“What?” I rasp, fingers involuntarily curling into the palms of my hands until they form tight fists.
“I didn’t know,” she quickly adds, as if that makes a difference. “I found out a few weeks later. But, like I said, they wouldn’t let me call you.”
“And…” I force out through gritted teeth. She seems to be leaving out a particularly important piece of information.
“And…” She exhales forcefully, as if the burden of the secret is too much for her to carry for even another second. “I have a son. His name is Sam.”
“Don’t you mean we have a son?” I ask, my tone low and cruel.
Leighton’s face loses all color, the slight ducking of her head indicating the question embarrasses her.
I advance toward her, barely able to control my fury. My words come out slowly, coated in ice. “Do you mean to tell me that I’ve had a kid for all these years, and you kept him from me?”
“I wasn’t allowed—”
“Bullshit,” I yell, and her mouth slams shut. Her eyes dart to her purse, then to me. I lean in until our faces are separated by just a few inches. My voice is shaking. Fuck, my whole body is trembling. “You should have found a way to tell me. Seems to me that you and Rich have been living safe and large. But you’re here now, aren’t you? Which means you could have found a way to let me know.”
She knows my words are true, which is probably why she doesn’t even attempt to defend herself. Her shoulders slump, and her gaze falls to the floor.
I don’t feel an ounce of sympathy.
“So why are you here now, Leighton?” As I emphasize her new name, I hope she can hear the distaste coating it. “What… need money? Child support for all those years? Looking for a quick payday?”
Not responding, she continues to look at the floor. It enrages me.
Putting my hands to her shoulders, I give her a hard shake to get her attention. I demand she explain herself. I need to make sense of this.
“What in God’s name do you need from me, Leighton?” I snarl. Eyes filled with fear and distrust meet mine. “How much do you want me to write the check out for, huh? Hopefully not too much because—let’s face it—you weren’t that great of a lay to begin with.”
The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Not necessarily because I hurt her, but because I just compared the value of my kid to her pussy, which is so not right.
Immediately, I release her and retreat a step. I scrape my hand through my hair, a sure tell of my frustration and helplessness. Once more, my words now weak with fatigue, I ask, “What do you want?” Obviously, I’ll support my kid—if she’s telling the truth—but I just want her out of my house for now.
Determinedly, Leighton lifts her chin. “August… Sam is sick. He has leukemia, and he needs a bone marrow transplant. He’s on the donor list, but he’s not doing well. I came here in the hopes you might be a match. So, yes, I do need something, but it’s not your money. I need you to help me save our son’s life.”
CHAPTER 4
Leighton
August has every right to be pissed. Yes, I’ve been constrained by rules that could have brought serious danger to my family if I’d broken them, but I’ll never deny he had the right to know his son and be a father for these last nine years.
I still stand firm in my decision to stay hidden—to protect my dad and Sam. The government told us in no uncertain terms… if we left the WITSEC program, we were on our own. If we breached the confidentiality of the program, we were out. Even though my dad had testified years ago, resulting in a conviction, we have to stay hidden because we are still very much in danger. The mob ties my dad had were deep and widespread. The minute he turned state’s witness, he became the enemy of many. Those people wouldn’t think twice about killing him, his daughter, and his grandson.
But how can August ever understand when all he cares about is the knowledge he missed out on nine years of his kid’s life?
To give him credit, August seems to be in control of himself now. Informing him that he’s a father was life altering, so I understand his fury and rage. Adding that Sam has leukemia knocked the wind out of him, and I feel terrible for having to relay this devastating news out of the blue.
After he pulled himself together, he motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table so we could talk. He offered coffee again, but I declined. I’m jittery enough without caffeine, despite how exhausted I am from the long trip here.
There’s so much I’d love to explain about the last ten years—about why I couldn’t reach out to him. I hope I can someday make him understand, but, right now, this is about Sam.
While August sips at his coffee, I explain about Sam’s acute myeloid leukemia diagnosis. The discovery was devastating to me since Sam is my entire world. Once my life was uprooted, my identity stripped and a new one handed to me to keep me safe, I learned how to become almost invisible. I avoid friendships and lovers. I go to work and come home, keeping my head down. Sam isn’t allowed to go on sleepovers, and I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. It’s the way my life is now, and I accept that.
But I simply can’t accept Sam’s diagnosis.
“His doctors recommend a stem cell transplant with chemotherapy. His donor must have human leukocyte antigens, which decreases the chance of something called graft vs. host disease. It’s where donor cells sometimes attack the recipient’s cells.”
“I’m assuming you’re not a match?” August asks.
Nodding, I confirm his assumption. “My dad isn’t, either, so I broke the rules to find you. I want you to get tested. If you match, I want you to donate your stem cells to Sam.”
There.
I can’t be more blunt than that. He asked what I wanted, and what I want is his blood for my child.
It’s not until now that I have any doubts. The man I knew ten years ago would have given his life for me or a child of our making. But ten years is a long time, and August is obviously a different man.
He’s full of anger and hurt right now.
Will he take that out on me by putting Sam in jeopardy? Will he deny something to his child to hurt me?
“Of course I’ll donate,” he says softly, studying his coffee cup before meeting my gaze. His eyes are filled with fear. “But what if I’m not a match?”
“He’s on the donor registry.” I try to sound hopeful, but I know I’m failing. “But, truthfully, only about thirty percent of family members will be a match. You’re Sam’s last chance before we’ll have to rely on the registry. Then, we can only pray a match will come up in time.”
“So how quickly can we move on this?”
All at once, my entire body deflates with just that one question. It means he’s all in. He’s committed to helping Sam, despite how angry he is with me. The exhaustion from this trip, along with the stress of being found and the fear of August turning me away, permeates every single cell in my body. I want to lay my head down on the table, weep with relief, then curl up and go to sleep.
But August needs answers, and I’m the only one who can give them.