Page 6 of Game Changer
I add a smiley face to soften the blow, then set my phone on the nightstand and climb back into bed. Tyler immediately rolls toward me in his sleep, one small hand coming to rest on my arm. Trusting. Innocent.
Tomorrow, he meets his father. The man who's been a hole in his life, a question he's only just learning to ask. And I have to trust that David will rise to the occasion, that he'll see in Tyler what I see, a reason to be better than he is.
As I drift toward sleep, I find myself praying for the first time in years. Not to any specific god, just a general plea to the universe: Please let David be the man Tyler needs him to be. Please don't let my son's heart be broken by the man who helped create it.
Tomorrow will change everything. I'm just not sure if it will be for better or worse.
Chapter 3 - David
I stare at Mia's last text for a long time before setting my phone down.
*Try to look less like you're auditioning for a role in The Walking Dead.* She always did have a way of cutting straight to the truth.
Tyler. My son. A little boy who wants to meet his dad.
I push myself off the couch, my knee protesting as I limp to the bathroom. The face that greets me in the mirror is barely recognizable—bloodshot eyes, unkempt beard, hollow cheeks. When did I become this ghost?
The bourbon bottle calls to me from the coffee table, promising oblivion, a few hours of not feeling this overwhelming mixture of terror and hope. But for the first time in months, I ignore its siren song.
Instead, I turn on the shower, stripping off clothes that should have been washed days ago. As hot water cascades over me, I try to imagine what I'll say to Tyler tomorrow.
"Sorry I missed the first four years of your life" doesn't quite cut it.
Steam fills the bathroom as I scrub away layers of self-pity and neglect. By the time I step out, my skin is red and my mind clearer. I wrap a towel around my waist and wipe the condensation from the mirror.
Still a mess, but at least a cleaner one.
I find my razor and shave away the scraggly beard, revealing a face I haven't seen in months. Younger than I expected. Less damaged. The man beneath the wreckage is still there, it seems.
Back in my bedroom, I open drawers that have remained shut since I moved in, finding clean clothes that still carry the scent of fabric softener. I set out an outfit for tomorrow. Jeans, a button-down shirt, clean sneakers. Nothing fancy, but a far cry from the sweatpants I've been living in.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ethan: *Checking in. Need anything?*
For the first time, I consider telling someone about Tyler. But the words don't come. Not yet. This feels too fragile, too new. I need to meet my son first, to make sure I don't screw it up before involving my brothers.
*I'm good,* I text back. *Turning in early tonight.*
It's not a lie. I set an alarm for 8 AM, early by my recent standards, and pour the remaining bourbon down the sink. The smell makes my stomach turn as I watch it swirl away.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling, Tyler's photograph on the nightstand beside me. Sleep seems impossible with tomorrow looming, but eventually exhaustion claims me, and I drift off to the unfamiliar sensation of anticipation rather than dread.
Next Day
The alarm blares at 8 AM sharp, jolting me awake with a racing heart. For a moment, I forget why I set it. Then the events of yesterday crash back: Mia at my door, the photograph, the text messages arranging today's meeting.
I'm going to meet my son today.
My knee aches as I swing my legs over the side of the bed, but it's a different kind of pain this morning. Not the center of my universe, just an inconvenience. I have bigger things to focus on.
The kitchen is a disaster with takeout containers and unwashed dishes, but I manage to find a clean mug for coffee. While it brews, I open the blinds, squinting against sunshine I've been avoiding for months. The city sprawls below, going about its morning routine, oblivious to the fact that my world has tilted on its axis.
By 9:30, I'm dressed in the clothes I laid out, hair still damp from a second shower. The mirror shows someone almost presentable, someone who could, with some imagination, pass for a father rather than a cautionary tale.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mia: *We're heading to the park now. Tyler's bouncing off the walls with excitement.*
My hands shake as I type back: *On my way.*
I grab my keys, then hesitate at the door. What do you bring to meet your son for the first time? Should I have bought a gift? Is that trying too hard? Not trying enough?
