Break Point

by Rachel Blaufeld

  I told myself to lie, to make something up, but the truth bubbled in my gut. I tried to tamp it down, but I wasn’t going to win this battle.

  It was as if God was punishing me for telling Darla the truth. I should have told her a lie, that she didn’t have a dad or some other bullshit. Then she wouldn’t have wished to see him so badly.

  It’s like she’d conjured him up—the man who’d knocked me up was standing in front of me, asking about my baby. He seemed to have magically appeared out of thin air.

  “I have a little girl. She just turned six in July.”

  I figured he could do the math, and make what he wanted out of the date.

  He still stood silent, his arm firm around my back, his eyes never moving from mine. When his brow furrowed, I was finally able to confirm that the crinkles around his eyes had in fact deepened.

  “I’m good with numbers. You remember that, right? So, was there someone else? Someone after me? Who the fuck got you pregnant?” His voice was angry and hurt, his pupils inky depths amidst the storm brewing in his eyes. “Did this guy hurt you? Ace, I mean Coach Hall, never mentioned anything. He never said you had a baby.”

  I looked at the ground, the black asphalt more consoling than sea blue. “There wasn’t anyone else after you or during you.”

  He broke free and leaned his forearms on the car. Thank God, his long sleeves had fallen back down. After a moment, he lifted his head and looked at me dead-on.

  “So the baby, the little girl . . . What the hell, Claire?” My new name came out on a snarl. “She’s mine? Ours?”

  My gaze dropped to the asphalt.

  “Is this a fucking dream? A nightmare? Who the hell are you? And how dare you say this shit now?” He continued to rant, his jaw clenched, angrier than I’d ever seen him.

  His large frame pulled away from the car and loomed over me, his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look up. “And why exactly did you decide to keep this from me?”

  “You left.” My words were a soft gurgle, a pathetic mewling.

  “You’ve heard of Google? Right, Claire? I know you didn’t have a smartphone back then, but surely you’ve outgrown all that bullshit. Especially now that you’re a mom.” He spat out the last word with a snarl on his face.

  “Just like you left, wanting a better life for me, I didn’t want any repercussions for you.”

  “Coach Hall knew how to reach me too.”

  “I wasn’t sure it mattered to you. That she mattered to you. Darla—”

  I caught myself, unsure what had compelled me to use her name. It didn’t feel right, tossing her back and forth in verbal jabs like an inanimate object. She was a person named Darla.

  “I don’t believe you. This is fucking absurd. It’s bullshit. We didn’t make a baby.” And just like that, he stormed off.

  As for me, I got into my car and drove home. Once I’d paid the sitter, I crawled into my bed, where Darla had snuck in to sleep.

  Pulling her to my chest and inhaling the scent of her hair, breathing in the sweet strawberry smell that lingered from her bath, I decided it was for the best. Drew didn’t think she was his, and therefore, he was done with me.

  It made my decision to stay far away from him easier.

  Drew

  I ditched the rest of the dinner, went home, stripped off my clothes, and sat on the floor of my walk-in shower until the water ran cold. With my back pressed against the custom tile, my mind ran laps.

  Am I really the father of a little girl named Darla?

  What’s her middle name?

  Christ, when was her birthday?

  When my body was shivering and pruned, I got out and crawled between the covers, soaking wet and naked. All night, I tossed and turned, beating down the urge to vomit.

  A baby?

  Does she like French fries? TV? Going to the playground?

  Can she swim?

  Does she know about me?

  These questions and more plagued me into the early hours of the morning. Even my weariness couldn’t overcome the depths of pain I felt. Finally, I rolled out of bed at dawn and went to the gym an hour earlier than usual for a Sunday.

  “I’m watching the TV,” I said curtly to the girl next to me, not caring how obnoxious I sounded.

  I was in no mood to chat or date or be nice. In the course of twelve hours, the freedoms I’d known for the last few years were gone. My heart leaped at the opportunity to surrender itself to a little girl I’d never met, and the woman I’d always longed for.

  I beat the hell out of the treadmill, running faster than my knee was comfortable with but fast enough to make my brain shut the fuck down. I couldn’t even tell you what was on the television, but it was better than the two-bit coed making eyes at me, or the memory of the night before.

  Visions of Jules flashed in my mind like that old-fashioned toy, a viewfinder. Sweat rolled from my forehead and down my face, stinging my eyes, and I blinked the visions away.

  After abusing my knee on the treadmill, I showered, changed into my whites, grabbed a smoothie, and drove to the public tennis courts.

  I didn’t have it in me to ditch my commitments because my world had been shattered the night before. Once a month, the pros from my club ran a free tennis clinic in the park for kids and teens. I’d been involved for the last four years, and found it to be the most rewarding thing I’d ever done. Better than earning a few million in the market, or giving backspin tips to the privileged kids at the club.

  The teens I worked with at the park didn’t have all the advantages I’d been provided, and some of them showed real promise. They were hungry and wanted to win. Yes, I missed playing and coaching, and teaching only sated part of the hunger in me, but it was better than nothing.

  “Hey, Drew,” the head pro called to me. “Good to see you.”

  “Thanks, Derrick. You know I love this.”

  “I know. Way more than my young pros do, the pricks. Which is why I have to ask you a favor.”

  “Shoot.” I shook my racquet out of the bag and tossed the grip between my hands.

  “I know you love the teens, but we have a second session of the kinder clinic starting today. Susie usually teaches them, but she went to a wedding this weekend. And, well, you’re the only one with enough patience to do it. Most of them are returning kids.”

  “No problem. Which court?”

  “The one over in the shade.”

  I didn’t tell Derrick, but I welcomed the reprieve. Little kids were easy—a constant stream of light forehands and backhands, and they were happy. We could even do some volleys.

  Two little boys waited for me, caps secured on their heads and shoes double-laced on their feet.

  “Hey, boys, I’m Coach Drew. Who are you?”

  “Stephen.”

  “Patrick. Where’s Susie? She taught us last session.”

  “She had a commitment today, but she’ll be back. Like I said, I’m Drew, and it’s nice to meet you. Why don’t we stretch a little on the baseline while we wait for a few others?”

  I checked their secondhand racquets and grips, then ran them through a few stretches. Soon we were joined by Polly, Samantha, and Chris.

  We were lining up on the baseline when I heard a child say, “Mom, I’m fine. I know how to hit. It’s easy.”

  “Dar, let me just meet your instructor,” said a familiar voice. “We’re new here.”

  I turned and looked down at my freaking spitting image, who had long strawberry-blond hair. The little girl stared up at me with wide blue eyes, as familiar to me as my own, and I swallowed the lump in my throat.

  “Hi, um, I’m Coach Drew. We were going to start with hitting forehands.” I forced myself to speak through the angry recognition and sharp pain searing through my spine.

  “I’m Darla. I’m new here, but I know what that is, a forehand. My mom was a tennis player, and so am I.”

  So was your dad.

  The tiny spitfire marched right over to the base
line and took her place in line, spinning her grip and tossing the racquet from hand to hand.

  I eyed the redheaded woman now standing off to the side, and tried not to shoot daggers her way. This was the woman I’d been so desperately in love with, I’d set aside all my own wants and needs for her happiness.

  And what did she do?

  She hid my kid.

  “Drew,” the sexy-as-hell witch whispered.

  “Not now, not here.” My tone was rougher than I wanted, but I was good and pissed. “Maybe not ever,” I added, and for the briefest of moments, I believed it.

  Without another word, she withdrew, stepping into the background, and I took my place on the opposite side of the net with my basket of balls.

  “Did you all meet Darla?” My voice carried over to the line of children waiting for instruction.

  A wave of yeps drifted across the net.

  “Okay, we’re going to each hit two forehands going across the baseline. Did Susie show you the right way to grip the racquet? Why don’t you all show me?” I pointed to the two places I would hit the balls, and then looked over the net at their little hands gripping the racquets.

  “One sec.”

  I crossed over to them and fixed Polly and Stephen’s grips, adjusting their palms and fingers. And poor Samantha was so little, she could barely hold the weight of the racquet. I moved her hands up the grip and gave her a pat on her head.

  Then there was Darla, her hands in perfect position over her bubblegum-pink grip. It was an expensive racquet, and I wondered how many tables her mom had to wait on to afford it.

  “Looks good, Darla.”

  “My mom showed me. She was teaching me before we came here. Every day, all summer.”

  “Looks like she did a good job.” I turned my back before she could see the pathetic display of emotion across my face.

  I had a kid. A daughter who played tennis and wore her strawberry-blond hair down. Unlike her mom. A daughter I knew nothing more about.

  Was she in school? Did she like dolls? What was her middle name?

  What’s her last name?

  “Let’s go, Coach Drew.”

  When Patrick jogged me out of my thoughts, I started serving up balls, and the kids made their way down the line. A miss, ball into the net, another miss, one over the net, miss, net, shot made. Then two perfect shots by Darla, just like her mom used to do.

  The hour pretty much went the same. More forehands and a few backhands, the other kids making some and missing most, but Darla made every shot.

  At the end of the session, I found some stickers tucked in the basket. I promised the kids that once they’d finished delivering a racquet face full of the scattered balls back into the bin, I’d give them each a sticker.

  Darla was the third to finish picking up balls. Her hair was wind-blown all around her face, and her cheeks were golden instead of red like the others.

  “Thanks,” she said as I handed her a sticker.

  “You’re going to be some player,” I said quietly, not wanting to upset the others.

  “My mom said one day I’d go to college and play tennis and then be a doctor, but I want to be a real tennis player on TV. We watch them sometimes.”

  The other kids filed past for their stickers. Each one thanked me and ran off to their parents sitting by the gazebo.

  Except for Darla. She was still chattering about the tennis players on TV.

  “Come on, Dar. Let Coach Drew go,” her mom called from the side of the court.

  “Okay. ’Bye, Coach Drew,” she called as she ran to Jules.

  I memorized her purple shorts and pink T-shirt, the shape of her small legs as she ran, and the way she beamed at her mom. Jules kissed her on the top of her head, and they made their way to the park exit.

  “Wait!” I called out as I ran up the hill after them, my knee not happy with me after the punishment it took on the treadmill this morning.

  When I caught up, I focused on the child. “Darla, on the other Sundays of the month, I teach at Rocky Brook’s tennis club. You could come to my class. What grade are you in?”

  “First. With Ms. Green. She’s super nice.”

  “You know what? You’re good enough to play with the older kids. Or I could give you private lessons.”

  She jumped up and down, her hair a swirling mess around her face. “Then I’ll be on TV, Mom!”

  Jules frowned at me. “I’m not sure that’s in our budget, Drew. Let me talk with Darla at home.”

  “At no cost, on me,” I said, not about to be denied. I was a thirsty man in the desert.

  “No, no. I don’t do things like that.”

  “But, Mom! I’m bored playing with you.”

  “Don’t do this. I don’t want your pity,” Jules said through gritted teeth.

  “But I want to. She’s—” I got a death stare at that. Clearly, I wasn’t to mention that Darla was my daughter. But who the hell did she think was her father? “I was going to say she’s very talented.”

  “She is. It’s in her blood.”

  “It most definitely is.”

  “Mom, I’m thirsty. I’m going over to the fountain.”

  When Darla was out of earshot, I gave Jules a hard look. “You can’t keep her from me.”

  “You just said an hour ago that you didn’t ever want to talk about this.”

  “I didn’t. Now I do. Forgive me for the whiplash, but it’s probably warranted. I just found out, and I don’t even know if she has a middle name or my last name.”

  “You left.”

  Jules’s hair was in that stupid put-together bun she wore now. I wanted to rip it the fuck out and kiss her silly. Or punch her in the gut. I’d never hit a woman before, and I didn’t plan on doing it. But still.

  “Darla Katherine Smith. Katherine with a K.”

  “So you gave my child my initials but never intended to allow her to meet me? To know me?” When Jules pressed her lips together but didn’t respond, I pushed harder. “I want to see my daughter, and since she has no clue who I am, this is how I’m going to do it.”

  Darla came running back over to us. “Let’s go, Mom! You said we were going to paint our nails too.”

  She jumped around on one pink tennis shoe with her other leg in the air. Then she switched hopping feet, doing a little jig on the concrete. For a minute, I thought she had to pee, but she didn’t look uncomfortable. In fact, she was singing to herself, and she was so freaking adorable, I hated to interrupt.

  “See you next Sunday, Darla. Your mom said yes; you can come take lessons with me.”

  “Woo-hoo!” She threw her arms around her mom’s waist, hugging her.

  “Just come on by Rocky Brook around ten. Sound good?”

  When Jules did nothing more than nod, the score wasn’t love–fifteen anymore. It was fifteen–all, and I was going to get a chance to spend time with my daughter.

  I’d say the advantage was all mine, even if that wasn’t the right way to keep score.

  Drew

  The week dragged on. Unable to calm my mind, I was opening and closing the gym each day, trying to calm my body. I’d canceled lunch with Sully, and sent younger associates to all of my other lunch meetings.

  Besides sweating at the gym and moping at my office, I spent several nights staring out my floor-to-ceiling windows, looking for nothing and hoping for everything. I showered but didn’t shave.

  By Thursday, my whole face itched from the scruff, and my entire body shook with fury. I wasn’t going to make it to Sunday, so I let go of my impulse control and drove right to the Southern Steak and Sea.

  I couldn’t remember where we had our portfolio meetings before the Southern opened, and it had only been a month. It seemed like my entire existence broke off and fell into the ocean a few nights ago, right here at the Southern.

  I pulled up to the valet and hopped out, smoothing my untucked oxford and making sure my Pumas were tied.

  A young brunette wearing a black sl
inky dress and red stilettos greeted me inside. “Welcome to the Southern.”

  I ran my hand over my scruff and tried to scan the room behind her.

  “Two?” she guessed.

  “Actually, one.”

  “Did you want to eat in our bar area? We serve a full menu in there.” She stepped out from behind the hostess stand, willing me to eye her up.

  “No, thank you. I’d like a table for one. In Claire’s section.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell and she went back to her iPad. “I don’t think we have anything in Claire’s section. It’s full right now, and we have a window-table reservation coming in shortly.”

  I dug into my pocket and pulled out a crisp Ben Franklin. When I laid it on the hostess stand and gave it a tap, her gaze lifted again to size me up.

  “Let me see. Maybe I can move the reservation.”

  “You do that.”

  My patience was wearing thin. The place was busy, but not jam-packed enough that Jules wouldn’t spot me. I wanted to sneak into her section. Lord knew, she’d protest or run out of here.

  I kept my gaze on the floor, dreaming of Jules and her legs. Her long legs were now a little curvier, more muscular.

  “Right this way.”

  I avoided making eye contact with the rest of the room as the brunette led me to my table in a quiet corner next to the window. Clearly, the window-reservation people were going to be unhappy.

  Oh well. Fuck ’em.

  “Thanks.” I dismissed the hostess, sat, grabbed my menu and hid behind it, pretending to study the offerings as if there was going to be a test later.

  “Welcome to the Southern. I’m Claire.”

  I dropped the menu slowly, revealing my face. It was an old trick straight out of an eighties movie, but a useful one.

  “Drew,” she said my name on a breath, then practically hissed, “Come on, I’m working.” She glanced around the room as if worried we had an audience.

  “I had to see you, Jules,” I said, whispering her real name.

  “I can’t do this. I need this job.”

  “I know. I’ll wait. Look at me—I haven’t slept all week, and I need to talk with you.”

  “I’m not done until eleven tonight.”

  “I can wait right here. Why don’t you bring me a Scotch and soda?”