The Storm

Then, it hits me.

Tiffany. Blonde hair. Pretty as hell. Legs that went on forever.

“I remember her. She just stopped coming around all of a sudden.”

“She stopped coming around because she was pregnant. She told me she wasn’t sure at the time if he was your child or Jake’s. But she knows now, and it’s blatantly obvious that he’s yours. He looks exactly like you.”

“If she was fucking me and Jake, she could have been fucking a hundred other guys. No reason to believe this kid is mine.”

“She wasn’t. It was only you and Jake. And she had genuine real feelings for you, Jonny. I’m telling you. Storm is your son.”

That causes me pause. “His name is Storm?”

“Yes. I’m guessing she named him after your band.” I hear her exhale down the phone. “I’m not making this up. I have no reason to make this up. There’s no win in this for me.”

“So, why are you telling me now?”

“I’ve known Tiffany for a long time, and in all that time she never told me who Storm’s father is. Then, tonight…she was upset. She’d been drinking. She told me the truth.”

“And the first thing you do is call me? Some friend you are.”

“I am being her friend,” she says defensively. “She kept Storm from you because of the life you lead. But she struggles every day. She works her ass off to put food on the table for that boy. And I believe that every child should know both of their parents.”

I look down and realize my hand is shaking. I clench it into a fist. “You honestly believe this kid is mine?” I know she does, I can hear it in her voice.

“Yes. I honestly do.”

I can barely believe I’m having this conversation, but something is pulling on the fringes of my subconscious.

There’s always been something missing. Maybe this is it.

Taking a deep breath, I blow it out. “Do you have a picture of him?” I ask quietly.

“I have one on my cell. It was taken the other day.”

“Send it to me now. I want to see him.”

“I’ll have to disconnect the call to send it.”

“I don’t care. Just send me the fucking picture.”

I hang up the call and wait.

It seems to take forever before my cell beeps with a text.

I take a fortifying breath.

This is stupid. I’m being stupid. This kid isn’t mine. She’s just some psycho chick making crank calls.

But…what if she’s not?

Decision made, I open the text, click on the picture, and stare at my screen, waiting for it to load.

Then, it does.

Holy fuck.

I can’t breathe. Staring back at me is a blue-eyed little boy with dirty-blond hair and a smile that could bring the sun down, and he looks exactly like me.

But how can I be sure? He might just be a kid who looks like me.

Looks a lot like me.

His eyes…he has my eyes.

I race into my bedroom, into the closet, and I pull down a shoebox that contains some old photos.

I drop to the floor, opening up the box. I search through the family photos, some of me and Jake from high school, and then I find what I’ve been looking for—a picture of me from the first grade.

I hold my phone with the picture next to the photo of me at the same age.

Jesus Christ.

We look like twins.

My heart starts to pump as my cell starts to ring in my hand.

I answer, pressing the phone to my ear, my hand shaking.

“You got the picture?” she says before I get chance to speak.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And you know he looks like me. What exactly do you want from me? Money?”

“I don’t want money.” She sounds appalled that I even suggested it.

I guess that’s when the final nail sinks into the coffin.

“I want Storm to have a chance to know his dad. That’s all. Tiffany will never tell you herself. But I think Storm has a right to know who his father is.”

Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose, a sudden headache coming on.

I push to my feet, walking out of the closet, heading for my bathroom. “Does Tiffany still live in New York?” I ask.

“No, she lives in Queens.”

“Give me her address.”

There’s a pause. I grab some aspirin out of the cabinet and swallow down two.

“Why?” she asks in a tentative voice.

“Why do you think?” I say impatiently. “You called me for a reason. That reason is so my son can know me, right?”

“Yes…” she says slowly.

“Then, give me her fucking address.”

“Maybe you should call her first.”

“And scare her away? No fucking way. Address now.”

There’s a pause, then, she says, “It’s the apartment above Marie’s Country Bakery on North Street in Queens.”

“Got it. I’m catching a flight out tonight. Don’t you dare tell her I’m coming. I don’t want her running off again.”

“I won’t tell,” she says softly.

I hang up the phone. My heart pounding, I grip the edge of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.

I don’t like what’s staring back at me. I look a mess. My eyes are dark and hollow.

I have a son.

Jesus, I can’t take care of myself, let alone another human being.

But I have to because I have a kid…a child that’s mine.

I’m not afraid to admit that I’m fucking terrified though.

Maybe I should call Dad? Ask for his advice.