Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jeremy
M y phone dings as I pull up outside the big brick colonial house on a quiet suburban Bethesda, Maryland street.
Ems
[photos attached]
Turns out, when there is a seven-year-old involved, Halloween is a full day affair. You didn’t have to spring for the real deal costumes you know. She’s seven. She wouldn’t have known the difference.
I grin at the pictures Emma sent. There’s one of Maddy in full Hermione Granger costume, complete with a candy bucket shaped like a stack of spell books in one hand and the wand I got her in the other. The other is of Emma and Maddy together, Emma dressed as Professor McGonagall at Maddy’s insistence. I bought both costumes at the same time I bought the wand, after an exhaustive search for the most authentic ones I could find. It was totally worth it. My girls look amazing.
Me
Only the best for my girls.
I hope I can make it back in time for trick-or-treating, but if I can’t, take a lot of pictures and save me some candy. I like Reese’s Cups.
Ems
You’ll have to fight Hallie for them.
I like my chances.
Are you on your way to the house?
I’m parked outside right now.
How do you feel?
Nervous but okay. I just want to get it done and get back to you and Maddy.
Don’t rush, Jer. Take all the time you need, and we’ll be waiting for you when you get back.
I love you.
I love you too, Ems. So, so much.
I click off my phone and slip it into my pocket, still amazed by the fact that I can tell Emma I love her and she’ll tell me back. It hasn’t been long since we said it for the first time, but those three words have shifted my entire world. They give me the confidence to get out of the car and make my way up to the front door.
I don’t even have a chance to ring the doorbell before it swings open. When I see the man standing on the other side, I suck in a breath, my heart stuttering in my chest.
The same brown eyes ringed with gold. The same brown hair. Same height and build and fucking freckle below his eye. It’s like looking in a goddamn mirror.
“I guess a DNA test isn’t necessary.” I shift from foot to foot, ridiculously uncomfortable and not at all sure what to do with my hands.
“I guess not,” he says wryly and sticks his hand out.
“Brian Simpson.”
I shake his hand, grateful for something to do.
“Jeremy Wright.”
“Come on in.” Brian steps back so I can walk into the foyer. The high ceilings, ornate moldings, chandelier, and art on the walls speak to the kind of wealth you would expect to find in one of the most affluent and well-educated cities in the country.
“Thanks for coming,” Brian says, breaking the silence. “I know it was weird, reaching out to you like that. I wouldn’t have blamed you for ignoring the email.”
I shrug, following him down the hallway to a large living room with leather furniture, vaulted ceilings, and shelves full of framed pictures. It’s a beautiful room, but I can’t help but think it feels cold. I suddenly feel a million miles away from Emma’s warm, comfortable house. I can’t wait to get this done and get back to her.
We take seats on couches that sit opposite each other, and I lean forward, elbows on my knees and my hands clasped to keep from fidgeting.
“I’m sorry it took me some time to get back to you. I’ve never had any family, so your email took me by surprise.”
“You didn’t know your mom?” His question seems innocent, but there’s something in his tone that has me on edge, my body tensing like it’s preparing for a blow.
“I didn’t,” I say slowly. “She died when I was two, and obviously I never knew my father. I grew up in the system.”
“Shit,” Brian mutters. The look on his face isn’t the pity I’m used to when someone finds out about my background. It’s more…apologetic, I think? Like he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear and is trying to decide how to do it.
It feels like someone turned the voltage on my nerves to an eleven as I realize I should have asked more questions before I just got in the car and came here. I wish I had taken Emma up on her offer to come with me. She would know what to say. What to ask. All I can think of is one single question. It feels ridiculous not to have asked this before.
“How did you find me?”
Brian picks up an accordion file from an end table and hands it to me. I take it but don’t open it yet, my eyes glued to his face.
“My dad…our dad…died a year ago. Heart attack. When I was in his office looking for some paperwork to send to his lawyer, I found a file. That file.” He gestures to the folder in my hand.
“It was full of information on, well, you. It basically documents your birth through your retirement from pro hockey and the foundation you built and all your charity work in the sports world. I didn’t read all of it, so that’s why I didn’t realize you grew up in the system. I’m so sorry. I should have read it before I contacted you and invited you here.”
I stare down at the folder I’m now holding with shaking hands, still making no move to open it. My brain is racing, trying to make sense of what he’s telling me. Because if this is true, then…I can’t go there. I need to hear the rest even though alarm bells are ringing dimly in my head, and my fight or flight instinct is in full flight mode. My entire body is braced to jump up off this couch and run out the door.
Brian must sense I’m not going to say anything because he continues.
“I wouldn’t have understood what I was looking at except, well, you look like me, and we both look like him. I put the pieces together, and my mom filled in the rest. My dad had an affair years before I was born. I guess my parents’ marriage hit the skids for a while, but they worked it out and she stayed with him. Seven years later, I was born. By all accounts, they were happy. My mom never knew about you.”
There’s anger in his tone when he says, “Trust me, if she had, she would have been a mom to you too. We could have known each other before now.”
“Where is she now?” It’s all I can think to ask.
“She’s gone. She died six months ago, but she was sick for a long time, even before he died. This is their house. Or I guess it’s mine now, but I don’t want it. I don’t want anything that belonged to him. If it wasn’t illegal, I’d burn it the fuck down.”
Brian’s voice is tinged with fury and disgust. I appreciate his anger towards the man who lied to him and his mom for more than three decades, but I can’t focus on it right now.
My heart is thudding in my chest as my mind struggles with the ramifications of this discovery. I look around the room, gaze fixing on the wall of picture frames across from the couch where I sit. I see Brian at all ages, standing with two adults. There’s a woman with soft features and curly brown hair, and then there he is. Brian is right; I do look like him. I take in this fact with a kind of dispassionate observation that disappears as my eyes dart back and forth along the rows of pictures.
In them, I see the kind of childhood I dreamed of. The mom and dad and son. School plays. Trips to the park. Snowball fights. Beach vacations. Hugs and kisses and casual arms around shoulders and bedtime stories. Your own bedroom and warm enough blankets and new clothes and books to read anytime you want. I love yous. Confidence and happiness and belonging and permanence. Permanence . A home. People who stay.
Brian is still talking, but I no longer hear what he’s saying. Dropping my head down, I stare at my feet as my breaths saw in and out of my lungs.
Suddenly I need to see it. The evidence that there was a parent out there who knew about me. Who could have taken me away from the foster homes and loveless childhood and adults who didn’t care about me beyond the check they got once a month for letting me live in their house.
Who could have but chose not to.
A deep sorrow and emptiness settle in my chest.
With shaking hands, I unwind the string holding the folder closed and pull it open. I grab a stack of paper at random and start flipping through it. My hands are clammy, and documents scatter all over the floor, but I see enough. Some of the papers are yellowed with age, but it’s all there, just like Brian said it was.
Birth records. My mom’s death certificate. Social worker reports. Names and addresses of my foster homes. Reports from my annual fucking physicals when I was playing in the Juniors. My first NHL contract. The incorporation documents for my foundation. The resources that had to have gone into compiling this information while also hiding the fact that he was my father is staggering. My brain struggles to grasp the enormity of it.
He didn’t want me .
My breath catches in my chest, and my head spins from lack of oxygen. Sweat drips down the back of my neck and my heart thuds so wildly I’m surprised my ribs don’t crack from the impact.
The loneliness is suffocating.
My own father, the person who shares my blood, didn’t want me. Of course he didn’t. No one ever does. No one stays. Everyone leaves.
I need to get the fuck out of this house.
I stand abruptly, the folder on my lap falling to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I manage. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” Brian lays a hand on my arm and my defenses are low enough that it stops my forward momentum.
“I’m so sorry I laid all this on you. I did it all wrong. I should have let you know before you came here so you had all the information before you decided to make the trip. I wish you wouldn’t leave like this. He’s an asshole, but we’re still brothers.”
Brothers .
The word is a kernel of hope, but as quickly as it appears, it’s swamped by the negativity coursing through my brain. Because he might want to know me now, but it’s only a matter of time before he figures out what everyone else already has.
Jeremy Wright is no one’s forever.
It’s better that I leave now before he has a chance to realize. Before anyone does.
“I just…I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Without another word, I walk out the front door and get into my car. I start the engine and drive away, tears I refuse to shed blurring my vision, and the road ahead of me a long stretch of emptiness and uncertainty, with no one waiting for me on the other end.