Best Laid Plans Page 8

  Once in the privacy of my car, I break.

  Shock like I’ve only ever felt once before flows through my veins, igniting and bubbling to the surface. I slam my fist into my steering wheel, desperate to dull the emotional ache. When that doesn’t work, I do it again and again until my knuckles are red and raw.

  How could she do this? How could she be so deceitful? And why? Why keep my daughter from me? I mean, Jesus, the only people she’s hurting are Tatum and me. Surely, she isn’t that selfish…then again, it seems like she is. It’s Mia 2.0, and I truly don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this shit.

  The real kicker is this: the one person I want to talk to about this is her fucking brother. I can only imagine that conversation will go over about as well as a bowling ball to the head.

  All of my feelings still bubbling just below the surface, I know I need to find a way to cull them. I need to numb them. To silence them. Luckily, I know just the place.

  Destination in mind, I crank the ignition and head toward Bennet’s, where I know my old friend Jack Daniels will be waiting.

  16

  Natalie

  Well, that went poorly, is all I can think as I wait on the sidewalk for my Uber. Then again, what did I really think was going to happen? If anything, it could have gone worse. He could have flipped the table. He could have thrown his drink in my face. He could have left me stranded to find my own way home.

  In all of the years I’ve known Alden, I’ve never seen him that upset. I know I’m devastated over what just happened, but it’s nothing compared to how he must be feeling.

  Finally, a black coupe with the company logo on the door pulls to the curb. I waste no time getting in, and the driver wastes no time pulling back into traffic. I’m guessing he can tell from my puffy, raccoon eyes that I’m in no mood to talk.

  When he idles the car in front of my building, I move to get out, but he stops me. “Hey, no one hurt you, right?”

  I offer him a sad smile. “No, this is of my own doing.”

  He nods, and I close the door, hastily retreating to the safety of my apartment. It’s just like Alden to be mad at me and to still be concerned for my safety. What other guy would make sure a girl got home okay after dropping the kind of bomb I did? I certainly can’t think of a single one.

  Then again, I guess that kind of stuff is the reason I’ve always crushed on him. He’s been the ideal I’ve measured every other relationship against, and every single man has fallen short. Jesus, if I weren’t all out of tears, I’d cry at how pathetic I sound.

  I march straight back to my bathroom, where I strip out of my clothes and start the shower. I may not be able to wash off the sins of my past, but I can at least take care of my ruined makeup.

  I stand under the spray of the scalding water until it runs icy and cold—much like Alden’s feelings toward me. The crushed look on his face plays on a loop behind my closed eyelids. I can’t recall a time that I’ve ever seen him so upset. Not even with his grandparents passed away. And knowing I’m the cause kills me.

  Dried off and dressed for bed, I grab my phone, hoping and begging for a missed call or a text from him. But there’s nothing.

  No shit there’s nothing, my brain shouts at me.

  But my heart’s not having that, so without thinking too much about him, I dial his number. The line rings and rings until voicemail picks up. “Al-Alden…it’s me, Nat. Call me?”

  Foolishly, I sit and wait, hoping he’ll call. I try and distract myself with some Netflix. When that doesn’t work, I pick up my Kindle and dive into my latest read—Breakaway by Heather M. Orgeron—but even still, my heart hurts. I toss my reader into my bedside drawer and decide to check out social media. But when I open Facebook, the first post I see is a check-in from Alden at Bennet’s Bar. Well, shit.

  Now I’m even more worried. Logically, I get that he’s mad at me, and hell, maybe I’m even a little mad at him. I mean, it’s not like he really gave me the chance to explain much of anything…or did I just not try hard enough? Either way, the thought of something bad happening to him has me nauseated.

  I do the only thing I can think of—call my big brother.

  “Sup, Nat?”

  “I…I need a no-questions-asked favor.”

  “Whoa. Why—okay, what’s up?”

  “I need you to go to Bennet’s and check on Alden.”

  Nate’s heavy breath comes through the speaker. “I know you said no questions, but Nat, what—”

  “Please? Please just do this for me? I’ll owe you! Anything you want!”

  He leaves me hanging, but only for a minute. “Fine. But when it’s time for me to cash in, remember this shit.”

  “I will,” I whisper into the phone before ending the call.

  17

  Alden

  I’m six shots deep, and I’m fucking sure lucky number seven will be the one to make me forget…to make this shit go away. I raise my hand to signal the bartender—since when are there two of him? I blink twice and rub at my eyes to clear my vision. False alarm, still only the one guy.

  He takes his time working his way down to my end of the bar, where I’ve been guzzling whiskey like my life depended on it. Which, I guess, in a way it does. Lord knows it’s the only thing keeping me from losing my shit right now.

  Once he ambles down to me, I push my empty shot glass toward him across the sticky, wooden bar top and slur, “Anudder! And keeps them coming!”

  He grabs the bottle from the shelf and pours two more shots. “No more after this.”

  I slam them back to back, relishing the burn, loving the way it chases away the ache in my heart over Natalie and Tatum. My Tatum. Before he has a chance to walk away, I ask him, “You gots any…any kids?” He meets my eyes before looking over my shoulder. As he fixes a glass of water, I continue babbling drunkenly, desperate to get some of this crushing weight off of my chest. “I do. A daught-daughter. She’s three and d-doesn’t even know I’m her d-dad. How f-f-fucked up is that?”

  Instead of acknowledging what I’ve just said, he keeps his gaze over my shoulder and asks, “You know him?” A pause. “Good. You got him?” Another pause and then he just walks away. I turn to the patron next to me—a grizzled old man that probably eats nails for breakfast. “Guess he doesn’t like kids?” I slur. He grunts in reply.

  I go to sip the water he left behind when a voice low and lethal whispers in my ear, “You wanna explain the shit I just heard come out your mouth?”

  I attempt to spin to face the voice, but I tilt sideways off of the stool. Two strong hands grip the front of my shirt and haul me upright. The room spins, and my stomach churns. I pinch my eyes shut and let the sensation pass. When I open them, my best friend is right in front of me, all up in my space and glaring daggers.

  “Gonna say it one more time; wanna explain that shit I just heard you say?”

  Unsure of how he knew I was here, much less what to say, I simply blink up at my best friend, swaying slightly. He tightens his hold on me with one hand and uses the other to retrieve his wallet. He throws a few twenties onto the bar and hauls me up to standing.

  Wordlessly, Nate manhandles me out of the bar and into his truck. I got a bad feeling about this…

  * * *

  Nate

  Alden and I have been friends for a long fucking time; in that span of time, we’ve had our fair share of disagreements, but never once have I wanted to deck him like I do now.

  The shit I heard him saying just doesn’t make sense. There’s no way he’s Tatum’s dad. Like, my brain is screaming does not compute, because in order for that to be true, that means he fucked my sister. My still-in-high-school-at-the-time little sister.

  Speaking of, how in the hell did she know he was here? How did she know he needed checking on? How did…oh shit.

  No questions asked, she said. Guess I know why now. But here’s the thing, I’ve got a lot of fucking questions.

  Such as, if Alden’s drunk ass is Tatum�
��s father, why the hell hasn’t he been pulling his weight and helping out? I glance over to where’s he slumped over in my passenger seat, sleeping like he doesn’t have a care in the world—which is utter shit, seeing as he’s most likely the deadbeat mystery father of my niece.

  I decide to bring him back to my place instead of taking him home. My face is gonna be the first thing his ass sees when he wakes up, and he’s going to answer all of my questions, hangover be damned.

  Hell, at this point, he deserves worse than nausea and a headache. My sister has spent the last four years damn near breaking her back to provide Tatum with a good life while this dickhole’s been gallivanting through Europe with his cunty, psycho ex.

  By the time I pull into my driveway, Alden’s starting to wake up. “Huh?” he slurs. “Wh-where am I?”

  I ignore him and exit the truck, coming around to his side. I fling the door open and find him fumbling with the buckle. Jesus. How much did he drink? I reach around him and hit the button to release it. He tumbles out, barely landing on his feet. “C’mon asshole. You’re crashing here tonight. And in the morning, we’re gonna have words.”

  With a reluctant arm around his waist, I help him into the house. Inside, I shove him—maybe a little harder than necessary—down onto the couch. I grab a blanket from the hall closet and throw it at him before locking up and heading to my room.

  I grab my phone from my pocket and dial Natalie—no questions asked, my ass. She’s got some explaining to do.

  18

  Alden

  I wake groggy and disoriented, and I’m pretty damn sure an entire group of death metal bands has taken up residence inside my head. Hell, maybe my stomach, too, judging by the way it roils when I move.

  Slowly I open my eyes, only to immediately close them—so bright! I’m in rough shape, but the question is…oh shit. The events of last night come rushing back.

  Dinner with Nat.

  Learning that I’m a dad…Tatum’s dad.

  Shots. Lots of shots.

  Nate dragging me out of the bar.

  No, no, no. This is not good. Especially if I am where I think I am. I force my eyes open, and sure enough, I’m on my most likely former best friend’s couch. I’m half tempted to sneak out, but I’m not that chicken shit.

  I move to sit up, and the room spins a bit. Coffee. I need coffee. Dragging ass, I stumble into the kitchen, where I start a pot. Hopefully after a cup or two, I’ll feel slightly more human. While it brews, I help myself to the guest bathroom, splashing water on my face and gargling some mouthwash. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

  Back in the hall, I hear Nate moving around in the kitchen. Looks like it is time to face the music.

  “Morning,” I greet, testing the waters.

  Instead of replying, he grabs an insulated tumbler down from one of the upper cabinets and proceeds to pour damn near the entire pot of coffee into it. Guess that answers how this is going to go.

  “Take a seat,” he says, using what I like to call his bad cop voice.

  My fight or flight is whispering don’t do it; but like I said, I’m no chicken shit. So, I sling back a chair and sit. Nate, however, remains standing. No doubt to intimidate me.

  Not gonna lie, it’s working. Dude could probably kill me and get away with it; his police buddies would definitely help him dispose of my body.

  “Talk,” he clips out, sticking with one-word commands.

  “Any chance I can get some coffee first?” I ask, halfway serious, halfway stalling. Nate narrows his eyes in reply. “Yeah, okay, fine. Honestly, I don’t know where to start and probably have as many questions as you do.”

  “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  I prop my elbows on the table and hold my head in my hands. “It means…I only learned of my apparent dad status last night. Hell. I didn’t even know we—” I let my words fall off, not quite wanting to discuss that part of things with Nate.

  “Yeah,” he says, sounding as uncomfortable as I feel. “That’s what Nat said too, but I figured she was lying to save you from me kicking your ass.”

  “Nope. Not lying.”

  “This is some fucked-up shit,” Nate mutters, pacing the length of the kitchen. I nod my agreement, watching him wear a path in the tile. “So, what are you gonna do? Swear to God, you better do right by them. You wanna be mad at Nat, go for it, but you will not take your feelings out on Tatum.”

  “Jesus, Nate. Of course not.” I let out a humorless laugh. “And to answer your question, I guess I’m going to do my best to get to know my…daughter. Shit, that feels weird to say.”

  A few silent minutes tick by—Nate sipping his coffee, and me wishing I had some—before I speak again. “I just wish I knew why she did this? Why she kept this from me? I don’t get it.”

  Nate shakes his head at me. “I tried talking to her last night after I dropped your drunk ass onto the couch. She was crying something fierce and kept telling me she had good intentions, but wouldn’t say much else. No matter how much I begged her to explain it, she wouldn’t.”

  I mull over his words as he starts another pot of coffee. Looks like we’re good after all. Two minutes later, the weird gurgling sound that signifies the end of brewing fills the kitchen, and Nate pours me a mug.

  The first sip scalds my tongue, but I don’t care. I take two more and then ask, “How did you know where to find me, anyway?”

  Nate darts his eyes to the ceiling. “Natalie saw your Facebook post and begged me to check on you.”

  The idea that even after what went down she sent her brother to check on me has my heart swooping low in my gut. But I shut it down, because either way, she’s still a goddamn liar.

  19

  Natalie

  Like an idiot, I called Alden twice more after asking Nate to check on him. I even fell asleep with my phone clutched to my chest. When it rang in the middle of the night, hope soared in my heart thinking it was Alden. No such luck though—it was only Nate.

  Which is an entirely different can of worms. It seems Alden has loose lips when intoxicated and some the things he said led Nate to bombard me with questions. Lots and lots of questions that I was in no way—even still—prepared to answer.

  After a lot of deflecting and begging for a reprieve, Nate ended the call, leaving me to steep in my regret as I cried myself to sleep.

  Dreams of Alden plagued me all night. Dreams of us as a family together. Nightmares of him taking Tatum from me. It made for a restless night, and it’s hitting me like a ton of bricks this morning. I fell asleep with my hair in a wet bun, and now it’s a rat’s nest on my head. My eyes are puffy and the tip of my nose is red from crying so much.

  Hindsight really is a bitch. At the time, at seventeen, I adamantly believed I was doing the right thing—that I was protecting Alden. Down to my very marrow, I believed it. But, with time comes wisdom, and my God, it’s true that ignorance is bliss.

  In the moment, Alden’s words stung last night. But in the harsh light of day, they ring true. I did rob him of time with his daughter. And more importantly, I kept Tatum from knowing the love of the amazing man that—albeit, unknowingly—helped create her.

  It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but I am determined to make it right. Obviously, I can’t give him back the time he’s lost, or can I?

  With that thought in mind, I fly out of my bed and into Tatum’s room. I drag the rocking chair over to her closet and climb onto it. Balancing precariously, I brace myself with one hand and feel around the high shelf until my fingertips brush against the thing I’m looking for. I shift my weight forward, causing the chair to recline, hoping it will give me that slight extra boost I need.

  No luck.

  Carefully I bring my other hand up, praying like hell for the chair not to move. With a surer grip, I slide the heavy book toward me. Victory is in my grasp when the edge of it meets the lip of the shelf. I slide it toward my chest and slowly lower myself down to my knees.

  Over the
years, I have obsessively chronicled every single one of Tatum’s firsts. From her first poop blow-out, to her first tooth, to her first epic meltdown. I know it’s not the same as being present, but maybe it will help all the same.

  I dash back to my room and dial Alden. Straight to voicemail. I do as the robotic feminine voice instructs and leave a message after the beep. “H-hey Alden, it’s me. N-Natalie. Um. Please call me when you get a chance. Please?”

  I hang up and toss my phone down onto my fluffy white duvet. God, could I have sounded any more idiotic? Yes, my brain answers. Yes, you could have.

  Which I prove to myself a mere two hours later when I fire off two text messages to him—both of which go unanswered.

  It’s around five o’clock when Mom drops Tatum off. Like usual after time with Nana and Popsie, my Tater Tot is on a serious sugar high. You’d think my mom, being a nurse, would keep her from consuming so many sweets, but she’s a total pushover for this little girl.

  “Mama! Mama! Mama!” Tatum chants my name, bouncing like she’s on a pogo stick.

  I gently place my hands on her tiny shoulders to stop her jumping. “Yes, baby?”

  “Did Nana tell you about da muffings?”

  “You mean muffins?” I ask. Tatum nods furiously. “Nope, will you tell me?”

  “We’s made dem! But instead of booberries we used chocolate chips! And when Nana wasn’t looking, I sneaked in some chocolate syrup! They were so yummy!”

  “Whoa! That’s a lot of chocolate, Tater Tot. Guess we better make a healthy dinner.”

  “I help?”

  “Yeah, baby. Mama would like that very much. Go wash your hands and we’ll get started.”

  Tatum tears off down the hall while I set about gathering ingredients. By the time she enters the kitchen, I have the chicken defrosting and I’m chopping up some broccoli.