by Lisa Gillis
“Because of—”
I can’t! I can’t listen to the truth in her sweet voice. So I blurted it myself. My worst fear. The poison previous women had coated their backstabbing blades with. “Money. You’re wanting money, aren’t you?”
“No! No. Well, sort of. But it’s–”
“That’s what I thought.” In my peripheral vision, I saw a flash of movement. The brunette beauty was advancing on me fast. I turned my back to her, hoping to appear unapproachable and hoping she would get the message.
“No it’s NOT what you thought– think. You see, our son–”
Son of a bitch! I smelled tanning lotion. The girl was that close. She was directly behind me. Right on my six.
“This conversation is over. Continue it with my lawyer if you must.” I ended the conversation with Marissa in a panic.
Although I didn’t have the phone speaker on, the nature of our conversation made me paranoid of anyone hearing or figuring it out. Also although it was irrational, I didn’t want Marissa from the other end of the phone to hear this girl.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
I racked my brain, trying to put a name to the voice for a split second before deciding I didn’t give a shit. Worried my feelings would be on my face, I counted seconds and composed myself before turning around. She seemed like a nice girl. She had no way of knowing that was no ordinary business call like the couple of calls I’d taken before it.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Despite my cooling down time, I snatched the cup from her hand, and I must have glared because she skittered away.
Again I felt nothing. No remorse for being a dick. In fact, I was about to add to my asinine sins.
Crossing the patio, I paused by the pool. “Look, I’ve got some things to do. Just let yourself out that way when you go.” I pointed to the gate that opened to the front drive and walked over to unlock it.
I felt their stares and disappointment but refused to look. The house was seamlessly open to the perfect weather, but the moment I stepped across the threshold, I pressed the button that slid the glass closed.
“Hey! Jack! Wait! My things are inside!”
I owned being an asshole, but very few times in my life had I been a complete douche. Yet it seemed I was now, because I ignored the frantic shout. Hitting the next switch caused the vertical blinds to glide across the glass, giving me total privacy in my home.
I took a swig of the beverage and almost puked it back up. It was a girly drink, tasting more like a smoothie than a real drink. I needed to feel the burn of alcohol on my throat and a flush on my face.
I need a high-proof alcohol's dulling effects—yet I’d been warned years before when my drinking was out of hand that alcoholism ran in my family genes, so I’d reformed my ways.
My arm moved of its own will, swinging back, arcing forward, releasing the cup. It clattered to the wall above the sink and splattered the drink all over. The action was not near as satisfying had it been glass. I let the phone drop to the counter top and braced my hands on the granite.
A kid!
A kid?
Mentally I did the math, calculating an age. Because my sister had children, I could easily conjure up a four year old.
A kid.
I should have called my lawyer and given him the heads up—but instead I headed to bed. It would take Marissa several cat and mouse phone calls with the record label to become routed to the legal department that handled my business.
Dragging my hand along the banister, I climbed the stairs. Marissa’s red thong popped into my mind as I made my way down the long hall. And even though it was only four or five in the afternoon, I fell exhausted onto the bed ignoring my alcohol craving.
A son.
CHAPTER 8
Marissa
“Marissa! hold up!”
From punching the clock upon arrival, all through breaks, through every minute of the workday, I had worked to avoid Clayton. Now, just seconds after punching out, he caught me.
Physically caught. Narrowing my eyes into a glare, I used only the tips of my fingers to flick his hand from my arm. “What’s up?” Unable to act a total bitch, I phrased the polite inquiry but did not meet his attractive eyes.
“How about a drink?” The invitation came from his mouth while his eyes strayed to the stretch of the monogrammed black blouse hugging my chest.
Pretending not to notice the direction of his gaze, I turned while declining. “Sorry, no. I’ve got to get home to my little guy.”
“Later?” From behind, I heard the time card stamp, and he rushed to match my strides. “We can make it late, like last time.”
Fishing my keys from my purse, I stalled, hoping for any type of interruption.
“Still hard to believe you have a kid.” His gaze roved over my body, which spent at least an hour daily on the stair-master or some other exercise contraption. No doubt, he was also pulling from his own up-close-and-personal memories. It was an oddity, but the same things that would turn me on prior to dating these guys, turned me off after knowing them in a biblical sense. Right now, I only wanted to mace his roving eyes.
However, I realized the creepy compliment could be turned into the diversion I longed for.
Shining my sweetest smile, I gushed, “That’s why I like you Clayton. You keep us girls feeling good about ourselves!” Deliberately, I brought his constant flirtation with every other female in the casino into play. “Look, there’s Gina. Her dice were cold all day. Go work your magic!”
The brush-off was clearly unexpected, but he quickly recovered upon getting an eyeful of the tight skirt our coworker had exchanged her black uniform slacks for. Because most women vied for Clayton’s attention, I felt no guilt when he deviated his course directly to Gina, and I made my way alone to the employee-parking garage.
Less than twenty minutes later, I let myself into the tiny suburban home I had managed to finance a couple of years ago. The ability to pay the mortgage would be jeopardized within a few months– once the medical bills began rolling in.
Dropping my purse and tote to a chair in the hall, I remained in the shadows of the hallway while unwrapping the light jacket from my waist. The den was at the end of this corridor, and as usual, Tristan sat in his mini-sized recliner, avidly watching his favorite shows. Behind him, Olivia lay on the sofa, swiping on her tablet. The volume on the television was loud enough that neither had noticed my arrival, and I lingered, going through the mail on the narrow console table.
Tossing a couple of bills aside exposed a large cardboard priority mail envelope at the bottom of the stack, bearing Olivia’s signature on the receiving line. The addressee was me, and the return address, a law firm in…
California.
Uneasily, I recalled the conversation with an attorney from the legal department representing Jack. Upon hearing my story, the lawyer’s attitude had not been any better than Jack’s demeanor had been that day on the phone. Thinking back on it always saddened me because, at least, Jack had not heard the entire situation before hating on me. The lawyer, even after being enlightened that the existence of a child was not the only issue, continued his rudeness to the very close of the conversation.
“Hey!” Olivia sat up with a welcoming smile and raised her voice over the tv volume for Tristan’s benefit, “Guess who’s home!”
“Momma!” Tristan scrambled for his crutches.
Shoving the thick envelope back into the mail pile, I crouched, sprinting at the same time to swing him up, and twirl him around. “Gotcha!” It was a race every evening to see if I could reach him before he situated his crutches enough to walk. Sometimes, he beat me, but either way, we both ended up on the couch in a tickling match.
Olivia cleared his meal mess from the sofa table and returned from the kitchen with a rag to wipe it down.
Shortly after Tristan’s first birthday, he began exhibiting problems walking. When tests concluded a medical diagnosis, several long-term plans changed, includ
ing childcare. Olivia valiantly moved to a different work shift since I couldn’t afford a one-on-one caregiver, and my son needed special attention, which would be difficult in a group of children.
With one last kiss, I let Tristan get back to his show, and with an appreciative sniff, I inquired of Olivia, “What smells so good? Did you cook?”
Busting with laughter, Olivia denied the ridiculous, and I found the Chinese delivery spread across the stovetop.
“Made great tips this month.” While handing over a clean plate, my friend shrugged off the slight cost, which was never in my tight budget.
Olivia could spin it how she wanted, but I knew my friend’s income had always been subsidized by her parents, both during and after college, and up until her marriage to a successful stockbroker who now did the subsidizing.
My own family was not so well off. Briefly, I had gone to college on a scholarship, which I lost due to a lacking grade point average during the third semester. That part of my past held too much partying and too little studying, something I regretted now as I seemed stuck in a mediocre job.
“And,” with a flourish, my friend opened the freezer and extracted the blender jar, “I made margaritas.”
“Why does everyone think I need a drink tonight?” I wondered aloud. Olivia questioned this random speculation, and as I watched my glass fill to the rim with the slushy lime drink, I filled my bartender in on the latest Clayton gossip of this afternoon.
“You knew what you were getting into!” Simpering, Olivia poured herself a drink as well. “I just hope he was worth it.” As usual, my friend never missed an opportunity to try and pry any dirty details.
Nothing had changed over the years. Olivia was still far too controlling of my love life. Yet, everything had changed. Olivia had grown out of her wild ways, and I had grown into them.
Once a month or so, Olivia would keep Tristan overnight, and I would meet a date somewhere. Date in this definition was liberal. I went out to hook up, and did so on a Holy Grail search for the special chemistry found with only one man ever– Tristan’s father.
Never had I told anyone the identity of my child’s father. Not even Olivia.
After much pestering over many months, just before Tristan was born, I had finally appeased my inquisitive friend with a half-truth, implying a hook up with a guy who could not commit to a family. Once, when the subject came up, I had even let Olivia guess and believe the one-night-stand mystery guy was married.
Tonight, regarding Clayton, I caved at last. “He really wasn’t worth it.” I muttered the confession with a sad sigh. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t him. I just wasn’t into it, I guess.”
My job as a gaming supervisor required me to stand all day, and my knees suddenly felt the strain. Sinking to a bar stool at the counter, I tiredly stared into my drink.
“Rissa, I wish you would let me set you up with Michael’s friend, Joel.” Olivia spoke of her husband of two years, and his friend, already mentioned to me several times. “Hot and rich.” Coming to lean on her arms over the bar, my friend’s sympathetic eyes skittered to Tristan who was popping open a fortune cookie with his gaze still glued to the television. “You need rich…”
The envelope in the hall flashed to mind. I was afraid to read the reply. Would I have to get my own lawyer? Spend money I didn’t have to acquire the money needed for Tristan? Where would I come up with the retainer amount for my own legal counsel? Would Jack continue making me feel like some slutty schemer who set out from the get-go to shake him down?
Wouldn’t it be easier to abandon this plan of getting the money from Tristan’s father and instead get Tristan a new father? Could I give up this fantasy of finding another spiritual and chemical connection?
Would the details of Jack’s skin against me, his hands, his mouth, his everything, ever fade into simply a fond memory?
“Did you say you had a picture?” My voice felt small, and I gulped a few fortifying drinks as Olivia flew to the sofa and returned, just that fast, clutching her phone.
After sliding her finger across the face a few times, she slid the device across the bar to me. Delaying a few uneasy seconds, I instead reached for a straw from the colorful dispenser that Tristan had begged to buy during a dollar store excursion.
Lifting the phone, I studied a more than average handsome face, and since the picture had been snapped by a pool, an extremely fit, shirtless body. Intently watching my reaction, Olivia let a few seconds tick by then exploded, “Well?”
“You’re right. He’s hot. But, I need to think about it. And I can’t go out with anyone until after Tristan’s surgery.”
Unconsciously, both of our eyes went to the calendar on the fridge and the large notation on a date exactly a week from today’s date.
“Oh! The mail! You have a certified delivery!” Surprisingly, Olivia abandoned the subject of me dating Joel to inform of the envelope she did not know had already been seen. Then, she went so far as to take it upon herself to fetch it, mumbling about the return address being an attorney.
Once in the past, over mixed drinks, Olivia had asked why I wasn’t solving the money problems concerning my son by involving his father. After explaining what I could, I had begun keeping my friend slightly updated. At this point, Olivia knew only that I’d appealed to this man through an attorney.
With my drink now drained, I felt the courage needed to rip open the cardboard casing. Olivia busied herself filling the glasses again and then nonchalantly leaned against the fridge after returning the pitcher to the freezer.
My eyes scanned the posh letterhead and then the letter itself before beginning to silently read:
‘Ms. Marissa Duplei,
Regarding our phone conversation on the date of blah blah blah
I skimmed a moment, then picked up…
‘After much consideration, on behalf of Mr. J. L. Storm, enclosed is what he feels is a fair sum pending the outcome of a paternity test,’ blah blah. ‘By cashing the enclosed check, you are entering into a legal commitment to obtain a paternity test no later than,’ blah.
‘The paternity test is to be conducted at one of the following facilities,’ blah blah.
‘If a paternity test meeting these specifications is negative, you will abandon all claims of Jack Storm as the paternal parent of your child, Tristan Jack Duplei. If said test proves positive, you agree to sign a disclosure agreement, and in addition to the enclosed monies, a new financial agreement will be drawn up, pending a custody settlement…
Custody settlement?
Custody settlement! A pulse began to loudly pound in my ears, and the sudden lightheartedness was not due to the ingested alcohol.
“Rissa? Are you okay?” Olivia stooped to recover the sheets, which had fluttered to the floor, and swore, although cursing was something we never did around Tristan. “Shit! This is, this is…”
Jolting to my senses, I snatched the paper from my friend’s hand. Protectively, I folded Jack’s name from sight, although, if the swearing was any indication, it sounded like my secret was out.
However, it was the smaller sheath that had Olivia gaping–the mentioned check. I almost fainted in shock.
The amount was generous beyond belief. As dictated by legal jargon, the money remained mine to keep no matter the outcome of the paternity test. Fortunately, it was drawn on the law firm account, and there was no ‘Jack Storm’ signature exposing a secret I was legally bound to keep.
The money was enough to pay for his doctors, surgery, hospital stay, and allow for a top physical therapy program. Yet, if I cashed the check, did that create an obligation to go through with a custody hearing when the paternity test proved Jack to be Tristan’s father?
“Rissa, this is wonderful!”
Was it? It seemed like a curse in disguise of a blessing.
Olivia was dancing around, and she griped because she wanted a celebration drink. Responsibly, in preparation for the drive home, Liv put her glass into the sink
, ran water into it, and then turned. One hand settled determinedly on her hip. “It’s past time you give the deets on Russ.”
“What?”
My exclamation did not stem from ignorance of the slang. Olivia often used deets for details and totes for totally, along with other talk that kept her a popular dealer with the younger crowd in the casino.
“Give it up, Rissa. Is he the, you know,” dropping her voice to a whisper, she continued, “sperm donor?”
“You read my texts?” There was no alternative way anyone could know that unspoken name.
“Surely you’re not going to go ratchet after all this time!”
I continued to stare my friend down.
“Alright, yes! A long time ago, I read your texts. You were asleep at my house and got a text really late. I was still awake and looked at it just in case it was a schedule change. It said, ‘Hi.’” Liv waved her hands. “Big deal.”
Having committed those texts to memory, by reading them to myself so many times over the years, I breathed a little easier. However, the relief I felt at thinking the snooping had stopped before the next text exchange, months later, was short-lived.
“Then you clammed up about the, ah, sperm donor. You were napping one day, and I looked at you all huge and prego, and I couldn’t stop myself. I checked your texts and calls for the month it would have happened, and I found that you and Russ had texted, and he sounded personal with you.”
“Liv!” The intrusion of privacy was horrifying, only because of the situation. It wasn’t as if we had never spied in each other’s phones for one reason or another.
“I’m really sorry!” In my friend’s agitation, both hands raised simultaneously tucking loose strands of blonde hair behind her ears. Finally, bringing her eyes to mine, she whined, “I’m your best friend. Why won’t you tell me who he is?”