Page 84 of Back to Willow

“Are you going to carry on with the cryptic answers? Because it’s not helping you in the forgiving field,” he snarks back, visibly annoyed.

He’s right, but how can I explain this without hurting him? Do I just rip the band-aid off?

Maybe.

“If by the forgiving field you mean by taking a kid from his father, then I don’t need forgiving.”

“What the hell?”

I close my eyes and take a deep inhale, filling my lungs with oxygen. My heart is beating like crazy, threatening to jump out of my chest at any moment. My shaking hands can’t stop fidgeting with the hem of my T-shirt, and when I finally exhale and lock eyes with Liam, I prepare myself.

I prepare for the other shoe to drop. I prepare for the bomb that’s about to explode.

“I haven’t taken your kid from you because you’re not his father.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Liam

Mybrainisajumbled mess.

After years of anger for being just left behind by the girl I was willing to give my all to, I come to learn—by Johanna’s invitation—that she has a kid.

A kid. A six-year-old boy who called her “Mummy” and stayed glued to her as if he was a part of her. A toddler who could very well be my son, too—that did me in, pushing me over the edge.

In seconds, the temperature rose, and I swear everything blended into shades of red. The moment realisation was slowly settling that the betrayal I had left had gone far beyond what I could have ever imagined. With a frantic heart pumping the boiling blood away, I was one second away from blowing up like a ticking time bomb. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for Jake and that other guy getting me out of there, I have no idea how nasty things would have gotten.

After a lot of convincing from him, I agreed to be here today. Expecting—hoping—she’d finally tell me the whole story. Only to be hit with a bucket of fucking frozen water, freezing me to the bone.

Because you’re not his father.

What the actual fuck?

“What do you even mean I am not the father? November minus nine months places the conception between February and March.” I growl. “We were already sexually active by then. Remember?”

It’s impossible to mask my angry tone.

After spending the whole fucking night thinking about this—about Dylan—by sunrise, there was this little part of me tingling. Excitement was growing with the prospects of understanding the whole scenery and getting confirmation. Of being a father.

The term itself still feels weird, even after repeating it a few dozen times this morning in front of the mirror—but fuck if I don’t like it. Since last night, I had strong suspicions he is mine, and that explains exactly why he struck me the first I saw him in the hospital and that time in the supermarket with Jake. It wasn’t because I thought Jake had a kid, it was because, without knowing, it felt like looking into a mirror. Looking at my own son—my body knew before my brain did.

My certainties only got stronger this morning when I saw him this morning. A mini-Liam, for sure. From the physical similarities—the skin tone and eyes—to his attitude earlier this morning, sticking the tongue out at me.

How can she claim the boy isn’t mine?

He has to be. Similarities to the side, I was never a guy to care about intuition, but this time around? There is a nagging feeling coming from within, the deepest parts of my soul telling me—yelling—that Dylan is in fact mine.

There can’t be any other possibilities in this universe.Right?

Willow purses her lips into a thin line, avoiding my eyes. This is one of her automatic actions when she feels shame. It always has been. The knowledge is enough to wake up a nagging feeling inside of me. Why would she be feeling shame? For me not to be the father. Did she cheat?

“Did you cheat on me?”

“I remember that we always used condoms,” she trails off, avoiding the answer.

It works because immediately, I remember one event. We did always use condoms, but I remember well those times it broke.

“Except for those two times that it broke. Remember?”

---