“Where?” I stare back dumbly, my brain needing a reboot.
“To your rental? You booked the pixie house, right?”
“Yeah.” Maybe? “I think so.” Would it have been too much to expect a hotel? I suppose this is the price I pay for pissing Byron off. He wanted me to fly straight to LA instead of flying into Portland and driving down the coast. One last time.
“It’s this way.” This time when Kennedy tugs on my hand, I let her lead.
Mookatill seemed kind of pretty on the drive in. And by that, I mean it didn’t give me The Hills Have Eyes kind of vibe. While the hills here might not have eyes, the coffee shop feels like it does. That’s why I follow her. That and because I’ve decided she’s not trying to get rid of me. She’s trying to avoid the audience of a couple of gawking oldies and the blond barista who looks like he got dressed in the dark. All three watch us with the kind of avidness my old mum saves for reruns of The Thorn Birds.
The door chimes as she pulls on it, and I follow her out into the street, where she drops my hand like I’d just told her I’d pissed on it.
“How old is he?” I’m not sure where the surly arsehole has come from as I step behind her, dodging metal café tables and chairs. I’m also not sure why I’m asking questions I already know the answer to. All I do know is I feel antsy, hollowed the fuck out, and oddly accused, though she’s barely said a thing. My anger is a defence mechanism. I guess you don’t need to be Freud to work out why.
“You need to go that way.” She stops at a potted hedge that reaches her knees and points down the street without turning. “Take a left at Fred Meyer.”
The way the back of my neck prickles suggests at least three people in the café have their noses pressed up against the plate glass window right now. I can play along to our audience.
“He’s seven, right?” I take a step closer and press my hand to her shoulder. Anyone looking on would think I’m just following her directions, unaware of the way she trembles as I slide my finger between her T-shirt and the strap of her apron. Is it the ploy that keeps her here, or the memory of my touch? “He’s tall for his age, I reckon.” The same as Matty. The same as all Phillips kids. Jesus, he has cousins and a grandma and uncles and aunties he doesn’t even know. And a dad. My stomach hollows out again, but I push on. “He must be seven.” Her confirmation is a jerky nod, the timing of his conception hitting me like a punch to the solar plexus. A dad. I’m a dad. And I’ve squandered so much time. “I’m so sorry, little love.” Sorry for so many things, and not one of them can I change.
“I am not your love,” she mutters, shrugging my hand from her shoulder.
No, not my love but someone who, but for circumstances beyond our control, might’ve been many things.
The door chimes, and she whips around, painting on a sudden but wobbling smile.
“Momma, what are you doing?” almost-Matty asks. His expression is watchful, and his tone serious for someone so young. My eyes prickle as a sudden swell of something washes over me. Pride that he’s looking out for his mum?
“I’m just showing the gentleman the way to go, honey.”
I didn’t behave much like a gentleman the last time we met. But as I recall, she kind of liked it. My thoughts darken because, stuff gentlemanly. What kind of fuckwit doesn’t know he has a kid? The woman had a child—my child—without me. It’s not like I haven’t looked for her over the years, but half-arsed attempts and wishing her into existence clearly wasn’t enough.
“Did you give him the map?” The kid’s brow furrows despite his mother’s affirming nod.
A map would be helpful. A set of instructions, maybe. A book of navigating sudden parenthood, from A to Z.
“Go on inside. I’ll be along soon,” Kennedy promises.
He doesn’t budge, his gaze suspicious as he takes the measure of me. Can’t say I blame him. That’s right, kid, take a good look. I am your father.
Not sure why that sounded like Darth Vader.
“Go on now.” Kennedy’s smile still looks unstable as she makes a shooing motion with her hand. This time, the kid reluctantly turns and trundles off, his fingers brushing the tops of the metal tables as he passes. The door no sooner chimes closed when the smile slides from her face, her hand dropping as though suddenly heavy.
“What’s his name?”
“Does it matter?” she whispers, her gaze fixed on the glass door.