Page 66 of Holly, Jolly, and Oh So Naughty

“I don’t,” I stammer. “I hadn’t… I trust you, I just?—”

“Yeah I get it,” James snaps bitterly. “You didn’t trust me with my own kid.”

“I’m telling you now. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Only because you’re forced to. You don’t believe in me, do you?” James’s voice drops low. “You don’t believe we have a future together, do you?”

I have no answer. My tongue stumbles over too many thoughts so nothing comes out and James… this time, he doesn’t wait.

He sets down his glass and strides past me into the house.

I hold it together until I hear the front door slam.

Then the tears come.

26

JAMES

How did it come to this?

I have a daughter. Emma. That adorable girl with the bright smile and the sharper knowledge about social media than I’ll ever have, is my daughter.

It’s a lot to take in, so after I leave Lily’s place, I spend the next few hours just driving around the town. There isn’t much to explore, so after circling the town seven or eight times, I drive to the edge of town and park near the ice skating rink.

Trying to make sense of everything Lily told me is almost impossible, along with the news that I am a father.

One thought makes me numb, while the other sends my mind racing at such speeds that I can’t understand one thought before another ten end up on top. With the heater on full blast and my phone on silent, I stare out at the winter wonderland around me and then dig out the bottle of Scotch I’d purchased as a Christmas gift for Margret.

It calls to me. The cool bottle is a comforting weight in my hands, and I trace the swirling patterns on the label with my eyes, repeating Lily’s revelation over and over in my mind.

Emma is mine.

Lily fell pregnant seven years ago after we spent time together.

She claims she tried to reach out but was blocked at every turn. That trips me up because there is nothing my mother would love more than a grandchild. At every party she hosts, she spends hours talking in the ear of anyone who cares to listen about how important the family line is.

And underneath all the confusion as to whether Lily is telling the truth or if my mother had anything to do with this secret being kept from me, there’s one thing that pains me more.

Lily didn’t trust me.

She was happy to play families with me at the ice rink, the party, and the Christmas fair, but when it came to telling me the truth?

She did not trust that I would do right by my daughter.

By her.

And that hurts.

I stare at the bottle until my eyes mist over and then a sob crawls out of my heaving chest.

I cry.

I cry because I miss my father and he would be the man I would turn to for advice on how to parent. Some tears are a mix of joy and sorrow that I have a daughter and I have missed six yearswith her for reasons unknown. I cry because Lily didn’t trust me, and part of me understands why.

The tears flow thick and fast, and on the side of a deserted road, surrounded by snow on the edge of town, I finally allow myself to feel all the turbulent grief I’ve been running from for the past six months.

I sob until I have no energy left, and then I drive back to the motel with the Scotch unopened in the passenger seat.

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