I finish the rest of my drink and order another. Every time the damn bells jingle when someone comes into the bar, I crane my neck and look to see if it’s him. I had Ethan track down my dad’s phone number and set up this meeting.
I’m not even sure what I’m going to say to him. Part of me wants to just meet him and then tell him to get lost. Tell him he has no right to be in Lexi’s or my life. But the other part of me, the part that Murphy appealed to—that part wants something I’ve never had. A father.
The waitress puts another Jack and Coke in front of me. I thought I might need something a little stronger than my regular beer for this monumental meeting. Plus, liquor mellows me out. I don’t want to get riled up and end up causing a scene. When she steps away, I see him. He’s looking around the bar at every patron until his eyes meet mine.
He freezes. I freeze. We stare.
He walks over with a cautious smile on his face, nodding his head along the way. He stops and stands at the end of the booth. “Caden, thank you for meeting me.”
He holds out his hand but I can’t shake it. He left us. He just up and left the three of us and my mom had to work two jobs to feed and clothe us. That is not the kind of man whose hand I want to shake.
His smile falls. “Maybe we can work up to that,” he says.
I nod to the other side of the booth. “Have a seat, Shane.”
His surprised eyes snap to mine. He sits and says, “Maybe we can work up to that, too.”
“To what?”
“You calling me Dad.”
I snort an incredulous breath out my nose. “Don’t count on it.”
“Listen, Caden. I know I was a terrible father. I know I have a lot to make up for. You asking for this meeting is one of the best things that’s happened to me. I’ve wanted to reach out to you for years. Especially when your mom died. But a few weeks ago, when you pushed me against that wall, I thought that was it. I thought there wasn’t a chance in hell you’d ever give me another look. And then your friend called me. And now here we are.”
“Wait. You know my mom died?”
He nods. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you for years.”
“Alexa?” I ask, having to keep my voice low because what I really want to do is crawl over the table and strangle him for stalking my sister.
“It about killed me when she went missing a few years back.”
“Then why now?” I ask. “Why did you come to New York and follow me around?”
He pulls out his wallet and removes a picture, sliding it across the table. It’s a picture of me when I was younger. I don’t remember it and I have no idea how in the hell he got it.
“What can I get you?” the waitress asks him.
“Club soda with lime, please.”
The waitress walks away and he looks around the bar and laughs. “Been a while since I’ve been in a bar. Good to see they haven’t changed much.”
I ignore his statement and pick up the picture. “Where did you get this? Did my mother send it to you?”
“Shannon? No, she never sent me anything. It’s not a picture of—”
“Well why the hell would she send you anything?” I cut him off. “You left her. You left us.”
“No, son. I didn’t.”
I grit my teeth. “Do not call me son.” I take a drink and slam my glass back down on the table. “And what the hell do you mean you didn’t?”
“Caden, your mother threw me out. With good reason, I might add. I was a drug addict. Cocaine. And my addiction drove us right to the poor house. Came home one night and she had thrown all my belongings on the front porch. Said never to contact her again. I thought about fighting her, because damn, I loved you kids, but I knew no judge would give custody to an addict. It killed me, Caden—the thought of not seeing you and your sister. So, I did everything I could to make some money so I could be a good dad to you and come back and fight for you one day.” He shakes his head, clearly disgusted with himself. “But I did a lot of stupid things back then. Cocaine had a tight grip on me and I messed up. I couldn’t even steal cars without letting the drugs get the best of me. I ended up doing a few years in prison.”
“Yeah, I saw your mug shot. How proud you must be.”
“I’m not proud of anything, son—uh, Caden. The only damn thing I’ve done right in my life is have three great kids. Not that I have anything to do with it, I credit their mothers for everything.”
Now he has my attention. “Three? You have three kids?”
He puts a finger on the picture and pushes it back to me. “This is your half-brother, Scott.”
I pick up the picture and stare. He’s a goddamn carbon copy of me. “How old is he?”
“Twelve. And he’s the reason I’m here. He’s had a big growth spurt this past year. He’s grown up fast. Grown up to look just like his older brother. And don’t think it’s gone unnoticed. People are starting to tell him how much he looks like the New York Nighthawks’ star catcher. The person he shares a last name with. We never told him the truth about him being your brother. But when you became famous—well it’s been harder and harder to convince people you aren’t related. And then when my wife got sick …”
“You re-married?”
A sad smile crosses his face. “Dawn is the best thing that ever happened to me. She helped me get right after my release from prison.” He looks down at the picture of Scott and frowns. “She died two years ago. Cancer. Scott took it hard, as you can imagine a ten-year-old would. He fell into depression. Doctors couldn’t help him. Medication didn’t work either. So six months ago, I took a chance. I took a chance and told him about you and Alexa.”
I scrub my hand across my jaw. “I have a brother?” I’m still trying to absorb the words. I look Shane in the eyes. “I want to meet him. Is he in town?”
He shakes his head. “No. He’s in Atlanta. I’ve been coming here on business. I’m scouting locations for somewhere to start up a new program. And anyway, I was hoping you and I could repair our relationship before introducing you. Get things off on the right foot.”
“Repair our relationship?” I look at him through damaged eyes. “I don’t care if my mother threw you out or not, you are the one who cut off all contact. I’m twenty-five fucking years old, Shane, and I’ve never received so much as a phone call or a goddamn birthday card. What you broke is beyond repair.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “I sent you cards every birthday, Christmas and Easter. I sent gifts, too. Even from prison. I sent them for years, Caden. Despite the fact your mother told me to stop. She said it hurt you and your sister to get gifts from the man they despised. But I kept sending them anyway, until the one Christmas when the presents I sent you were returned along with a note from you and Alexa asking me not to contact either of you again.”
“That’s crazy,” I tell him. “We never wrote any such letter. And we never got any cards. We never got anything from you.”
He looks about as broken as a man can look when he hears my words.
“Caden, no. I did. I sent them. I promise you I did.” He closes his eyes and sighs in frustration. “She must have hidden them from you. Or thrown them away. I can’t believe she would do such a thing. I tried so hard to get you what I thought would make you happy. One year I stood in line for hours so I could get a pink scooter for Alexa—one with those tassels hanging off the handlebars. She loved pink. From the time she could dress herself, she would only wear pink. I think she must have been six or seven that year.”
“She was eight,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “I remember because it was the best present she ever got. She flipped out when she opened it. She never let the thing out of her sight. It—it was from you?”
He nods, his eyes becoming glassy with tears. “Did you get any of the others? The pogo stick? The collection of Superman DVDs? The Game Boy?” He runs a hand through his hair. “The … the baseball glove?”
My heart lodges somewhere in my throat. So many things are going through my head right now. Not the least of which is that my mother might have lied to us. She may have passed all those gifts off as being from her. She withheld the fact that my father was trying to contact us all those years. That she was the one who kept him from us.
“When?” I ask, needing more concrete information. “How old was I when you sent the glove?”
He thinks on it a beat. “You would have been five. Same age as I was when my father gave me one.”
Oh, my God. He is the one who got me the glove? The glove that had me begging my mom to let me play T-Ball? The glove that still sits on my dresser as a reminder of where I came from and what I had to go through to get here.
The glove that made me who I am today.
“I became a baseball player because of that glove,” I say through the lump in my throat.
Tears spill over his lashes as he can no longer control his emotions. He reaches over and puts his hand on mine. I don’t pull away. I don’t pull away because I hear Murphy’s words echoing through my head. What if it turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you?
“So,” I say, choking back my own tears. “Tell me about my little brother. Does he like baseball?”
My dad laughs. Then we spend the next two hours getting to know each other; making up for twenty-five years of lost time. He tells me about the program he runs. I tell him about my job. He shows me pictures of the step-mother I never knew. I let him scroll through pictures of my nieces—his grandkids—on my phone.
“What do you need from me, Caden?” he asks, when our conversation winds down. “I’ll do anything you ask.”
I look at the picture of Scott, once again. “I need you to go with me to see Lexi,” I say. “And then the three of us are taking the first flight we can get to Atlanta.”