Later, though.
For now, Jake’s tone is muted in our back and forth, and I blame the inherent weirdness of texts. At least until he gives up and calls me instead.
“Were you ever going to tell me you’re having lunch with your father this week?”
“Yeah, I—Jake—” I stop, sigh, and start over. “It’s not a secret, but you don’t think I should spend time with him, and I didn’t want to frustrate you by bringing it up.”
“And I don’t want you to keep things to yourself because youthink I’ll get upset.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
I sigh again. “Yeah. Now you know I’m having lunch with him, and I’ll tell you all about it afterward. And we’re both fully aware that the likelihood of him sticking around the bar would be impossible to predict, but I won’t hide whatever is happening there either.”
“Don’t hide anything, Darren. We’re friends, remember?”
My mind runs wild between one sentence and the next, any chance of me spilling everything to Jake immediately hampered by his reminder that we’re friends. Beau’s suggestion that I tell Jake how I feel was great, and I’m sure someone without a history of fucking up would’ve done something about it. Unfortunately, that’s not me, and I don’t want to go back on a word I gave on my knees when Jake could barely stand.
“Yeah, I remember.”
We let each other go then, but I bring him dinner on Tuesday night. We listen to one of his favorite playlists while we watch our breaths disappear into the backyard on a surprisingly cold night. The sex waits until we’re back inside and warm again, and the music remains the loudest thing we hear for hours.
Thursday, I meet Drew Barrett for lunch at a local sandwich place, arriving before he does as though that might give me any sort of jump. He pays for my food, and takes my advantage away, and we sit across from each other, two versions of the same man born twenty years apart. I take a bite because I don’t know whereto begin, too many questions clamoring to be first, and I consider starting with something about the bar or the band or maybe the fucking weather. Before I can swallow though, my father looks in about four other directions, finds me in front of him again, and takes a deep breath.
“I fucked up.”
I come close to choking and take a quick swig from my water bottle. “Wow. Diving in dick first, no lube, huh? Not my first time, but you might want to slow down a little.”
My father rolls his eyes, a move I mastered as a teen when he wasn’t around to see. “I don’t know if I’ll get a second chance to sit down with you like this, so I figured I wouldn’t waste time.”
“You've already wasted 38 years.”
“More than that, if I’m being honest.”
I wait for him to go on, but it’s his turn to stall with a bite, so I try to set up the story. “She’s never said much about you. My mom. I know you guys met through friends of friends when she was in college. You loved hard, you partied hard. And then when she got pregnant with me, you left.”
“I don’t think it changes anything, but for whatever it’s worth, I left before I knew she was pregnant. I didn’t find out until a month or so before you were born.”
My mom’s voice replays in my head, but I can’t remember enough of the words to tell whether she skirted the truth or outright lied. He’s right, though. It doesn’t change anything at all.
“You could’ve come back then,” I say. “But youstayed away instead.”
“I did. She’d obviously decided she wanted to go through with it whether I was there or—”
“Gothrough? Withit?” I interrupt, my forearm hitting the table hard enough to rattle everything on it. “Hi, I’m your son, and you’re talking about me like I was the consequence of adare.”
He sighs and sits back in his chair. “Yeah, look, I’ve had a lot of tough conversations over the years, but I’m not sure I’ve ever been good at them, and it feels like this one matters more than most.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“The point I was trying to make is that she’d already decided to keep you, and your grandparents were still alive back then to help, plus she had friends and a good life ahead of her.”
“And you didn’t think you could be part of a good life?” I ask. “Hers or mine?”
“IknewI couldn’t be,” he answers.
I think back to the argument between Jake and Riley—the back and forth about whether some kids are better off when a parent walks away, or whether parents should stay and learn how to raise those kids—but I couldn’t figure out who was right that night, and I still haven’t come to a conclusion now. My father picked a side, obviously, and I do what I can to simplify it for both our sakes.