He rounds the couch and stands in front of me. “You’d leave for a few months, a year at most. Not thirteen fucking years, Paul!”
I can’t look him in the eye so I stare at the beer in my hand. Marcus may be a little man, physically, but when he’s angry, he’s huge. There are truly very few people in this world whose opinion of me matters—to me anyway. Marcus just happens to be one of those few. Taking in a deep breath, I exhale loudly and give a little shrug. “I’m sorry.” It’s not much, but it’s all I got. “But if you think I’m such a dick, why are you still my friend?”
He drops his head for a brief moment and when he raises it again he has this smile on his face, one that anyone, whether they know Marcus well or not, can plainly see whatever he is thinking. “Neena.”
Something about the way he says her name hits me hard, causing my chest to ache. He loves her. He loves her like a man loves his daughter. He loves her like I should have been here loving her for the past twelve years. My jaw tightens and my teeth clench as I struggle through the fire burning in my belly. What is this? Jealousy? Am I seriously jealous? If I couldn’t be here to love and care for Neena as her father, why not Marcus? He’s my best friend and one of the best people I’ve ever known. But still. I hate that he’s been here watching her grow up while I didn’t even know she existed.
“She’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to my own daughter.”
Fuck. His words are like a bolt to the chest that jerks me to stand. Stalking over to the trash can, I chug the rest of my beer before tossing the bottle in the can. “Yeah. I gotta go,” I mumble through a hoarse voice caused by drinking too fast.
“I thought you were staying?”
“Well, I was, until you decided to announce what a shitty friend and father I am.”
Marcus’s face scrunches up as he snorts in disagreement. “Shitty friend, yes,” he confirms. “I didn’t say anything about you being a father.”
“Which equates to shitty father,” I yell back. “I wasn’t here, therefore I’m a shitty dad.”
“Paul,” he starts, his voice laced with frustration. He rubs his forehead with his short fingers. “I’m sorry for what you’ve missed. Truly. I only meant that I’m grateful for the time I’ve had with her.”
“Do you think that makes me feel any fucking better?” I snarl. “I find out in one day I have a kid just to turn around and find out she’s dying!”
He presses his lips together in a flat line and nods once. He hears me. “Well,” he finally says, “you’re here now. Make the most of it, Paul.”
I snatch open the front door, more than ready to leave, and he calls, “Paul. Stay.”
“Don’t worry about it, Marcus.” Even after I get in my rental car, he watches me with his arms crossed as I back out of his makeshift driveway. I know I’m being a dick. I know it’s not his fault. But it’s not really my fault either. I wouldn’t have left if I had known. Right now, it’s best for me to be alone. I need time to think. So it looks like I’ll be finding a cheap hotel for the night.
After Paul’s appointment, he asks if we can chat for a few minutes. He follows me to a small coffee shop not too far from the office. We order our coffee and sit down at a tiny table in the back corner.
As he sips from the white plastic lid, his features are tense; his brows furrowed and his shoulders bunched up. He has something on his mind, but I decide to wait him out. I won’t push him. I learned a long time ago Paul James can’t be pushed. As I sip my own coffee, I watch him, hating that the years have been so good to him. His skin is still perfectly tan, golden even, he is Italian after all, though his dark hair is painted with the softest and subtlest hints of gray. I can’t fathom how it’s possible that he’s better looking with age, but he is. Over the years, when I’ve thought of him, I imagined him drunk and looking sloppy—the result of too much booze, drugs, and brothel living. I guess it made me feel better to imagine he was doing horrible.
“What happens if I’m not a match?” he begins.
Clearing my throat, I scoot up a little in my seat. “I don’t want to think about that. But if I must . . . We do our best to make her comfortable and make her last days happy.”
“Why, Clara?” he asks, his dark gaze fixed on me.
I shrug. It’s a question I’ve asked myself a million times. “I wish I knew that answer, Paul. I’ve asked myself that many times. Some kids just get sick.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
I stare at him blankly as my chest tightens. I now know what he’s asking, but I’m going to make him clarify it anyway. “Then what are you asking?”
He sips his coffee. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”
I fight the urge to snap at him. We’re adults. Well, one of us is anyway. “I already told you I tried. Several times,” I almost bark.
“You didn’t really try though,” he argues.
“Yes, I did,” I growl through clenched teeth.