Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
But I spent most of my time chasing after Andi, who I’d seen at her waitressing job at a brewpub dressed in one of those sexy Oktoberfest sort of outfits, like the chick on the St. Pauli Girl beer labels.
Later she told me it was called a dirndl, but I can’t remember if that was before or after we had sex in the pub’s bathroom when she got off work, or the back seat of my car, or maybe against the side of a barn on her parents’ farm just outside town. She was eighteen and had graduated from high school earlier that year, just like me. But she still lived at home with strict religious parents, and if I remembered right, she was working to save up for beauty school and her own apartment. She also had a possessive ex-boyfriend who heard about me, showed up at my dad’s house, and took a swing at my face.
That stupid motherfucker was on the ground begging for mercy inside a minute while I beat the shit out of him on the front lawn, my dad yelling at me to knock it off, my stepmom screaming that this was why she hadn’t wanted me here in the first place.
They kicked me out, so I threw my shit in the car and left that night without even saying goodbye to Andi, and we never spoke again. A week later, I shipped out. For a while, I wondered what happened to her—had she gone to beauty school? Gotten back together with the asshole ex?—but eventually she faded from memory.
Given the decades that had passed since I’d even thought of her, the sadness I felt learning she was gone gripped me unexpectedly hard. I hoped that she’d had a happy life.
But it wasn’t possible I was the father of her child . . . was it?
The room spun, and a trickle of sweat made its way down my chest. I closed my eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and read on.
She was very young when she had me, barely nineteen, and for the early years of my life, I believed her first husband, Mick Holt, was my father. His name is on my birth certificate. But he was not around much. They split when I was four, and I haven’t seen him since.
Mick Holt—the asshole I’d pummeled on my dad’s lawn. She’d married that guy?
Eventually she told me Mick was not my biological father. When I asked her who my real dad was, she would not give me a name. She would only say it didn’t matter anymore. When I asked if he was a good person, she said, “I thought so at the time.”
It fucking stung.
Even after all this time, that arrow hit the mark. I grit my teeth and read on.
We moved to Traverse City, Michigan, and she got married again, but they also divorced. Shortly afterward, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. She lived another two years. I took care of her.
My mom was everything to me, and her death was very difficult. I could not bring myself to go through her things for a full year. When I did, I found an envelope with my name on it buried at the back of a high shelf in her closet.
It was a letter in which she told me about the circumstances of my birth, and she named as my father a Zachary Barrett from Cleveland, Ohio who was in the Navy and was hoping to be a SEAL someday. After some digging, those things led me to you.
I stood up and began to pace beside the table. I prided myself on remaining cool under pressure, but this was next-level heat. Could I actually have a grown son? The answer stopped me in my tracks.
Of course I could.
Andi and I hadn’t been careful. We’d been young and reckless and full of raging hormones. It was entirely possible Mason Holt was the result.
Remaining on my feet, I forced myself to finish the email.
I don’t want any money from you, if you’re worried. I have a good job (I’m a high school social studies teacher and track coach), I’m getting married soon, and even though I will always miss my mom, I’ve made peace with her death.
It’s a little harder to make peace with the fact that she chose to hide my father’s identity from me, but she must have had her reasons. I would like to know you, if you are really my father. Probably we should take a paternity test to determine if that’s the case. I think we would have results in about a week.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Sincerely,
Mason Holt
Beneath his name, he’d written a phone number with a 231 area code. I was still staring at it, wondering what the fuck I was going to do, when Jackson poked his head in the door. “Hey. Meeting postponed, I have a—” He stopped mid-thought when I looked up at him. My expression must have set off an alarm. “What’s wrong?”