Rawlins
The feeling had crept up for a long time, layers accumulating with every new aspect of her that he saw, eliciting respect, affection, admiration, and—most jarringly and ceaselessly—desire.
Those threads had braided together into a rope long ago, and he only now had the good sense to call the whole thing by its proper name.
The turning point had not simply been her saying it first; really, it happened when he told her the truth and she didn’t run away.
After living with so much shame for so long, his worst fears had become unchallenged facts—namely, that if anyone knew the whole story, he would be exposed, abandoned, destroyed in every sense.
He had not even told the truth to his therapist during the brief time he’d had one.
Worried that she would judge him, and even more afraid she would try to convince him to forgive himself when it felt like the guilt was all he had to hold on to.
But his assumptions had been challenged, and his fears, if not obliterated, at least mitigated.
He had confessed his secret and Ellsbeth responded by embracing him, both literally and figuratively.
If she could meet the truth with such warmth, perhaps Max eventually might do the same.
The prospect of telling his son the truth of his parentage had long seemed impossible, and only grew more so with each passing year as the accumulation of time increased the weight of the betrayal.
But perhaps his fears had been exaggerated by his guilt—and while he was nervous about Max’s reaction, he had, for the first time in a long while, hope.
His perspective colored his perception of the snow drifting down on the campus, giving it a festive feeling, a foretaste of the upcoming holiday break.
The chilly air invigorated him as he pulled his coat tighter, stepping over the trickling river of snowmelt in the gutter to cross Stuyvesant at the edge of campus.
The Callistoga Café, where he and Max had agreed to meet, was situated just across the street from the university, which made it popular with students and faculty.
Rawlins never went there to work; the atmosphere was too distracting and dense with familiar faces for him to focus.
Inevitably, he would run into a student begging him for an extension, or another professor asking him to substitute for them on a committee.
But he occasionally stopped in for a midday Americano if he needed a jolt of caffeine to make it through the afternoon, as had been the case over a decade earlier when he first saw Max.
Rawlins hadn’t said anything to his son that day; the shock of seeing him in the flesh was too great.
He had just stood watching the boy for a beat too long.
Max had never looked up. It felt fitting to now meet up with his son at the same location where he had first laid eyes on him, though of course he neglected to mention that coincidence in his email invitation. Perhaps Rawlins would tell him someday.
In his desire to ensure he didn’t arrive late, Rawlins wound up fifteen minutes early.
He got in line and ordered a tea, which he took to an open table in the corner.
It wobbled badly, its legs uneven, revealing why it was the only seat available.
But for Rawlins’s purposes it was perfect, providing a view of the door and enough separation to have a private conversation.
Rawlins kept checking his phone as the time crawled.
Five minutes past, then ten, and he started to wonder if he was being stood up; Max very well might have forgotten, or decided at the last minute not to come.
Rawlins opened his email to see if a message to that effect had arrived, and when he looked up—there he was.
It felt surreal, seeing Max out in the world once again.
The boy had obviously not refreshed his wardrobe since before he was sent away; his dark jeans were tight at the ankle, long since out of style.
But despite his sallow skin and long hair, he looked good, even intimidating; his skinny build had filled out during his time in prison, and the calf-length coat he wore took on an imposing silhouette with his new dimensions.
Rawlins stood and waved to get Max’s attention, and he came over with a loping gait, sliding between the other customers with a look of displeasure.
“Can I buy you a coffee or anything? They have good pastries, too.”
Max shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“Sandwiches, if you’re hungry for a real lunch,” Rawlins offered, surprised at his own nervousness. “I’ve had the tuna before, which was decent, and…” He trailed off, conscious that he was filling silence awkwardly, while Max had long since made up his mind not to get anything.
Rawlins sat back down, and Max slid in across from him.
But with his back to the rest of the café, Max was twitchy and nervous, looking over his shoulder, his gaze following anyone who walked through his periphery.
“Would you rather switch?” Rawlins stood up, vacating his seat, and Max wordlessly swapped with him.
“Probably hard to get used to being out in public, isn’t it? ”
Max shrugged, eyes darting from one customer to another. “Can’t believe I used to do my homework here. Even back when I was in high school.”
The mention of it brought Rawlins back to the first moment he saw his son in person.
They were only a few feet away from the table where the boy had been sitting. His face, even at fifteen years old, had been serious and withdrawn—but there had been a light in his eyes then, a gleam of excitement and curiosity.
The memory made Rawlins realize he’d been hoping that youthful light would return to Max’s eyes once he was out of prison.
Perhaps eventually it would; the boy had only been out for a couple weeks, and no doubt it took time for the mind to readjust. But at present, the eyes across the table were like smoldering embers, dark and simmering with rage.
“How are you adapting so far?” Rawlins asked.
Max gave a heavy sigh. “Fine, I suppose. Nice to wake up when I feel like it. Eat some real food for a change.”
“Have you been back to Paratha yet?” Rawlins asked, referencing a nearby Indian restaurant they had both loved. When Max would linger after office hours, Rawlins often ordered it in for the two of them. They ate at his desk, dissecting Max’s essays together line by line.
Max brightened slightly, and the ghost of a smile danced at the edge of his lip. “First meal home, I got takeout. But my tolerance for spice is gone completely.”
“You’ll have to work your way back up,” Rawlins told him. “That vindaloo doesn’t mess around.” It was too jovial; he felt it as soon as the words left his mouth.
Max fixed him with an incisive gaze, suspicion clouding his expression. “Why did you want to see me?”
“Well…I’ve missed you,” Rawlins answered, afraid to jump directly to the heart of the conversation. “I’m glad you’re out, and now that you’ve been granted parole, I just thought you might…”
“What—resume my education?”
Rawlins looked away; he knew that Max’s parole terms included a prohibition on practicing arcane mechanicals in any form. “What am I supposed to do now anyway?” Max continued. “You think anyone wants to hire me? You think anyone wants to be my friend, or have anything to do with me at all?”
“I do,” Rawlins said softly. “I care about you. Really.”
Max shook his head, clearly unwilling to believe this. “I hear you had a word with Greywall.”
Rawlins tilted his head evasively. “I’m not sure I made much of a difference.
Just tried to remind him of the context around the case.
The fact that you never had a fair shot to begin with.
” Max rolled his eyes at that, and Rawlins added, “Hopefully there’s a shift under way in terms of how people view arcane mechanicals.
You might’ve been sentenced at peak witch hunt, and now attitudes are softening a bit. ”
Max leaned in, elbows resting on the table, causing it to wobble.
“But why do you care so much about my case? Is that some validation for you? A benefit to your reputation, if I’m not seen as such a monster anymore?
” He gestured toward Rawlins in his well-fitted jacket, and the cozy campus surrounding them. “You seem to be doing fine.”
Rawlins swallowed hard. If he was ever going to tell the truth, this was the moment.
He had an impulse to reach across the table and take the boy’s hand when he delivered the news, but knew that Max would recoil.
So he merely matched the boy’s posture, leaning forward as he searched for the words.
“Listen, there’s something that I want to tell you.
That will be strange to hear, but…I hope that you’ll understand.
” Max’s gaze tightened, as if bracing for impact. “Max, I’m actually…I’m your father.”
The boy’s expression betrayed nothing. He leaned back, creating some distance, and shook his head slowly in disbelief.
Rawlins barreled on, attempting to convey the whole story as succinctly as possible. The affair. The pregnancy. The secret. Years and years of keeping the secret.
When he was finished, Max’s mouth formed an O as he let out a long exhale, his expression still betraying no clear emotion. “So…let me make sure I’ve got it. You slept with my mother twenty-six years ago.”
“Yes.”
“And you two let me believe, for my entire life, that my dad…that Ben was my real father,” Max said matter-of-factly.
“I had no choice,” Rawlins insisted. “Your mother was explicit.”
“And you kept this secret. For decades.” Max’s volume remained even, but anger crept into the low register of his voice. “Even when you met me. Even when we spent hours together, day after day. When you became my fucking mentor, you didn’t think to tell me then?”
“I wanted to,” Rawlins said, emotion starting to crack in his throat.
“Every one of those lessons we had, those conversations that went on for hours…it was on the tip of my tongue. But I convinced myself that the only relationship I could have with you was as your teacher. That that was the closest I’d ever get to being a father.
I tried to give you what I could. Encouragement. Education. Maybe even a little…wisdom?”
Max let out a bark of laughter at that, and Rawlins chuckled at himself, trying to lighten the mood as he conceded, “Okay, maybe I didn’t have much of that to offer, but…I tried.”
“You tried…” Max said, holding the word on his tongue like a bitter berry.
“I wanted to tell you,” Rawlins said. “But Maggie—your mother—she was adamant that it would only make things worse. For you. For everyone.”
“Oh, of course,” Max said. “Interesting, isn’t it? How the thing that was best for me…was the one that meant no consequences for you.”
Rawlins felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach; he was losing control of the conversation.
“Max, there were consequences for me. The guilt I’ve lived with.
The sleep I’ve lost. The…” He shook his head and lowered his voice.
“I don’t expect your sympathy, I just need you to know, this has been the most difficult thing in my life. ”
“Well, how nice that you can let it go now that I’m out,” Max said. “You’ve unburdened your conscience. You’re free.”
“I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing it for you,” Rawlins said. “You deserve to know the truth. And I figured it might…help make sense of certain things, at least.”
Max pursed his lips, his gaze burrowing into Rawlins with a cruel gleam as he said, “You know…it does, actually. Because I always looked at my dad and thought: How does someone as awful as me come from someone as nice as him?” Rawlins tensed up, seeing Max building a head of steam and wanting to stop him, but afraid to interrupt.
“I knew that my mom was cold, but I figured, a little of my dad should’ve rubbed off on me.
A bit of decency. But now it makes sense.
I’m the offspring of an ice queen…and a narcissist.”
“Max…” Rawlins didn’t have a complete thought; he said the boy’s name as a plea, hoping he would stop.
“It makes sense why you’d tell me now,” Max continued. “Because now, you’re realizing you’re actually irrelevant. Your whole rockstar-professor thing isn’t what it used to be. The cult of personality has dimmed. You need someone new to look up to you.”
“That’s not what’s happening,” Rawlins protested. “This isn’t about me. You deserve to know the truth.”
“But I didn’t back then?” Max asked, his anger rising. “When it might’ve actually been useful? When it might’ve made me understand why you were giving me your time, your attention, your forbidden books. I thought I was special.”
“You were!” Rawlins insisted.
Max shook his head. “You were just trying to spend time with the kid you abandoned. And look how that worked out. Look what your ‘love’ led to. You ruined my life.”
Rawlins swallowed hard; this had gotten away from him. “I would give anything to go back and change it. But I can’t. And you’re right…I should’ve told you.”
“I liked not knowing just fine,” Max said. “I liked having no relationship with you whatsoever. But neither of those are really an option for me now, are they?”
“I’m sorry.” Rawlins fought to keep his gaze locked on Max despite the burning recrimination in the boy’s eyes. “I just…had to tell you.”
Max smirked without a trace of genuine amusement.
“You don’t know the meaning of ‘had to.’ You don’t understand what your choices are until they’re taken away.
And this…” He pointed at the air between them, as though the conversation were a corporeal thing that could be seen.
“This was a choice. And I promise you, it’s one you’ll regret. ”
Max’s eye twitched with what could’ve been rage, or holding back tears, or both. But before either feeling could escalate enough to reveal itself, he stood up, his dark jacket sweeping behind him, and marched toward the door.
Rawlins wanted to go after him, to try to apologize, to make this right, but he had no idea what to say or where to begin.
And it was not only uncertainty that kept him glued to his seat, watching his son exit the café without looking back.
It was fear. Rooted in the realization that he had barely known his son to begin with, and the intervening years of incarceration had hardened him into someone unrecognizable, perhaps even incomprehensible, to Rawlins.
Max’s last words before he stormed out were not only a prediction (an accurate one, since Rawlins already did regret telling him the news). They were a threat. And Rawlins was afraid.