I call and text Joni several times a day, but she never answers or calls back. I’d thought…hoped…that once a little time went by, she wouldn’t be so mad. After all, she said not to drag her into my problems until I make peace with the way my life is now. Okay, so maybe I’m still working on that. But it wasn’t a “never.” It was just a “not now.” I think, anyway.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Michael too. I’d kind of given up on finding him—you can only be mocked by Google so much before you start to feel defeated. And yet, I know how to contact him. He lives in New Jersey. I could call him or email him or go meet him. I could do a much more refined Google search and find out if he’s an ex-convict on parole or what he does for a living or if he’s got other kids. I could show up on his doorstep and finally feel whatever you feel when you look in the eyes of the guy who helped give you life. I think I’m going to.
Declan comes over for dinner Friday night, a week after the Purple Notebook Day. He brings us stuff: a rattle in the shape of a tyrannosaurus rex head (“Your mom told me she likes freaky things,” he explains.) and a steering wheel cover with a black-and-white soccer ball pattern on it for me (“I own an auto supply store, so if you ever need anything…”).
He looks at me, waiting for my reaction.
I stare at the steering wheel thing in my hand. It’s kind of a weird gift to give someone, isn’t it? Like, here’s a random item for your car that no one could possibly ever need.
“I don’t play soccer anymore.” As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I feel bad. Apparently I can’t go a single day without being a douche to someone who’s trying to be nice to me.
Declan’s face falls. “Oh. I didn’t know that,” he says. “Well, you can come by any time and exchange it for something else if you want.”
I shake my head and force myself to put a little effort into the conversation. It’s not like I have a ton of people on my side right now. And if my mom’s biker boyfriend is offering to be my friend, well, I’m not in a position to turn it down. “Nah, this is cool. Thanks.” I hold out a hand, and he shakes it.
“No problem, man.”
My mom, who’s been standing a few feet away, watching the whole exchange, lets out an audible breath, and says, “Why don’t we go into the kitchen? Dinner will be ready in a few.”
Declan looks at her and smiles, his eyes taking on that so-in-love look that Mom’s been sporting lately, and it hits me like a soccer-ball-patterned steering wheel cover to the face—this guy is going to be around for a long time.
He hands her a bag, and she takes out a bottle of wine and a bakery box that looks like it contains some sort of pie or cake.
“Thanks, babe,” she says and rises up on her tippy toes to give him a quick kiss.
“Did you ride your motorcycle over here?” I ask Declan as we head to the kitchen.
He raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think I have a motorcycle?”
I nod at his outfit as I put Hope in her swing. “I dunno, the leather jacket, the boots, the beard. I have a friend who reads books about bikers, and you look exactly like the guy from the cover.”
Declan laughs. “Okay, you caught me. I had a bike for a long time. But I got rid of it when I had my daughter. Figured I shouldn’t take so many risks, since I want to be around to see her grow up.”
That gets my attention. “You have a daughter?”
He nods. “She’s three. She lives with her mother in Portsmouth half the time.”
I glance at Mom. She’s smiling to herself as she fills the water glasses.
All throughout dinner, Mom and Declan laugh and talk and brush their hands against each other’s and smile dopily across the table. Declan asks me a lot of questions—and he doesn’t stick to the safe subjects, like school and work.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like being a single dad at your age, Ryden,” he says as Hope starts fussing. I get up to make her a bottle. “It’s hard enough for me, and I only have my daughter every other week. And I’m thirty-seven. How has it been for you?” He’s looking at me like he really wants to know the answer.
“It sucks,” I say completely, one hundred percent honestly, and everyone laughs. “But I’m figuring it out. Trying to, anyway. Mom’s been amazing.”
He looks at her but responds to me. “She is amazing, isn’t she?”
“Oh, stop,” Mom says, brushing her bangs back from her face. “I’m only doing what anyone else would do in my situation.”
“No, you’re not,” Declan and I say at the same time, and everyone laughs again.
I set Hope in my lap, and she latches onto her bottle right away.
Mom beams, like she can’t believe how well the evening is going. Honestly, neither can I. Is this what it’s like to have two parents? Not that Declan is my father or that I would ever want him to pretend to be. But the whole “two adults, two kids, sitting around the dinner table, laughing and sharing stories, everyone getting along swimmingly” scenario. It’s so incredibly foreign.