I wanted to get this over with.
“Thanks, Tank,” I said, walking to the closed door down the short hallway.
Nostalgia came in waves as I lifted my hand, rapping my knuckles against the door. “Yeah.” Dad’s muffled voice came through from the other side.
I turned the brass knob and pushed open the door. The walls were plastered with old license plates. Easton sat behind a computer that looked like it was on its last leg. The thing hummed so loudly, there was a good chance it might explode. Nothing in this office had changed in ten years, including the man behind the desk.
My dad’s tired face brightened when he saw me, and that knot in my stomach grew. I hated, absolutely hated what I was about to do to him. “Hey, kiddo. Are you okay? Is everything all right?” Worry sprang into his eyes, and who could blame him? The last time we’d seen each other, the cops were threatening him with harboring a runaway.
So much had happened in such a short time.
I plopped down into one of the frayed chairs that sat in the corner of the room. The other one had stacks of papers on it. “No, not really,” I admitted, twisting my fingers together. “We need to talk about Mom.” I didn’t see any point in beating around the bush.
He angled his swivel chair away from the computer and lounged back. Shadows hung under his eyes. “Did she do something? Are you hurt?” His gaze immediately began scanning over me, looking at me with a more critical fatherly eye.
“Seventeen years ago,” I answered.
“Josie,” he said, shaking his head. “You know that I’ve never regretted a day since you were born. Your mom… it was hard for her to put aside her dreams.”
God, how could he still defend her, even after what she’d done? I knew he still loved her, but at some point, he needed to take off the blinders and wake the hell up. “That’s not what I meant.”
His brows drew together, looking confused. “I’m not following.”
“I don’t know how to say this, and honestly, it’s messed up that I’m the one who is telling you the truth. But….” I took a deep breath and blurted out, “I’m not your daughter.”
He blinked, confusion deepening over his still-handsome features. He wasn’t that old, not for fathers with an almost eighteen-year-old daughter, but I swear, since my mother and I left, he looked older than his thirty-five years. “You can’t be serious, Josie. What is bringing this about? I know you’re angry with your mom—”
“It’s the truth,” I interrupted with more conviction. Of course, I was pissed off at Angie, and before I left here, Easton James might be feeling something other than loss and sadness for his ex-wife.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, over the stubble that was covering his chin and side of his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. “I know your mother wasn’t always faithful, but the affairs didn’t happen until after you were born.”
Okay, I didn’t want to know how many times Angie had cheated on Easton. Once was too many. I shook my head. “No, Dad,” I said, my voice wobbling. This was so hard. So much harder than I envisioned in my head. “I meant that neither one of you are my biological parents. Angie isn’t my mother.” There was a sense of relief at saying that out loud that I hadn’t expected to be there. I spent my life telling myself I would be nothing like my mother, and now that fear was gone.
His brows wrinkled. “I was at your birth, Josie. What has gotten into you?”
This wasn’t going well, but no matter how I delivered the news, I couldn’t expect it to go any other way but shitty. “I know this is difficult to believe, but Angie took me from the hospital. She didn’t give birth to me but to another baby who didn’t survive.”
“This is ludicrous. Of course, you’re my daughter.” His tone sharpened.
I pressed forward. “Do you remember hearing about another woman giving birth the same day? She had triplets.”
I saw the moment he remembered spring into his blue eyes. Dread filled me, as a pang hit me in the chest.
“Triplets aren’t an everyday occurrence. The hospital probably had been buzzing about the news,” I continued, and I knew he was putting together the pieces bit by bit, anticipating what came next. “They were in the NICU with your baby girl.”
He nodded. “I remember. A little boy and two little girls.” A sobering light clouded his eyes. “One of the girls….”
“She didn’t make it,” I supplied.
His gaze held mine.
“Except that baby wasn’t one of the triplets. It was your baby,” I said softly, in a sad attempt to cushion the truth.
He sucked in a sharp breath. “No, that can’t be. Who told you such a thing?” And here came denial. I knew the range of emotions well.
“It doesn’t matter who or how I found out, only that it is true.” This next part would be suck to the tenth power. “A DNA test was done that proves I am their daughter. I know who my biological parents are. I’ve met them.”
“You’ve met them,” he echoed. “When?”