Nick
Wind whips through the open windows of the truck, tangling my hair and carrying away the sweat clinging to the back of my neck.
The loop stretches endlessly ahead, illuminated by vibrant city lights.
Mile after mile disappears beneath my tires.
Two hours after meeting my son, my lungs still feel too tight for a full breath.
I have a son. A little boy with my hair, with my smile. He's inquisitive and quiet and likes dinosaurs.
My own flesh and blood.
And he’s not doing well in school.
Damnit.
Is this because of me? Has my absence screwed him up irrevocably for the rest of his life? Could he sense that there was a part of him missing? Did he just assume that his father didn't want him?
Then again, if I had been there, would I have even made a difference in his life? Or would I manage to fuck everything up?
Opening up the glove compartment, I uncover my emergency pack of Marlboros. I don't smoke—well, at least not habitually. Nasty addiction honestly, but there are worse vices. The burn serves as my penance for a good time, and the nicotine quiets my thoughts.
After the day I’ve had, I'm hoping it can do something about my guilt and regret.
Tucking a cigarette between my teeth, I light it, the ember glowing in the darkness. Smoke catches the turbulence inside the cabin, swiftly carrying it out the window. After a few long pulls, I recognize where I am. An idea sparks, and without thinking, I take the next exit.
In a perfect world, there is no question on what I should do: I'd step up to the plate and be a real man—and not only that, I'd spend the rest of my life making up for the years I have already missed.
But all I can think about is the possibility that everyone would be better off if I stayed exactly where I am. Tiffany gave me an out, and the worst part is no one would blame me for taking it. No one would expect me to fight it to stay.
If I walk away, I never have to find out whether I'd be a good father. I never have to risk disappointing Grady or watching that look of excitement disappear from his face when he realizes his father is … well, me.
He might be better off without me.
But now that I've met him, I can't even pretend that I'm better off without him.
I turn right onto the next parkway then a left to a quiet block of luxury condos with manicured lawns.
I need to see her. I need confirmation from her that despite my shortcomings, despite my stupidity and failures, despite my unforgivable mistake of leaving her when she needed me the most, maybe—just maybe—I can do this.
“Nick?” Jonathan opens the door cautiously.
“H-hey, Jon.” I sniffle, pushing through my tearful haze to give him a smile. “I'm sorry to bug y'all, so late, but can I—?”
He doesn't hesitate. He invites me in, his curious dogs, Tank and Arbogast, welcoming me with sniffs and wagging tails. “Is everything okay?” he asks.
I drag my fingers through my windblown hair, the grit from the road rough on my palms. I work my jaw, unable to find the words. Biting the inside of my mouth, I slowly shake my head.
“Alright. Coffee or bourbon?”
I don't know why I was expecting a scolding or a lecture or an I told you so.
But Jonathan didn't do any of those things.
For almost an hour, we sat outside on his balcony with the hum of the city traffic as I told him about Tiffany and Grady, about my fears and irritations, regardless of their rationality.
My friend just sat there and listened carefully, nodding and taking in the situation.
The dogs jolt up, interrupting us.. They race inside through a pet entrance of a specialized thermal curtain that keeps bugs out and head straight for the front door. They whimper and bay in excitement as a feminine squeal joins their chorus.
Tatum.
“Would you mind if I chatted with Tate about this?” I ask.
Jonathan raises an eyebrow. Finishing his drink, he nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You know? I think she'd actually appreciate that.”
Tatum pops her head through the glass door to the balcony.
“Hey, sorry, I—oh, hey, Nick. I didn't know you were here.” She takes a seat on a lounge chair, her wet hair piled on top of her head from a post-shift shower.
“Sorry I'm late. My case ran long. What'd I miss?” She glances around, her gaze bouncing back and forth before growing stiff.
“Oh God, you guys are so serious. Is everything okay?”
“It will be.” Jonathan stands up, giving me a pat on the shoulder. “Nick needs to chat with you.”
“Oh?” She raises her eyebrows, her eyes meeting mine.
Jonathan gives us a quiet nod before closing the sliding glass door and leaving us alone. To my surprise, however, Tatum promptly slips the door back open wide, ensuring that we are visible through the protective curtain.
The gesture is like a punch to the gut. This is my fault, isn't it? Our history has reduced her to this, to having to prove her fidelity over and over again.
Tatum catches me staring—and chuckles sardonically. “Oh, stop, Crawford.”
“What?”
“It's not what you think.” She takes a seat. “He trusts me. This is just a small way for me to show that I choose him.”
A small smile pulls at my mouth. We might have a complicated history that people don't understand, but I'm happy my friends found their way back to each other.
“So what's wrong? Is it your mama?”
I shake my head. “No, no. She's fine.”
Tatum hugs a knee, relaxing back on the patio furniture.
I hesitate. “I … I'm a dad.”
“Okay …” She slowly nods. Then her eyes widen. “Oh my god. You're not talking about Maddie, are you?”
I blow out a shaky breath as the threat of tears builds behind my eyes. I anxiously dry my sweaty palms against my shorts as I stare out to the horizon of the city. “I have a son … Grady.” I glance back over to my friend, breathing out a watery chuckle. “And he's pretty great.”
A soft smile pulls at her lips. “Tell me more about him.”
For the rest of the evening, I share about my meeting with Tiffany, my unexpected introduction to my son—and our limited interaction on the playground. We fall into laughs about Grady's response to my accent right around the time Jonathan rejoins us with a tray of meats and cheeses.
“So—” Tatum finishes her bite of a cracker—“how are you feeling about all of this?”
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “A lot. I'm pretty upset with how much time I've already missed with him.” I sigh. “I'm trying to be understanding, but I'm pretty fucking pissed at Tiffany for not telling me.”
“I think that's fair,” Tatum says.
“I agree.” Jonathan nods, feeding a piece of pepperoni to the dogs. “It's good to see things from her perspective, but that doesn't take away the validity of your feelings. You're allowed to be angry. How could you not?”
“Yeah, maybe.” I pick at a cube of swiss cheese. “I guess it just feels like I don't have that right. Fatherhood is such a gift, and … well, I don't exactly deserve it—”
“Whoa. Says who?” Tatum asks.
I shake my head, embarrassed to admit this to her.
Again. She knows better than anyone. I tried being a family man once before, but the moment things took a difficult turn, I folded.
She needed an anchor, and I was a coward and left.
The damage from that mistake is something I'll carry for the rest of my life.
My throat tightens. “I don’t know … I'm not sure if I can even do this.”
Tatum scoffs. “Do you even hear yourself?”
I groan, hanging my head in my lap.
“I'm serious.” She comes over and sits next to me. “You just found out—what? Maybe five hours ago that you have a son, and you already want the best for him. You already sound like a father.”
“Yeah, but what if I fuck this up?” I rake my fingers through my hair. “I can’t, Tate. I can’t do that again.”
Her expression softens. “You know, you eventually have to stop punishing yourself over what happened. We will never forget the collateral damage of our mistakes, but …” She sighs. “You can’t keep letting it define who you are as a person.”
“Do you really believe that?” I ask, considering her words.
She chuckles, glancing over at her husband.
“I think the fact that we’re even sitting here together is proof of that.
” Jonathan and I share a knowing glance before she continues.
“But this is so much bigger than you getting another chance. This is about giving Grady a fighting chance. You’re so focused on whether or not you deserve this opportunity …
doesn’t Grady deserve to have his father in his life? Doesn’t he deserve to have you?”
Of course, he does. My son deserves the world.
“If I may interject …” Jonathan sets down his drink. “You don’t need our approval. I understand the need for reassurance, but just because you’re scared doesn’t mean you're incapable.”
Tatum hums in agreement. “If anything, you understand the stakes. You’re scared, but you’re not weak, Nick.”
I blow out a heavy breath, staring back out at the night. They’re right—at least I hope they're right. If there's even a chance that I can be the father Grady deserves, then I owe it to him to stop hiding behind my doubts, and just … try.
After cleaning up the balcony and wrestling a bit with the dogs, Jonathan and I caught the last inning of the Astros game before saying our goodbyes.
My mind feels wrung dry from the whiplash of emotions today.
Somewhere deep within the layers of my fatigue, there’s a tiny spark of hope, a gnawing of anticipation I can’t quite shake.
I know what I have to do.
Pulling out my phone, I toggle to Tiffany’s name and press Call.