reaches out and grabs my arm.
“Don’t.” I grit the warning out, but it’s enough that when I meet her eyes, she gives the subtlest of nods before releasing it and stepping back.
I stare at her. At the only person I’ve ever truly loved and, for the first time in my life, I know what true heartbreak feels like.
Because she just shattered my heart.
