Page 15 of Upshot

“Don’t be obtuse, Rand. It doesn’t suit you.” I hear cat hissing noises, no doubt from Peter, in the background. I’ll try not to think about why my best friend is with my sister. Even though we all work for the same company, we’re rarely together at the same time. Usually Geneva goes to great lengths to avoid Pete. “Did you see her?”

“Did you bang her?” I hear shouted through the phone. There are noises that sound like a scuffle then an “ouch” from Pete.

“Your friend is an idiot,” she says after a few minutes. “Now, did you see her?”

“Yeah, I saw her.”

“And?”

“And, nothing. She’s moved on.”

“What do you mean?”

“Geneva,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Let it go.”

“No,” she snarls. “Tell me what happened.”

“She’s pregnant. She moved on. I don’t know what I expected.”

Geneva is silent on the other end. “How pregnant?” she finally asks.

“How would I know?”

“You didn’t bother to find out?”

“It’s none of my business.”

This time instead of silence on her end, I can hear her mumbling to Peter. Then he comes on the line. “Buddy, you need to find out.”

“Why?”

“Because, if she’s only around four months, it could be yours,” he says.

Mine? Oh fuck. I haven’t even considered that possibility. Why didn’t she tell me? Maybe she was trying, and I just ran out like some middle school kid caught peeping in the neighbor's window. I never did that, in case you were wondering.

A baby. I can’t possibly be the father. I know absolutely nothing about babies.

My role model sucked. My father’s idea of parenting was to leave it to boarding schools and nannies. The time I did spend with him always involved meetings so I could learn the business. I swore that, when I became a father, I would make sure my kids were my priority. I just thought that was way in the future.

“Rand?” I realize Geneva has been calling my name.

“I need to go.” I hang up the phone before she can say anything else. I need answers. Throwing enough money on the table to cover my half-drunk beer, I head back to the car. The only way I’m going to get the answers I need is to go back to Dansboro Crossing. I can send Bernadette an email about rescheduling my meetings for later.

I drive the hour back. Following the directions I got from the guy at one of the Dansboro gas stations, I pull across the street from a nice Craftsman. It’s older, but seems to be in great shape.

This is a home that’s been tended to. I would like to think that puts me at ease. It doesn’t. I’m so wound with nerves that my stomach aches. How do you ask someone you barely know if they’re carrying your child?

Opening the car door, I step out to face my future. I’m not sure what I’ll do if it is mine. I need to find out, though. It’s not something I can just ignore. Squaring my shoulders, I walk up the steps to the front door. I raise my fist and knock twice. I hear a man yell from inside, then the door is open.

“May I help you?” he asks.

“Hi. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m Henry Randolph. Does Brontë Caraway live here?”

“I’ve got this, Dad.”

Suddenly, she’s standing in front of me. Still beautiful. Except she’s scowling at me. I back up as she steps out on the porch. Her dad disappears back inside, but he leaves the door open. She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me.

“I have to know if it’s mine,” I say with no preamble.

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