Do You Take This Man (74)

I glanced at him, only to find his expression inscrutable. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“About why you were downing Scotch alone at a hotel bar in the town where you live.” We passed a group of teenagers practicing some skateboarding maneuvers on a small set of stairs. Lear didn’t reply until we’d passed them.

“It’s been a bad day.”

We stopped at a railing separating us from a drop-off where a small creek gurgled below. I watched him, taking in how he set his forearms on the railing. I searched for a quip, something to make him elaborate. Ten ideas popped into my head, but I bit them back. I wasn’t sure he needed sarcastic RJ tonight.

“You don’t need to hear about my . . .” He trailed off, glancing out over the water. “About it.”

“I haven’t wanted to push you into oncoming traffic yet tonight, which is weirding me out. I know I’m not always . . . nice, but if you want to talk to me, you can.” I stumbled over the words, nudging his forearm with my own. I half expected him to jerk away, but he didn’t, and we stood, arms touching in the breeze. “I’ll listen.”

Finally, Lear pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped it before handing it to me. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at for a moment. Blurs of white and black, but then I saw it and my eyes shot to his face.

“He turns one on Sunday,” Lear said without looking at me.

“You have a kid?” I glanced between him and the sonogram image, picking out the details in the grainy photo—the outline of the nose and hand.

“Nope,” he said, taking back the phone and shoving it in his pocket. His words were a little slurred, and for the first time I questioned if I knew what I was doing. We were miles outside the carefully drawn borders we’d erected around our relationship.

Lear glanced at me, then back into the darkness. “I told you I was engaged?”

“Yeah. You said it didn’t work out.”

“She was pregnant. I tried to play it cool, but I was . . .”

“Excited?”

“I never wanted to be a dad. Never wanted someone to need me and risk leaving them alone.” He met my gaze. “I worked through a lot of shit with my own parents dying, and I was still scared. Terrified, but I got excited. I fell in love with the idea of being his dad. Fell in love with him.”

The kids on skateboards crossed the path behind us, their laughter and the sound of wheels on concrete pausing our conversation.

“What happened?”

“We’d just finished the nursery. I remember it was her birthday and I’d gotten her a little cake, and when I brought it in, she started crying. She told me she’d had an affair and didn’t know who the father was. Just . . . said it.” He seemed to search the surface of the water, his shoulders tense. “She’d had blood pressure issues during the pregnancy and had to be on bed rest, and I couldn’t leave her alone, so we lived in this uncomfortable . . . miserable middle point between anger and anticipation for a week, and then she went into labor.”

He was quiet, his jaw working back and forth, and I bit my tongue to keep from pressing until he was ready.

“Fifteen hours later, he was born, and he wasn’t mine.” He said it so matter-of-factly, someone might have missed the pain in his voice. “She said she’d had a feeling with the timing . . . Anyway. Lots of red hair, same as his real dad.”

My jaw dropped, and I set a hand on Lear’s without thinking about the intimacy of the gesture. “My God,” I muttered.

He nodded, jaw ticking and mouth in a set line. “Turns out, the other guy was excited to be a father, too, and he was the one she wanted. So, I had a son for a couple minutes; then I didn’t. I had a family I’d promised myself I’d never leave, and then they left me.”

Nearby, a group of crickets chirped, and the laughter from the teenagers faded into the night. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,’’ he whispered. “We were going to name him Eli after my dad, but then . . . I didn’t talk to her. I don’t know his name.” Lear’s jaw ticked again, and his eyes were wet.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I linked my fingers with his, edging closer so the sides of our bodies lined up.

“He’s out there in the world and growing and learning and he’s not mine, but he was mine and I don’t even know his fucking name.” His voice cracked, and he wiped his free arm across his face.

I squeezed his fingers, resting my head on his arm. “Lear. I’m so sorry.”

“No. I’m sorry,” he said, taking in a deep breath and wiping at his eyes again. “I’m drunk.”

I squeezed his hand, stroking my thumb over his.

“Anyway,” he said, taking a shaky breath. “That’s my sob story. I fell in love with a woman who I trusted and lost a son who was never mine to begin with and Sunday is his birthday and . . .”

“And it’s going to suck,” I offered.

“Yeah. I thought I’d have an event this weekend to be busy with, to take my mind off it, but I’ll be alone all weekend. You know, it’s so stupid. I found this shirt I thought was funny and Sarah teased me because he wouldn’t fit into it until he was in twelve-months clothes. I keep thinking about how big that damn shirt looked and how he could probably wear it now.” He took another breath, this one steadier, but he didn’t pull his hand from mine as he scrubbed his face with his free hand. “I know it’s pathetic to react like this. You’ll probably never let me live this down.”