Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEAN
I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous. My knee won’t stop bouncing, and my palms are slick with sweat. What if he doesn’t like me? What am I supposed to say to him? What if he hates me for not being around?
“Could you relax?” my grandmother scolds, pressing her hand down on my knee to stop its jittering. “You’re shaking the whole bench.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
“Everything is going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that, Maimeó.”
“Of course I do. The cards told me.”
“The cards?” I glance at my grandfather. “What is she talking about?”
“She’s been learning to read tarot cards,” he explains. “She’s gotten pretty good at it.”
“Like a fortune teller. Aren’t you a little old to be trying that?”
A swift smack to the back of my head answers me.
“We should never have sent him to America, Jamie. He’s lost all his manners.”
“He never had any,” my grandfather mutters.
“Tarot cards do not tell the future. They read energy,” my grandmother says. “I got the Sun card today, which means everything will work out exactly as it’s supposed to.”
I want to tell her she’s out of her mind. A card is nothing more than a piece of paper; it can’t tell you anything. But I don’t bother. Maimeó has always done whatever she wants, and at eighty, she isn’t about to stop. Arguing with her would just be a waste of breath.
“Do you know what you’re going to say?” my grandfather asks.
“Not a clue,” I admit, shaking my head.
What do you say to a five-year-old? Hi, I’m your dad , and I haven’t been around because I had no idea you even existed? He’s not going to understand that. Hell, I barely understand it, and I’m thirty-four. How did I let this happen? How did I screw up so badly?
“Don’t focus on what you missed,” my grandmother says. “It’s too late for that. You’ll feel defeated before you start. Focus on the future.”
Finally, some good advice that doesn’t come with a side of broken teeth.
“Mom, look! There’s Jamie and Margot!”
I hear Juliette’s son, PJ, before I see him. His bright red hair practically glows in the sunlight as he barrels toward my grandparents. Seeing him up close now, there’s no denying it: those eyes—my eyes—are in every reflection I catch of myself. And that dimple in his cheek? Pure Walsh. I feel like a complete idiot for not recognizing it sooner.
It’s surreal, knowing I’m his father. Even looking at him now, I still can’t believe it. Disbelief and gratitude war inside me. He’s my son, a creation between me and the only woman I’ve ever loved.
“I told you they’d be here, buddy,” Juliette’s voice rings out, soothing me despite the tension in her tone. Her blue eyes find mine, and the tight knot in my chest loosens enough for me to breathe. I stand from the bench, already moving toward her. But my heart sinks when she steps back, putting distance between us.
“I’m really sorry about the other day,” I say, hating how shaky my voice sounds.
“It’s fine, Dean. I know it was a lot to drop on you.”
“I should’ve handled it better.”
What kind of man gets angry about having a child? Especially one with the woman he planned to marry. The last six years have made me bitter as hell, but if I want a family, I need to exorcise my demons. The scar I left on Juliette is probably huge.
She shrugs. “Probably. But I know it’s not easy, so I don’t blame you.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Minimize what happened. Easy or not, I should’ve been happy. Not angry.”
“Honestly, I wasn’t really surprised.”
That statement spears me through the chest. Was I always this bad?
“Why?”
“You never talked about kids, and you were so angry with me that night. It was like you hated me. Which… I guess now we know why.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Um, excuse me,” PJ interrupts, stepping between us. “Why are you speaking to my mother?”
Juliette laughs nervously. “P, what are you doing? It’s fine.”
“He’s been arrested, Mom. He’s a bad guy.”
“Buddy, that’s not quite true.”
PJ wrinkles his nose. “Arnie says people who go to jail are bad people. Did he lie?”
“It’s just not that black and white,” Juliette replies. Her face is drawn, like she’s struggling to find the right words.
“Who wants ice cream?” my grandfather chimes in. PJ’s expression lights up as he practically drags Jamie toward the nearest shop.
“After you,” I say to Juliette.
She slides me a wary glance. “Thanks.”
We trail behind my grandparents. I can’t stop watching her. Clouds drift in front of the sun, but somehow her hair still shines. That soft blue cardigan looks just as perfect on her as I remember.
“What?” she asks, noticing my stare. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Sorry.” I don’t have a better explanation, so I keep quiet.
There’s so much I want to tell her—how sorry I am, how much I’ve missed her. But she’s not ready to hear any of it. I don’t know if she ever will be. Even if she never wants me, I’ll always be hers.
“So why were you in handcuffs the other day?” Juliette asks, never one to beat around the bush.
“I hit a flight attendant.”
Her jaw drops. “Like… a guy flight attendant, right?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure it makes it any better.”
“Fair point. So are you just visiting?”
“Uh,” I start, hesitating. If I lie to her now, she’ll never trust me again. “No. Your brother sent me home. He, uh, kicked me out.”
She stops walking. “Kicked you out? What are you talking about?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Summarize.”
I shrug. “I haven’t exactly been my best self since you left.”
“I told you I had to leave, Dean. I did what I needed to.”
“I know. I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying… Since you’ve been gone, I’ve been a mess. Your brother finally got sick of my shit.”
“What did you do?”
“Set fire to a shack in Colombia.”
“What the fuck? Seriously?”
“I heard that, Mom!” PJ calls from ahead.
She mumbles under her breath, “That kid can never mind his own business.”
The bell above the door jingles as Jamie opens it, releasing a burst of cold, sweet-smelling air. A teenager stands behind the counter, a rainbow of ice cream flavors arrayed beneath the glass.
“What can I get for you?” he asks.
“A large cone!” PJ practically leaps onto the counter.
“PJ, get down,” Juliette scolds. “You’re getting a small.”
“Aww, man. But my teacher said I’ve been doing excellent. Don’t I deserve a reward?”
“I’m not paying you to behave in school.”
“I will,” my grandfather interjects.
PJ takes advantage immediately, ordering a massive waffle cone stacked with three scoops.
“You realize you can’t eat all that, right?” Juliette eyes the Neapolitan mountain.
“Sure I can,” PJ insists.
Juliette sighs. She looks at the teenager. “Can I get an empty cup and a spoon, please?”
I quirk a brow. “Not your first rodeo?”
“He’s been trying to eat three scoops ever since he managed two without throwing up.”
“And I take it he hasn’t succeeded yet?”
“Nope,” she says, collecting the cup and spoon. Then the kid behind the counter turns to me.
“I’ll just have a scoop of chocolate.”
It’s ready almost instantly. We find a big booth in the corner of the shop, the place empty except for us.
“How’s school?” my grandfather asks PJ.
“Eh, fine. Emory sure doesn’t like me, though.”
“You know,” Jamie says, “Dean had a lot of bullies at your age. He might have some advice.”
It’s a perfect opening, but PJ doesn’t take the bait.
“I don’t think it’s good to follow advice from a bad guy. That’s what Arnie says.”
I try to keep my face neutral, but his words slam into my gut. If my own kid thinks I’m bad, how do I make him see otherwise?
“P,” Juliette says softly. “I need to talk to you.”
PJ looks at her over his ice cream, sticky dribbles collecting on his chin. He’s doing his best to pay attention, but the ice cream keeps calling his name.
“So you know Dean,” Juliette starts, glancing at me.
I have no idea what to do, so I give the world’s most awkward wave.
PJ nods. “What about it?”
“Well, there’s no gentle way to say this, P. So try to prepare yourself, okay?”
“Uh-huh,” he says, only half-listening as he licks his cone.
“Dean is your father, PJ.”
He looks stunned—jaw dropped and eyes wide. I can’t decide if he’s terrified or furious. Maybe both.
“Like… my real father?”
“Yes, Dean is your actual father,” Juliette confirms.
PJ’s face contorts in confusion. “Am I a bad guy?”
Juliette lets out a quiet laugh of surprise. “What? No?—”
“If my father is a bad guy, then I’m a bad guy, right?”
“That’s not how it works,” my grandfather jumps in. “And Dean’s not a bad guy. He did a bad thing once. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” PJ’s little forehead wrinkles even more.
My heart twists at the sight of him trying to sort through all this. It’s too big for a five-year-old. Hell, it’s too big for me. But we can’t pretend it away. The truth is out, and now we have to deal with it. My chest clenches painfully, and I’m beginning to understand how much it hurts when your child faces something you can’t fix with a snap of your fingers.