Jaxon

Simon is my son.

I always imagined telling her. Almost did that night in her room. I almost told her everything.

About how I’d been thirteen when I lost my virginity to a woman almost twice my age. About how my mom, who was working three jobs to support us, asked our next-door neighbor, someone she considered a friend, to keep an eye on me.

About how her idea of keeping an eye on me involved more than helping me with my homework and making sure I ate more than dry cereal for dinner. About how it went on for over a year before anyone found out.

When the inevitable finally happened, she convinced me to do the right thing, which was run away with her. We crossed three state-lines over the course of five days before we were caught. I was fourteen.

She was sentenced to fifteen years in prison—five for every state line she crossed—and Simon was born in a prison hospital ward.

They didn’t even tell me. He’d been in a crisis nursery for a week before someone called my mom. If he’d been born healthy, if someone else has wanted him, I have a feeling no one would’ve bothered.

I was scared shitless. Barely fifteen years old. I didn’t even have to shave on a regular basis, and I was a father. I’d never met my own. Didn’t know much about him beyond the fact that he didn’t want me. Didn’t love me.

No matter the circumstances of his birth, there was no way in hell I was going to put my own kid through that. I was going to see this through. Scared or not, I was going to be there.

My mom what devastated. She felt guilty. Like she owned a part of the blame for what happened. No matter how many times I tell her differently, she still thinks she needs forgiveness.

I didn’t tell Claire then, but I tell her now. I tell her everything, recognizing that it’s something I should’ve done a long time ago.

She’s staring at me, mouth slightly open, and I can see the full spectrum of her emotions on her face. Disbelief. Pity. Disgust. All the things I never wanted to see in her eyes when she looked at me.

Simon is ten, almost eleven. So close to where I was when everything started to happen. If I ever found out that someone had preyed on him like that, I’d kill them. I try not to think about what that means. What that makes me. “I don’t consider myself a victim.” I shake my head it out loud because I want it to be true. “I knew what was happening. I was just lonely.”

Finally out of words, I stop talking. Wait for her to respond. When she doesn’t, I run a hand through my hair in frustration. “Say something.”

“Where is she now?” She looks blindsided. Like she’s having a hard time putting thoughts and words together. “Simon’s mother… where is she? Does she—”

“She’s in prison.” I shoot up from my crouch, angling myself away from her.

“Her rights were severed.” Jesus. I fucking hate this. Hate talking about it. Hate the way people look at me when they find out. “She doesn’t even know where we are.”

“Oh...” she nods her head, her face crumpling into a frown like she’s trying to process everything I just told her. She doesn’t sound angry or disgusted. She sounds sad. Sorry for me. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know. I’m sorry—” I start to pace, no more than a few strides before I have to turn myself around. “I didn’t mean for—”

“You should’ve told me.” It comes out more forcefully this time, anger and something else, something I don’t want to look at too closely, etched plainly across her face.

“This entire time I thought it was me.” She stands, jerking down her skirt before shooting herself into my path. “Something I did. Something about me that you didn’t want.”

Every word is a slap in the face. I have to hold my neck stiff to keep myself from recoiling. My feet planted, so I don’t stumble back.

I open my mouth to respond, not sure what’s going to come out when I do, but before I can say a word, someone knocks on the door.

Claire reaches over and flings it open. “What?” she barks loudly. It’s her sister. Behind her, the rest of them are huddled together, eyes wide and whispering loudly behind their hands.

Bri jerks back, stunned by her sister’s tone. I can tell she’s not used to being talked to that way. “I—we...” She looks over her shoulder before refocusing on Claire, looking at her like she’s a total stranger. “We’re ready to leave.”

I look at my watch.

We’ve been here for nearly an hour.

“Give us a minute,” I say, swinging the door closed on Bri’s outraged expression. As soon as it’s shut, the chatter in the hallway falls silent. They want to hear what I have to say? Fine. I don’t give a fuck. I need to finish it. To finally say all the things I should have said to her years ago.

I focus on Claire, her face tipped up so she can glare at me. “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

“For which part?” she shoots back, her eyes more green than blue, sharp like glass.

“All of it.” I nod, jamming my hands into my pants pockets because I want to grab her. Kiss her. “Everything. I convinced myself that if you knew about Simon—where he came from—you’d think I was...” To blame. I was afraid she’d look at me and think I was at fault somehow. Or worse, feel sorry for me. "I don’t know.” I free a hand, run it over my face. “I was twenty and the father of a six-year-old. I’m twenty-five. Simon is ten. His mother is in prison.”

“So?” She’s looking up at me like nothing I’ve said matters. Like none of it makes sense, and suddenly, I feel the weight of it. Everything. All of it. I feel it in my bones, and for the first time in a long time, I want to give up.

“So, that’s not exactly normal, Claire. I’m not normal. My life isn’t normal… nothing about me is.” That’s the truth. What I should’ve told her from the very start… but it’s not the whole truth. “You deserved better than me, all the way around.” I shake my head at her while I reach for the door. “You still do.” As soon as I say it, I realize why I’d avoided telling her the truth for so long. The real reason I never told her.

It’s because I knew that once I said it out loud, I’d finally get it. That I’d have to stop harboring this ridiculous fantasy of a happily ever after with her. I’d have to admit that Claire St. James is better off without me.

And I’d finally have to let her go.