She hangs up the phone. “There, Marta’s going to get Felix.” She frowns a little bit. “It was her day off.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Marta.”

“No, you don’t have to do that.”

I just shrug and she sighs, turning to look out the window. Every time I look at Teagan sitting next to me in the car, I keep seeing that little boy’s face.

He had her nose, her eyes, her hair. But that was my jaw, my lips, my ears. The way I tilt my head, my teeth. The timeline makes sense, too. We slept together three years ago, and that little boy is about the right age to be mine. She said she was on birth control that night, but maybe… maybe she lied.

I don’t know why she’d lie. Or why she’d keep my son from me. I don’t understand what’s going on at all.

But when I look at her, I’m not angry. I should be livid. She kept my son secret, my own flesh and blood. She didn’t give me the chance to step up and help raise him like I want to. I would have helped her financially if she didn’t want me in his life, or I would have spent as much time with him as possible. We could have talked about it, worked it out, but I was never given that opportunity.

I don’t get it. I don’t know why she’d keep me away. Unless…

I’m just a stranger. I realize that, sitting here next to her. We barely know each other, and we knew each other even less back then. She was probably afraid of me, afraid of what I’d do. She doesn’t know the kind of man I am.

I can picture her, alone and afraid, just finishing law school, overworked, broke, stressed. I could have helped her so much, taken care of a lot of things for her, made it so much easier.

A little anger does rise inside me, but not anger at her. I’m angry that I couldn’t make things right, make things easy. She had to suffer because I wasn’t involved.

Maybe that little boy isn’t really mine. Maybe it’s some other guy she slept with around the same time, but I find that hard to believe. The coincidences are too big, and he looks too much like me. Still, I don’t know for sure.

We make small talk, mostly focusing on a friend of hers. We finally make it to the restaurant, a little place I own tucked away in an up and coming neighborhood off the beaten path. We climb out and she looks around.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place before,” she admits.

“Good,” I say. “You’re going to like it.”

I push through the nondescript red door and step into a semi-crowded room. To the right is a long brass bar with complicated-looking piping and machinery behind it; to the left are tables and booths. Most tables are full and the bar is packed with people.

“What is this?” Teagan asks me as I stride through the front room toward the back.

“It’s called Peter’s,” I say. “Named it for the chef I hired to do the menu. It’s a gastropub, I guess, but I hate that word.”

“I hate it too, makes me think of bearded hipsters and patchouli.”

“Don’t forget girls with fake glasses,” I add.

She laughs a little as I nod at the bartender. There’s a single empty booth all the way in the back, closer to the kitchen. I head right for it and gesture for Teagan to take a seat.

I slide in across from her and instantly the waitress appears with drinks. I smile and thank her as Teagan picks up her gin and tonic, looking a little surprised.

“They know me here,” I say, a little sarcastic.

“You own it, so I guess you would.”

We clink glasses and drink. “Don’t worry about ordering. I told Peter to make us something special.”

“Okay then,” she says. “I’m in your hands.”

I smirk at her. “My very capable hands.”

She blushes a bit and looks away. “How many restaurants do you own?” she asks.

I shrug. “Depends. Do you count the stuff the firm invested in? A lot if you do. But just me personally, I own three.”

“Do you like running them?”

I nod. “I love it, honestly. But I try not to be too hands-on. Nobody likes an annoying owner in this business.”

“How do things get done?” she asks.

“It’s all about people,” I explain. “When I start one of these, I have a staff in mind first and foremost. From there, we’ll find a location, an idea, a menu, all that stuff. We design it all together. But the people that are in from the beginning take ownership of the place, they put pride in it. They’re not working for me, they’re working for themselves.”

“But they are working for you,” she points out.

I grin at her. “Yes, yes, they are. But it’s better when they feel like they aren’t.”

“Devious.”

“Ingenious,” I correct.

The kitchen doors open and Peter steps out. He’s in his late thirties, portly although he’s lost weight in the last year, with a thick dark beard and tattoos along his arms. He’s pretty much the hipster I was imagining, but Peter’s a genius with food, so he can dress and act and talk however he wants, so long as he keeps making those glorious meals.

“Peter,” I say, standing and shaking his hand. “This is my friend, Teagan.”

“Nice to meet you, Teagan,” he says. “Declan doesn’t usually bring lady friends here.”

She blushes. “Just friends,” she reiterates.

I shake my head at Peter. “Still working on those social graces, I see.”

He shrugs. “I don’t get out of the kitchen much, boss.”

I sigh, smiling despite myself. “Well, I’m glad you graced us with your presence. What’s for dinner?”

“You’ll find out,” he says. “More fun if it’s a surprise. Any dietary restrictions?”

Teagan shakes her head.

“Good,” Peter says. “Enjoy.”

He disappears back into the kitchen.

I sit down and Teagan stares at me for a second before laughing. “What the hell was that?”

“That’s my chef,” I say. “The guy I named this place for. He’s nuts but he’s a genius.”

“I hope so. I can’t believe he said that.”

“He doesn’t have a filter,” I say. “Gets him in trouble sometimes. So I took him in, gave him his own place.”

“He’s a charity case?” she asks. “Didn’t know you had such a good heart.”

“Well, no,” I admit. “He’s extremely talented, so it works out for me, too.”

She laughs as a waitress comes out from the kitchen carrying two plates. She places them down in front of us. “Peking duck, Peter’s version,” she says, and disappears again.

We dig in, eating with relish. It’s unbelievable, although it doesn’t taste like duck at all. I watch Teagan out of the corner of my eye, unable to stop myself from smiling at the way she seems to really savor the meal. I appreciate that in a person, the enjoyment of sensual experience, especially food. When I’m done with my plate, I lean back and watch her openly for a second.

“So, did you tell me that little boy’s name?” I ask her out of the blue.

She seems taken off guard. “Felix,” she says.

“Ah, Felix. I like that name.” I watch her nervously fidget and play with her drink. “When was he born?”

“September,” she says.

“Good month,” I answer, doing the mental math. “Father in the picture?”

“No,” she says.

“Must have been hard, having a child and finishing law school.”

“It was.” She doesn’t look like she wants to elaborate.

More dishes arrive from the kitchen. Apparently Peter is on a Russian kick, because the rest of the meal is all Russian-themed. First we get a borscht, or at least a modern, deconstructed version. Next up is a prawn dish followed by moose cheek dumplings.

“Moose cheeks?” Teagan makes a face.

“Da,” I say. “You’ve never had moose cheek?”

“I’ve never had moose or cheek, let alone moose cheek.”

“Fair enough,” I say, laughing. I take a big bite and it’s absolutely delicious. “Wow, you have to try it.”

Tentatively, she takes a bite. Quickly her expression goes from one of curious disgust to absolute delight. “Holy crap,” she says. “That’s incredible.”

“I know, right? If I didn’t know it was moose cheek, I would guess it’s filet mignon or something.”

Peter sends us a few more gross-seeming dishes, and part of me thinks he’s trying to torture me for something. There’s headcheese, cow tongue, and bull testicles.

“No way,” Teagan says. “Not happening.”

We stare at the testicles for a second and burst out laughing together. I motion for the waitress and she takes the dishes away. “Don’t tell Peter we didn’t eat them,” I say to her as she goes.

I’m adventurous, but I’m not eating balls in front of Teagan. Or really, I’m not eating balls ever.

All throughout the meal we’re chatting easily, talking about everything and nothing at all. We touch on politics, movies, television, music, all that stuff that makes up the atmosphere of our lives.

Meanwhile, I just keep thinking about her son. About the boy that looks just like me. The waitress brings out Russian honeycakes and two vodka martinis, and I decide to take the opportunity.

“So, you never told me, how did you and Felix’s father meet?”

She looks cautious. “It’s a boring story,” she says.

“I’m curious.” I sip the martini and lean toward her.

“A party,” she says reluctantly.

“I see,” I say, grinning at her. “The same way we met.”

She sips her drink. “Except he was charming.”

“And I wasn’t?” I grin at her and she can’t help but smile. “Is it difficult, raising him alone?”

“I have Marta,” she says. “She’s the babysitter or, well, I call her a nanny sometimes. She’s with him now. Before her, though, for that first year… I was a mess.”

“But you got through.”

“I got through.” She shrugs a little bit. “When you love something and you have no other choice, you do it.”

“I have to admit, I’m impressed. But why didn’t you get the father’s help? I mean, I’m sure he would have wanted to.”

She’s quiet for a moment as I sip my drink and taste the honeycake. Sweet with a hint of sour from the crème in the middle.

“I didn’t want him involved,” she says finally. “Felix is mine. Besides, he never asked for any of this.”

“Did you even try?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t want him to feel guilty. Like I said, I barely know him. And it was my fault, for messing up the birth control.”

I laugh softly. “Life would be pretty rough if every little mistake caused a baby.”

“He’s not a curse, you know,” she says suddenly, straightening up.

“What?” I ask, taken off guard.

“Felix. It’s not like having him was some horrible thing.”

“I know—“

“Everyone always thinks having a baby is a terrible thing,” she says quickly. “When you’re single and not ready for it, I mean. But he was the best thing to ever happen to me.”

We’re silent for a second and she sips her drink again. I can tell she’s flustered, a little red, a little worked up.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to suggest that Felix is a punishment.”

“I know.” She sighs. “Look, I should go. This was really good. I mean it, this was amazing.” She starts to stand up.

“Wait, hold on. You don’t have to leave.”

“I need to get home and relieve Marta,” she says. “I’ll grab a cab. This was great, really. Tell Peter I loved every bite.”

She smiles at me and I want to say something to get her to stay, but I realize that I pushed her too hard. I asked too many questions about Felix’s father and I put my fucking foot in my mouth.

I stand up and kiss her cheek before she quickly leaves the restaurant. I watch her go and sigh, sitting back down.

I stare at the table top, angry at myself. I should have been more delicate, taken things slower. I should have realized what I was saying might sound insulting.

“You scared her off?”

I look up and Peter is standing there, grinning at me.

“Don’t be an ass,” I say. “I can fire you, you know.”

“You ate my food, right?”

“Right,” I say.

“Then you won’t fire me.” He grins again and heads back into the kitchen.

I watch him go, unable to stop myself from smiling after him. What a weird fucking guy.