“Yes,” Chunk agrees. “Looking very forward to that.”
I close the door and lock them out of my bedroom.
Chapter Four
We decided on Sky’s house for our friendsgiving because Karen and Jack will be gone most of the day. Six recruited me to help cook the dressing and I’ve never cooked in my life, so I’ve been more of a nuisance than a help. Sky is doing the baking because she makes the best cookies in the world, according to Holder.
But when I drop the second egg in two minutes, Six finally regrets her choice. “Just go hang out with Holder and Breckin in the living room,” she says. “I feel like it’ll be easier without you in the kitchen.”
I don’t take any offense because it’s the truth.
I go to the living room and sit next to Breckin. He’s playing a game with Holder. “You winning, Powder Puff?”
He lazily turns his head and looks at me, annoyed. “We went an entire week without you calling me that. I thought you actually learned something in college.”
“What could I learn that would make me stop calling you Powder Puff?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Decency?”
Holder laughs from the recliner he’s sprawled out in. I glare in his direction. “What are you laughing at, Pimple Dick?”
“Breckin’s right,” Holder says. “Sometimes I think maybe you’re maturing, but then you go and say something ignorant again to set me straight. Still the same ‘ol Daniel.”
I shake my head. “I thought that was why you like me, because I don’t change. I’m myself all the time.”
“I think that’s the problem,” Breckin says. “You don’t evolve. But you’re getting better. I haven’t heard you use the R word in a derogatory way since you’ve been home.”
“What’s the R word?” I ask. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
He begins to spell it out for me. “R-E-T-A-R—”
I cut Breckin off. “Oh. That,” I say. “Yeah, I learned not to say that when a chick in my economics class smacked me in the back of the head with her notebook.”
“Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” Breckin says. “Come to think of it, I did seem to hate you a lot more in high school. But I wouldn’t hate you at all if you’d stop calling me Powder Puff.”
“Aren’t you on Twitter?” Holder asks. “Don’t you see what happens to people like you?”
“People like me?”
“Yeah. Guys who say insensitive shit because they think it makes them look cool and careless.”
“I don’t think I’m cool and careless. I just had no idea Powder Puff was insensitive.”
“Bullshit,” Holder says with a fake cough.
“Okay, so maybe I knew it was insensitive,” I admit, looking back at Breckin. “But it’s a joke.”
“Well,” Breckin says, “as someone who identifies as a gay male, I feel it’s my duty to teach you how to be more sensitive. Powder Puff is insulting. So is the R word. And most of the nicknames you give to people.”
“Yeah,” Holder says. “Stop calling my girlfriend Cheese Tits.”
“But…it’s a joke. I don’t even know what Cheese Tits or Powder Puff mean.”
Holder turns his head and looks at me. “I know you don’t. Neither do I. But Breckin is right. You’re an asshole sometimes and you should stop being an asshole sometimes.”
Shit. I seem to be learning a lot of what people think about me over Thanksgiving break, whether I want to or not. So far, I’ve learned I’m insensitive. I’m an asshole. I’m annoying. I’m a guy. What else is wrong with me?
“That means I have to come up with a new nickname for you,” I say to Breckin.
“You could just call me Breckin.”
I nod. “I will. For now.”
That seems to satisfy him. I lean back, just as my phone rings. I fish it out of my pocket and look at the incoming call. It’s an unknown number.
I stand up. My heart feels like it’s still on the couch. I can feel adrenaline rush through me as I swipe to answer the phone. It might be a telemarketer, but it might not be, so I rush across the living room and go outside to take the phone call in private.
“Hello?” No one says anything, so I repeat myself. “Hello? It’s Daniel. Hello?”
If it is a telemarketer, they’ve probably never heard a guy sound so desperate to talk to one of them before.
A man clears his throat, and then says, “Hi. Daniel Wesley?”
I’m pacing the front yard, gripping the back of my neck. “Yes. Who is this?”
“I’m...well. I’m your child’s father.”
I stop pacing. In fact, I bend over at the waist when I hear those words. I feel like my stomach just fell onto the ground. I feel like I’m about to fall to the ground.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Don’t say anything stupid, Daniel. Don’t screw this up.
“Do you have a second to chat?” the guy asks.
I nod frantically. “Yes. Yes, of course.” I walk to the front patio and take a seat. I can barely feel my legs. “Thank you for calling, sir. Thank you so much. Can I just ask how he’s doing? Is he good? Healthy? Is he happy?”
I should probably get Six for this conversation. I feel awful being feet away from her and she has no idea that I’m on the phone with a man who knows where our son is. But I’m worried there’s a chance he’s not calling with good news, so I stay seated until I can find out more information.
“He’s…” The man is hesitant. He pauses for a moment. “Listen, Daniel. I don’t know you. And I don’t know my son’s biological mother. But I know my wife, and she has been through hell. The last thing I want to do is bring stress or pain back into her life, because she’s in such a good place right now. I need to know what your intentions are before I tell her you’ve reached out. Before I decide to share anything with you. I hope you understand that.”
“She doesn’t know you’re talking to me right now?”
“No. She doesn’t. And I haven’t decided if I’m even going to tell her about this conversation yet.”
Yet.
I cling to that word. That word means this phone call is the one deciding factor in whether or not Six and I will know what happened to our child.
Yeah, no pressure or anything. Christ.
I think about what Hannah said. Be persistent.
“Okay. Well. My name is Daniel. I’m nineteen. My girlfriend, Six...she’s the biological mother. And…” I stand up again, feeling the pressure of this entire conversation and just how much is riding on my shoulders right now. “Sorry. I just need a minute.”
The man says, “It’s okay. Take all the time you need.”
I blow out a calming breath. I look at the house and into the window of the kitchen. Six is in there, oblivious to what’s going on out here. Oblivious to the fact that I’m speaking to a man who knows where her child is.
Our child.
But honestly...her child. The baby she grew and carried for nine months. The burden she still carries.