Twenty-Six
Kaiden
Ipour another whiskey and watch the amber liquid catch the light.
Inevitably, my thoughts drift from my mother to my father. It’s impossible not to, whenever I recall the final moments I had with her.
The thing is, I always told myself I’d be different. That if I ever had kids, I’d never abandon them. Never let them wonder if their father gave a shit. Never leave them with questions that eat away at them in the dark.
And yet here I am. An absent father. A man who missed the first decade of his son’s life. I’ve become everything I never wanted to be.
The irony tastes more bitter than the whiskey.
My phone buzzes on the desk. A text from Mika asking if I’m making any headway with Aspen.
Right. Work. Jesus Christ. That’s what started all this. The reason I approached Aspen in the first place. Though that feels like it happened in another lifetime now.
Another wave of guilt rolls through me, and it has nothing to do with my son this time. Or maybe it does in a roundabout way. The fact remains I pursued Aspen because I was told to.
No, that’s not true. You’d have done it anyway.
Or would I have?
I haven’t really tried to find my mother. Would the same fears have applied to Aspen? That I’d only discover she’d moved on.
But she hasn’t.
I type back a quick response.
Making progress. Will update soon.
I stare at the message for a long moment before setting the phone face down on my desk. The guilt still gnaws at me, sharp and insistent. I should tell Mika about Kai. Find out what kind of complication this creates for whatever plans he has regarding Aspen’s artwork.
The thought makes me angry, and I slam my hand down on the table, relishing the pain that shoots up my arm.
Fuck that. I refuse to think of my son, my own flesh and blood, as a complication, and I won’t allow Mika to make him one.
If Mika doesn’t like it, he can find himself another meal ticket… except what are the chances of that?
It’s not hard to put two and two together. Paintings are an excellent way to launder money, but they’re usually bought and sold without the artist knowing, which means Mika has something much, much bigger in mind.
And how will Aspen feel if she ever finds out the truth about my involvement, even if it’s only engineering an introduction?
I drain the rest of my whiskey and decide against pouring another, no matter how tempting it is. I need to be sharp tomorrow. Need to be ready to meet Kai without the fog of alcohol clouding my judgment. The kid deserves better than a drunk father showing up on his doorstep.
Father.
The word still doesn’t feel real. I suppose because my own was such an asshole, so I’ve never had that positive role model of what a father should be.
It doesn’t alter the fact that the relationship exists, no matter how tenuous it currently is. I have a son who thinks I’m a hero, who ran into traffic because he recognized something in me, even though we’ve never met.
How the fuck did he know? Was it instinct? Hope? Or just the physical similarities?
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to push away the exhaustion that’s settling into my bones. The questions keep coming, relentless as waves against a shore, and I don’t have answers for any of them.
What I do know is that tomorrow will change everything. Tomorrow I’ll walk into that house and meet Kai formally - and somehow I have to figure out how to be what he needs. What they both need.
The weight of responsibility settles over me like a physical thing. Heavy. Suffocating.
This isn’t some job I can walk away from if it gets too complicated. This isn’t a target I can neutralize or a problem I can solve with strategy… or violence if necessity dictates. This is my son. My blood. And I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
What the hell do I tell him about myself? He thinks I’m a damn hero, and I desperately want him to be proud of me. But what do I have to offer?
I look around the eight-by-ten room I occupy, which houses just a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk and chair.
Stark white bed linen, utilitarian blind, hardwearing beige flecked carpet that hides a multitude of sins.
No color. No personal items. Nothing to say that Kaiden Brooks lives here and not some faceless grunt.
I don’t even have my own shitty apartment. I work for the mafia. I’ve killed people. I’ve broken bones and extracted information through methods that would give Kai nightmares for years.
What kind of father does that make me?
I push away from the desk and walk to the window, staring out past the bars at the uncompromising brick wall topped with razor wire. I’ve lived here most of my life, but even when Mika provided me with the resources to afford a place of my own, I stayed.
Why?
I’m not sure I can even answer that.
Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that I’ve never known another home since I was ten years old.
Except those six perfect months with Aspen.
Or maybe it’s because I didn’t have the heart to move on without her, so it was easier to just stay in place.
But that’s one thing I can at least change right away, and throwing off the melancholy, grabbing a coffee, and settling in front of my laptop, I set about doing just that.
A Google search, a few greased palms, and six months’ rent upfront in cash, and I’ve secured myself a three-bedroom unit in the historic pre-war high-rise that is Mount Prospect Manor.
With an on-site gym, laundry facilities, and parking, it boasts hardwood floors, ten-foot-high ceilings, and original Art Deco features befitting the year it was built - 1927 - according to the listing. I haven’t actually looked, and neither do I care.
Its single most essential feature is its location, less than half a mile from my son’s home.
My initial instinct was to buy it, but I’m thinking long term here, and I don’t want to settle for living close by.
Oh no. Aspen might not know it yet, but I’m aiming for the slam dunk. My wife, my son, and I, all living under the same roof.