Page 22 of The Best of Us

He turned to the side, facing the living room. “She stopped at a church on her way home. Not that it’s your business.”

“Why is she at church on a Friday morning? And don’t tell me it’s not my business.” Everything was now officially my business.

“But it’s not.” He whirled around to confront me. “She’s my mother, not yours.”

And I think I’m your father. Maybe. Probably. Looking at you now, yes, most definitely.

Eyes back on me, I could tell he was torn between continuing to revolt and surrender.

Choose option two.

“Knowing Mom, she’s probably there praying for me,” he answered, choosing the smarter route. “You know, asking for forgiveness for my sins or something like that.”

“Why aren’t you with her if it’s?—”

“I’d combust into flames if I stepped into a church.”

Yeah, you and me both, kid.I hated that we also had that in common. “What church?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Language.” Great, now I was becoming like my father.

A light laugh rolled from his mouth—the smart-ass kind. “Real funny, dude. Like you can tell me what to do. You’re not my father.”

I shoved my hands in my Brioni dress pants pockets and hung my head. “Work hard to remember the name,” I said instead of giving him a piece of my mind.

He mumbled a few curses, clearly to get under my skin, then tossed out a couple of adjectives to describe the church. “She said she was drawn to it on her way home from work a few weeks ago. We’re Methodist, so I don’t know why she’d go to a Catholic . . .” He let his words trail off as if realizing he’d opened up to me when he’d been doing his best not to.

I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, realizing Juliette was at my late sister’s church. Bianca had been a devout Catholic.

Bianca, what are you up to? And if this is your doing, why didn’t you bring us together before now?

“Don’t even think about tracking her down. I don’t want you?—”

“Listen, son,” I began my lecture in a deep voice, “I’m?—”

“Not your son, remember?”

I had meant that word in the generic sense, forgetting for a second he (probably) was my son. He had to be. I refused to believe Juliette faked her innocence back then and had slept with anyone else aside from me.We used protection both times that night, though.How had I gone from being in denial that he was my son to now being terrified he wasn’t?What the hell is wrong with me?

“Are you into my mom?” The unmistakable disgust in his voice sliced through the air. “Is that what this is about?” He boldly eliminated the gap between us and planted a hand on my chest.

He’d set his palm over my heart. The heart I’d left with his mother seventeen years ago, and apparently, she passed it on to her son.No, our son. He’s ours. I think.

Wild enough, it felt like my heart was back in my chest. Beating. Pulsing. Alive again in his presence.

“You like her.” He retracted his hand as our gazes continued to clash. “You think she can be some rich man’s trophy? She doesn’t need a playboy asshole in her life.”

“Watch your mouth,” I snapped back, unable to stop myself.Yeah, you want to go to war? Let’s go.

“Or what?” He jutted out his chin, and I straightened my posture to regain my few inches over him at six-two.

Instead of antagonizing or intimidating him, I really needed to de-escalate this showdown and deflect answering his question about his mom. “Why were you in a fight at school?”

He backed away, lowered his hood, then ran his hands through his hair.

“Why are you asking questions again that aren’t your business, bruh?”

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