His brow furrows. “Did your mother tell you that?”
“No! Don’t bring Mom into this. I read it. In the court documents. They were in Mom’s desk.” I’ve pictured it so many times—how he must have stood there, in the courtroom, saying those awful words. “How could you say that? How could you say it in front of Mom and the judge and everybody?”
His face falls. “Oh, Meg. I hate that you had to read that. Those were just legal arguments. I didn’t even go to court, my lawyer did. I would have had to pay way more money for child support than your mom needs, and my lawyer suggested— Never mind, I just— You and I were so close. I thought we could sort it out ourselves, without any court order. Just you and me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He closes the distance between us and crushes me to him. I don’t hug him back, just stand up straight, blinking and blinking away even the thought of tears. I refuse to cry.
Am I really supposed to believe that? Am I supposed to believe he’d tell a judge—or let his lawyer tell a judge or whatever—that I wasn’t his kid if he didn’t fully, deeply believe it?
He releases me and takes a half step back. “Meg, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made it about the money. I should have known that might hurt you, and you’re so much more important than money.
“And I’m so sorry I took so long to call you after your mom and I split up. I told your mom you could call me anytime, and when I didn’t hear from you, I thought you were just taking your mom’s side. She was so angry with me. I thought with a bit of time, you’d come around and we could start figuring out time to spend together, maybe plan some trips together. I didn’t realize waiting would make it feel like I didn’t want to spend time with you at all. I should have asked you, should have talked to you right away. I’m sorry.”
I shove my hands into my blazer pockets. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m not your kid.”
“You are, though. How can I—I just—I want to—” He pauses, wordless, unable to argue further because there’s no further argument he can make. Then he reaches over to the side table and grabs a black wallet with fraying lime-green trim. “Look,” he says, “when people ask me about my kids, this is what I show them.” He holds it out to me. “Open it.”
Open it? I can tell just by looking at it that it’s the one I gave him for Christmas a few years ago, but that proves nothing; I use his gifts all the time, and I still hate him.
I rip open the Velcro clasp. If he wants to try to bribe me with money, that’s better than nothing. I think.
The wallet opens like a book. One about the halflings. Because there’s Nolan on the left, serious and worried, glasses slightly askew—his most recent school photo—and Kenzie on the right, with her goofball grin and more plastic ponies than she should be able to hold clutched to her chest. Kenzie and I look more like Stephen than Nolan does, but they’re his blood and I’m not, and that’s the only thing that matters, apparently.
I snap the wallet closed and shove it back at him.
“No,” he says. “Not that.” He opens it again, to credit cards this time, then flips past bank cards and memberships, back to Nolan and Kenzie at the front. Then one more flip, to the very first page.
It’s me, beaming, mid-laugh. Behind me, a swimming polar bear clings to a floating barrel. It’s from that day at the zoo. I’m wearing the faded yellow T-shirt I still have tucked away in the back of my closet, even though it hasn’t fit me in years.
I look happy.
“Your mom gave me this year’s school photos,” he says, “but I like this one best.” He closes the wallet and taps it against his palm. “This is what I show people when they ask about my kids. All three of you.
“Meg, I’ve been trying to connect with you. I’ve been calling, texting, asking your mom to have you call me. I’ve got a bedroom for you all set up at my place that I keep hoping you’ll use.”
“You do?” I’m not sure what to say to that. Has he had a bedroom for me this whole time? Kenzie and Nolan have never mentioned it. Maybe he just means a guest room. I can’t bring myself to ask.
The blankets on the bed behind him are thrown back. A sleeping mask and earplugs lie abandoned on the nightstand. He was definitely sleeping. The fluorescent red letters on the clock read 10:59.
It’s true that he’s been calling. Or at least, he was before I blocked him. So maybe it’s true that he tells people I’m his kid. Maybe I do have a bedroom—a place where I belong—at his house. Or maybe he’s lying.
Or maybe he’s not.
He’s never lied to me before, but even if he’s not lying, is any of that enough?
The numbers on the clock transform to 11:00, and an obnoxious beeping blares out of it.
“My alarm,” Stephen says sheepishly as he strides over to it, “to get up and make sure you were back.” He smacks the button on top, silencing it. I tug at one of my curls, then catch myself and stop. He said I had to be back by eleven, but I didn’t think it actually mattered to him. I didn’t think he cared. He turns back to me. “You are inspiring,” he says once he reaches me. “You are witty and adventurous and brilliant, and you make every minute of life interesting. But I need you to understand something.” He takes me by the shoulders again, stares straight into my eyes. “Even if you weren’t—if you were obnoxious and conceited and the most boring blob of nothingness to sit on the face of this earth—I would still love you as my daughter.”
“Shut up,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure whether I actually want him to. He’s giving me the words I need to hear, and they feel like a gift—though I’m not sure yet whether they’re more like the tablet or the skateboard or the polar bear or something else entirely.
“Meg, the fact that I’ve missed out on almost two years of your life is the saddest thing in mine,” he says, then wraps me in another hug.
I still don’t hug him back; I’m still not sure how I feel. But this time, when the tears come, I let them.
CHAPTER 25
KAT
THE CONVENTION CENTER SWARMS WITH PEOPLE, BUT IT’S OKAY BECAUSE they’re all nerds like me, and because Meg has her arm through mine, so it’s pretty much impossible to get separated and lost. (Universe, please don’t take that as a challenge.)
We stayed up late last night—talking, and watching Friends reruns, and eating salt-and-vinegar chips and Rolos and Kit Kats from the vending machine—but I don’t feel tired. I am at LotSCON. In Toronto. With my best friend. Who looks more alive than she has in months. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from all the crying, but whatever powerless darkness kept trying to move in there is completely gone.
“What do you want to do first?” I ask. “We could go to the vendors’ hall or the play-testing area, or go line up for that panel.”
“Are you kidding? You know Syth is here, right? You have to go meet him!”