My son, my unmarried status, my thoughts about what it would be like to possibly have more children someday – once I’d proven I could parent the child I already had, of course – were private matters and no one else’s business. Why the hell did it matter when it came to my ability to serve?
“The kid ate dinner, right?” I asked him, rounding my desk and turning on my computer.
He unbuttoned his jacket and tossed his briefcase onto one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I had Patrick take him to Lebanon Café before the open house.”
Patrick was a fan of falafels and Christian seemed to love anything with hummus. It was the second time in the past week they’d eaten dinner together. I reminded myself to make sure I was home for supper tomorrow night, though. With the fucking impromptu meeting with my father earlier, I’d had Patrick drop Christian off at the open house, telling him I had a city planner’s meeting instead of that I was being grilled by my father.
At thirty-five, I still answered to him, and while as a son I hated it, I could appreciate it as a father. My dad had been a good parent. I only wished the apple hadn’t fallen so far from the tree.
“All right, let’s get to work.”
I poured myself a drink at the small bar against the wall, and Jay and I spent the next two hours condensing a list of meetings to be set up with the who’s who of political influence in the city. Unfortunately, campaigns fed off donations, and I’d insisted early on using my own money, because I hated asking anyone for anything.
After events and meetings were added to the calendar, I let Jay go home, and I stayed up refining my speech for the Knights of Columbus on Wednesday.
I rubbed the fine stubble on my jaw, wondering if Christian would like to come with me to one of these events. I couldn’t imagine he’d find it interesting, but it might be a way for him to see what I did and to spend time together.
I shook my head, standing up and switching off my lamp.
I wanted too many things.
That was the problem. Too many goals and not enough time.
I’d been an arrogant and irresponsible twenty-year-old when Christian was born. I’d wanted what I’d wanted, and I’d blown off consequences, even after he was born. Now I knew the price of my actions, and it was a matter of having to choose. I knew I couldn’t have everything I wanted, but I still didn’t like making choices.
Leaving the room, I headed upstairs for my bedroom, but stopped, seeing the glow of a lamp coming out of Christian’s cracked door down the hall.
Walking down to his room, I pushed the door open and saw him passed out on his stomach, fully clothed on top of the covers.
I went over and gazed down at him, feeling the same tightening in my chest that I’d felt in the car.
He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling in calm, even breaths with his head turned to one side. The two ever-present creases between his eyes were gone, and his black hair had gotten rumpled, now covering his forehead and sitting close to his eyes. I remembered seeing him once as a baby, looking almost exactly the same.
But back then he’d smiled all the time. Now he was always angry.
I sat down on the edge of his bed, pulling a spare blanket up over him.
Staring down, I felt my shoulders relax as I rested my elbows on my knees. “I know this is awkward,” I told him, whispering. “It’s different for both of us, but I want you here.”
He shifted, twisting his head away toward the wall, still sleeping. I reached out to touch him but stopped short and got up instead, leaving the room.
I shook my head as I tore off my clothes and made my way to my bedroom.
Why was it so much easier to be with him when he didn’t know I was there?
I headed a multimillion-dollar corporation. I’d traveled in every hemisphere and climbed a volcano when I was eighteen. I had some of the most intimidating people eating out of the palm of my fucking hand, so why was I afraid of my own kid? I stepped into my bedroom, tossing my shirt and tie onto a chair and slipping off the rest of my clothes.
All of the hardwood surfaces in the room – from the floors to the furniture – shined with the soft glow of the bedside table lamp, and I walked across the ornate area rug, running my hand through my hair and trying to figure out what to do with him.
His mother, despite her animosity toward me, was a good parent, and Christian got along with her. She was strict and provided routine, and that’s what I needed to do for Christian.
And that not only included him but me as well. I needed to be home for meals. Or at least more meals. And I needed to be consistent. Checking his homework, attending his sports games, and staying on top of where he was and what he was doing.
I’d asked for this, after all. I’d fought him and his mother to keep him in the country this year.
I climbed into the shower, rolling my neck under the hot spray of the dual showerheads and letting it relax the tense muscles in my shoulders and back.
Easton.