Nick
Tiffany spots me before I step out of my truck.
She’s sitting on a bench outside of Vinny’s Burgers, an old diner at a truck stop along the interstate, and God, she’s a ghost of the woman who’d scan my membership card at the gym and hand me a clean towel.
Gone are her vibrant blonde locks. Gone is the bright blue from her eyes.
Wearing a simple dress and apron, her thick curves are gone, her body thin—almost painfully gaunt, matching the pale color of her skin.
As I approach, she smothers out her cigarette on the ground. She grins. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” I say, leaning in for a chaste hug. “How are you doing?”
She anxiously nods, staring at the horizon. “You know. Just … life.”
When she called me Tuesday night, her voice trembled as she tripped over her words. She swore she was fine, that she wasn’t in danger, but seeing her before me now, I realize she’s in a world of trouble, and I get the sneaking suspicion she’s calling for money.
She and I had a casual relationship several years back when she was working at the gym.
Strictly sexual. No commitments. Just two consenting adults having fun.
During that time, however, I wasn’t a complete asshole.There were a few occasions I paid for drinks, spotted her gas money—always paid for her rideshare.
We even shared a few meals together, all of which I paid for.
I never thought twice, but I’m starting to wonder if this meet-up is about money.
It’s not like I can’t help her out if she needs help. But, it’s been … god, six years?
I take a seat next to her, taking her lead by watching a few young kids play on the small playground outside of the restaurant. Their indiscernible conversations and wild giggles fill the silence as Tiffany’s attention turns to her fingernails.
“I didn’t know how else to do this,” she starts.
“Okay …” I stare at the mulch, choosing my words cautiously. “Whatever you need to talk about, I’m here to listen. You know, if you need help or getting—”
“I have a son,” she blurts.
I meet the worry in her gaze. And my heart sinks. “Is … is he okay? Is he sick?”
“Yeah—” she sighs with relief—“he’s fine. He’s right over there.” She nods toward the play equipment.
And there, sitting alone underneath the ladder to a platform is a small little boy—maybe four years old, if I had to guess—with messy blond hair and large-framed glasses.
Hugging his knees, he awkwardly glances at the other kids playing, choosing solitude he thwacks a stick against the spokes of a gate.
“Cute kid.” I smirk.
“He is. He really is a great kid. He’s quiet, but very sweet. Follows directions.”
We sit there, nodding cordially, but a chasm of silence grows between us. I don’t want to rush her, but this conversation doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
“Look, Tiffany—”
“Nick, you—” we talk over each other, causing us both to stop and chuckle.
I clear my throat. “Go ahead.”
Her throat bobs. “His name is Grady. And Nick—” she sighs heavily—“you’re his father.”
The moment—this fraction of a second—stretches into an eon. I recognize everything that is happening around me, but my brain short-circuits, not able to discern what is actually going on.
Suddenly, I’m twenty-six again, sitting at a coffee shop with my best friend’s ex-girlfriend—well, my former best friend.
‘Nick, I’m pregnant …’
‘... you’re the father …”
The father.
“I’m sorry.” I rub my tightly shut eyes, bringing myself back to the present. “What did you say?”
“I-I’m so sorry, Nick. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” Her voice cracks with tears.
“I … I don’t understand.” This isn’t happening. “But … we were careful—”
“I know, but—”
“How old is he?”
She lets out a shaky breath. “He just turned five in July.”
“Five?” The edge in my voice attracts a few wayward glances. I lower my voice. “I have a fucking five year old son?”
“I know—”
“Tiffany, what in the actual fuck?” I hang my head in my hands, my fingers pulling at my hair.
“I’m sorry, Nick. God, I’m so sorry. I … I didn’t know what to do—”
I jolt up. “Didn’t know what to do? How about you fucking tell me!” I blow out a heavy breath, willing myself to calm down as my own emotions prick at my eyes. My hands relax from their fists, but my mind can’t seem to find purchase. “I have a five-year-old son?”
Swallowing thickly, she slowly nods as she quietly begins to sob.
Five years.
For five years, while I have lived my life saving lives, there has been a little boy with my DNA growing up in my city—in my own fucking backyard—without his father. Without me.
I missed his birth, his first word, his first scraped knee.
I don’t know his favorite color, his favorite television show, his favorite animal. I don’t know if he likes to sleep with a night light or take baths with toys and bubbles. I don’t know if he likes carrots, or if he has my eyes, or if he’s right-handed.
I don’t even know how to pick out his laugh in a crowd. Or his cry.
I peer back up at my son, see the cowlick that we share, his furrowed brow, the same one that stares back at me in the mirror every morning.
“And he’s mine?” I have to ask.
Tiffany wipes the mascara streaks from her cheeks. “Yeah, he’s yours. We can do a paternity test, if you want. I just … he needs his father now.”
He needed his father before he was born. “What’s going on? Is he in school?”
She nods. “He just started kindergarten, but he’s already having some learning problems. His teacher mentioned all of these ridiculous requests, like reading to him every single night. She suggested getting more adults involved.”
I huff a sardonic laugh. “So, you were never going to tell me about him.”
“And what, Nick? You were going to swoop in and be a man? Be a father to my kid?”
“Yes,” I bite back. “I’d swoop in and be the father to my kid … because my kid deserves it.” I curse under my breath, massaging my temple. “What do we do now? Do I need to get a lawyer or something—?”
“No. No lawyers.” She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe you should take a few days to actually think this through.”
“What?”
“I’m serious, Nick.” She glares at me. “I want Grady to have a father in his life, but not if he’s half-assing it.”
I scowl. “That’s not how any of this works, Tiffany—”
“I’m his mother, and the only family he knows—”
“Because you kept him from me!” I sigh, running my hand across my chin. “Listen, I appreciate you wanting to protect him, but he’s my fucking kid. I don’t know how any of this works or how I will make this work, but we’re going to. I will be in his life.”
I have to be.
“Tiffany!” A burly man in a greasy, button-up shirt with Vinny’s Diner embroidered on the front hollers from the front door. “I need your help with the register.”
Her eyes widen, bouncing between Grady and me. “Um, I—”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” I say.
“You don’t mind?” She stands, straightening out her dress. “I swear I’ll be right back. You don’t have to do anything. Just—” she hurries toward the door—“make sure he stays safe.”
Okay.
Keep my child safe.
The child who doesn’t know I exist yet. Or maybe he does?
What matters is I now know he exists.
Fuck.
He really is a cute kid. Oblivious to me, he watches the children around him play, like a wallflower, soaking everything in as he continues to rhythmically drum the stick against the metal playground equipment.
I pull out the schedule on my phone, playing a mental game of tetris with my work obligations and how I’m going to bring a five-year-old child into my life, one that clearly needs some help.
A commotion grabs my attention. Three little boys surround Grady. One grabs his stick, breaking it into pieces while the other two hurl insults and laughter at him.
The fuck?
I storm over to the scuffle. “You little shits, get out of here!”
The bullies scurry back into the restaurant, leaving a cowering Grady, sitting in the corner under the playground equipment. He stares at the ground where his broken stick is, pushing up his glasses.
I clear my throat. “You okay, little man?”
“Don’t call me little,” he says sternly in a tiny voice. He pushes up his eyeglasses again, cautiously looking up at me.
Got it. No ‘little.’
I crouch down, sitting on my haunches. “Are you okay there?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
Damnit. He’s better at this stuff than me.
“That’s right. Did your mama teach you that?”
He looks around the small playground before pulling his knees to his chest.
“It’s okay, Grady—”
“I want Mommy.” He rocks back and forth.
“Hey-hey-hey, Grady? Grady, I’m a friend of your mom’s. My name is—”
“I want Mommy!”
I chew on my lip. And then it dawns on me. “Grady, I’m Mommy’s friend.” He pauses as I continue. “My name is Nick, and I’d really like to be your friend.”
He cautiously peers up at me, pushing up his glasses. “You want to be my friend?”
I grin. “I do.”
He slowly stands up and studies me for a minute. “You talk funny, Nick.”
I chuckle. “I do?”
“Yeah. You talk like a cowboy.”
Oh, good grief. “Well, that makes sense. I’m from a place called Cowtown.”
He freezes, deep creases forming on his young forehead. “Do they have cows there?”
“They do. Way back before you were ever born, cowboys would guide cows through the town so they could send them all over Texas.”
“Whoa,” he says under his breath. “That’s a lot of cows—hey … hey, Nick … did you know that there used to be a lot of dinosaurs?”
“Oh.” The question catches me off-guard. “Well, uh … yeah. I guess you’re right. There used to be a lot of dinosaurs.”
“Uh-huh …” He bends down, grabbing the remains of his stick. “They were here before I was born.”
“Yeah, they’re, uh … they’re pretty old, huh?”
“Uh-huh. They’re so old that … that … well, they were probably here before you were born.”
Thanks, kid. “Yeah, that’s pretty old.” I chuckle. “Hey, partner, can I—”
“What does partner mean?”
His deep brown eyes pierce me with curiosity. Partner. Don’t children work in partners at school?
“Well, a partner is someone who’s on your team. In old cowboy movies, the hero always has a partner who helps them get the bad guy.”
“I’m your partner?”
I shrug. “If you want to be. I can be your partner too, if you’d like.”
Grady’s eyes brighten as he adjusts his glasses.
“What’s with those kids?”
His face falls as he begins tapping his stick against the rungs of the ladder. “They don’t like me.”
“Don’t like you?” I scoff. “Do they even know you?
Grady nods, tracing a bolt on a metal post. “They go to my school.”
“Are they mean to you there?”
He pauses. “Sometimes. They call me ‘baby’ and ‘little’ and ‘small.’”
Fucking little shits. “Does Mommy know?”
He shrugs.
“What about your teacher, Grady? Does she know?”
He shrugs again.
“Well, partner, you gotta stand up for yourself.” I take a seat on the mulch.
“Stand up for myself?”
“You know … stand your ground. If they start pushing you around, you push back.”
He peers up at me. “Push them back?”
I wince. “Well, not push them, push them. You just gotta let them know you don’t like that, and that it’s not okay—”
“Grady!” Tiffany hurries toward us, her blonde hair falling out of its bun.
“Mommy!” He jumps up, his mom catching him in a hug. “I made a friend. His name is Nick, and he’s from a place with lots of cows. And-and he wants me to be his partner because cowboys have partners!”
“Is that so?” She winks at me, patting his back.
“Uh-huh. Can me and him play again?” he asks, longing in his voice.
Tiffany works her jaw, her attention bouncing between us. “Well, I mean … uh, it depends on if … uh …”
“I’d like that,” I interject, “if that’s okay with y’all.”
Grady pulls on her hand. “Please, Mommy, please? Can he?”
She mouths the words thank you. “I think we can make something work, buddy.”
“Really?” He bounces on his toes, adjusting his glasses.
I chuckle. “Really.”
He takes a few deep breaths, his fingers tangling in his hair. “Tomorrow?”
“Oh … uh—” I frown at Tiffany, silently asking for some help.
“Grady, Nick has an adult job like Mommy. But we will plan something when I get home tonight.” She squeezes his hand. “C’mon. Let’s get some juice before Mr. Bob comes by.” She turns back to me. “We’ll work something out.”
I slip my fists into pockets. “Yeah. Sure. Just … let me know.”
“Bye, Nick!” He hurries off with his mother, holding tight to her grip.
“Bye, partner.” As soon as the restaurant door closes behind them, a rush of anxiety plummets against my chest. I can’t breathe; I can’t think. I …
Shit.
I’m a dad.