Page 3 of About That Night

“Why the hell are you counting on your fingers?”

I get to nine, which is January, and I almost shit myself. That is close. Too close. Really close. “Oh, Jesus.”

The room actually blurs a little as the enormity of the situation hits me. I move toward the door, tripping over the same movable tray Chastity did in my frantic scramble to get to her and confirm that I do not have a child that I had no idea existed. Water spills everywhere, and I ignore it.

“Oh, shit,” Pops says. “You plugged her, didn’t you?”

Yes. Yes, I did.

“Don’t make it sound so disgusting,” I say, palms sweating and heart racing. Though it hadn’t exactly been flowers and romance. More like impulsive grinding in the dark.

It’s one thing to do that, another thing to be called out for it. I don’t particularly like this feeling. I try to shove it down. Which is something I’m really good at. I can avoid feelings like nobody’s business. It’s a fucking art form because feelings can be messy, and I don’t do messy.

There’s no avoiding this shit, though.

Do I have a son?

No. Surely Chastity would have told me in New Orleans. She absolutely would have told me. Why wouldn’t she tell me?

“Probably was disgusting, given how sweet she is and how much of a dog you are.” Pops sounds disdainful. Of me. “Shame on you for taking advantage of such a naive girl.”

That naive girl had been waiting for me, naked in my bed, but I’m not going to argue with Pops. Or throw Chastity under the bus. What had happened was between her and me.

Unless her son is mine. In which case, that’s between me, her, and my lawyer. Not that I have a lawyer, but I’ll get one.

It’s that thought that has me bolting out into the hallway. I search and see her at the nurse’s station, sitting down.

“Chastity!”

She looks up, startled. She presses her lips together and looks left and right, nervously. My loud tone has clearly unnerved her. “Yes?”

“Is your son my kid?” I ask. “Tell me. I need to know.” I sound rude and frantic and I’m using a much louder voice than I intended. My words are booming in the quiet hallway, and I need to lower my voice, but I’m freaking the fuck out.

She shoves her chair back and stands up quickly, jaw dropping. “Hank! Be quiet!”

But I’m not sure how to be quiet because, as previously mentioned, I’m freaking the fuck out. “You didn’t answer the question. Is your son my child?”

Her cheeks are pink, but she shakes her head vigorously. “No. Of course not.”

“The math makes sense,” I insist. “We had sex in May.”

“Will you keep it down?” she hisses. “I don’t want to get in trouble or fired. Nor do I want everyone on staff to know my sexual history.”

I take a deep breath, trying to get myself under control. I don’t want her to get in trouble either. She is at work, and another nurse has already glanced in our direction several times from where she’s standing in front of a supply closet.

“Okay, but are you sure? The timing…”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“But…” I don’t know why I keep insisting. Most guys would just be glad she’s denying it, but I need to be positive. I can’t stomach the thought that I have a kid I haven’t spent any time with or supported in any way financially or emotionally.

“I would never do that to you, Hank,” she says, her voice low and tight. “Never. He’s not yours.”

Relief hits me like a two-by-four. I believe her.

I let go of the breath that I didn’t realize I was holding in. My hands go into my hair and rake it back from my forehead. “Phew. Holy shit. That was a terrifying two minutes. I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”

She shakes her head. “I bet. But don’t worry, you’re good. I promise.”

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