He makes a little cooing sound, finally content, finally quiet—and Harper’s face just melts. Her eyes go all soft and grateful.
I grin at her, pretending a calm I don’t feel, smoothly playing the part she needs me to. Keeping her story of me intact.
“You’re amazing,” she says, reaching out to stroke his back. Her fingers brush against my chest through my shirt and I feel the thrill of victory. “Seriously, Z. I know I dump a lot on you, but you’re so good at this.”
I smile and nod and let her believe the lie.
It’s easier than admitting the truth.
That ten seconds ago, I was ready to set this kid down, walk out the door and never come back.
That the only reason I picked him up was to make him stop screaming.
That I don’t love him.
That every single day, I regret not pushing harder for adoption.
… That I’ll never forget he’s not evenmine.
“You’re a great dad,” Harper says softly, leaning in to kiss my cheek. Her lips are warm. She smells like the coconut lotion from the tattoo shop and underneath it, that Harper smell that’s been mine since we were twelve years old.
And I stand there holdinghisson—Caleb’s son, the bastard’s son, the golden-boy’s fucking heir—basking in Harper’s warmth and trust. Basking in the way she looks at me like I'm everything.
It’s all built on lies.
But it’s stillmine.
“Thanks, Harp,” I say, and lean over to kiss her on the lips. She melts into it like she always does now. Like I’m her whole world.
And I let her take the baby from my arms before she can see my hands shaking.
Before she can see anything at all.
FIVE
October 2019
HARPER
Another loud alarm beeps,and then the heavy metal door swings open, allowing me into the last room of the prison—at least the last door civilians are allowed past.
Into the visitors’ room.
I hurry inside and sit down on the cold little chair in front of the half-frosted glass.
It’s the closest I’m allowed to get to breathing the same air as my father these days, three years after he took the fall in my place for a locker full of drugs that didn’t belong to either of us.
The place is so damn dreary I always try to bring in something to brighten it, but they confiscated my flowers at the entrance even though I’m sure the x-ray proved there was nothing more harmful than stems in the bundle. I was even careful not to get roses or any other thorny-stemmed flower.
At least Bruiser’s drawings made it through. The colorful construction paper is something to brighten the dreariness in here. I can’t say the kid inherited my artistic talent, though.
I’ve thought about bringing Bruiser himself, but Dad always nixes the thought, saying he doesn’t want any grandkid of his ever seeing the inside of a correctional facility, even if it’s just the visitors’ side. So I bring toddler crayon drawings instead.
As soon as Dad appears on the other side of the glass, I pull the drawings out of the little folder anyway, slap on a smile, and show them to him.
“Bruiser made these for you,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice that I don’t feel.
The whole point is to be a bright beacon of hope when I come.