Page 1 of Unmade

2018

PROLOGUE

MARCH 30TH, 2018

March 30th, 2018

Leighton Watts

Iremembered when I was…maybe five or six years old. I asked my mom why I didn’t have a dad—and that was the first time she shared the shortest bedtime story ever, but somehow it brought me enough comfort to put me to sleep.

It was the evening I became my unknown father’s wingman.

“You do have a dad, my love. He’s… I’m trying to find him. And the day you meet him, he will love you instantly. You know why? Because he once told me he couldn’t wait to have a little wingman by his side.”

Over the years, as I got older, the story changed.

I was twelve when I learned my dad was dead.

“But you know what, sweetheart? That means he can see you from heaven. He can look over you and be proud of his wingman day and night.”

Now I was old enough to understand that Mom had had a fling with a man she’d barely known, and she’d realized she was pregnant after he’d gone home again, leaving behind too little information for her to find him. At least for a few years.

It made me wonder how many men were out there who had no idea their one-night stand or fling the other year had resulted in a kid.

I scratched the side of my head and let out a breath.

The minister droned on and on about how God had a plan, and I was like, you don’t fucking say? Evidently, his plan had been to give my mom cancer and kill her off a week after I turned eighteen.

Say hi to my dad from me, I guess.

Who was gonna be my wingman?

I glanced around the pews, meeting the sad looks on the faces of Mom’s friends, her cousins, my aunt who’d offered her guest room to me, my half-drunken uncle, some coworkers, and our downstairs neighbor who had filled our fridge with casseroles the past two weeks.

None of them was wingman material.

I didn’t wanna fucking live with my aunt. She smelled weird and had four ferrets. She also loved to cook but had no idea she was horrible at it, and I didn’t wanna hurt her feelings by telling her I’d rather eat roadkill.

* * *

April 2nd, 2018

“How much for this?”

If someone asked me that again today, I’d shoot myself.

He was holding a box of Christmas ornaments.

“Just take them and get the fuck out,” I said. He was the last one lingering in the apartment.

I was done. I’d made three hundred bucks on trinkets, kitchenware, and our ratty living room furniture. The rest, I was moving to my new apartment next week. It was the last thing my mom had been able to help me with before she’d died. I had a semi-affordable studio in Arlington Mill waiting for me.

First and last time I ever let strangers come into my home and have them treat the living room like a thrift store. No number of casseroles could forgive my neighbor for her shitty idea. One creep had wanted to buy a picture of my mom. I’d forgotten to hide it in the closet in the hallway, which was my next destination.

I had to go through our personal crap before I could leave this apartment behind.

I swallowed hard as I locked the front door.

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