My phone pings with incoming email—the pictures Jenny sent me of the party. With a resigned sigh I sit up and access the photos. “You know my daughter, Presley?”
He nods. “Sure. Cute kid, hot mom. Unfortunate name.”
“Today was her birthday.” I flash him one particularly endearing shot of my little angel with a face full of cake. “Her first birthday.”
He smiles. “Looks like she had fun.”
I don’t smile. “She did. But I missed it.” I scrub my eyes with the palms of my hands. “What the fuck am I doin’ here, man? It’s hard . . . harder than I ever thought it’d be.”
I’m good at everything I do—always have been. Football, school, bein’ a kick-ass boyfriend. In high school all the girls envied Jenny. Every one wanted to screw me and all the guys wanted to be me. And everything about it was too easy.
“I just feel . . . I feel like I’m failin’ . . . everythin’,” I confess. “Maybe I should throw in the towel, go to a shit community college back home. At least then I’d see them more than three times a year.” With anger I bite out, “What kind of father misses his child’s first fuckin’ birthday?”
Not all guys feel like I do. I know boys back home who knocked up girls and were perfectly content to walk away and never look back. They send a check only after their asses get hauled into court, sometimes not even then. Hell, neither of Ruby’s kids’ fathers have seen their children more than once.
But that could never be me.
“Jesus, you’re a mess,” Drew exclaims, his face horrified. “You’re not going to start singing John Denver songs, are you?”
I stew in silence.
He sighs. And perches himself on the edge of my bed. “You want the truth, Shaw?”
Evans is big on the truth—the harsh, crude, dick-in-your-face truth. Another quality I respect, though it’s not much fun when his critical eye is aimed at you.
“I guess,” I reply hesitantly.
“My old man is the best father I know, no contest. I don’t remember if he was at my first birthday party, or my second . . . and I really don’t give a shit either way. He put an awesome roof over my head, he’s proud of me when I deserve it, and kicks my ass when I deserve that too. He took us on fantastic family vacations and pays for my tuition here—pretty much setting me up for life.
“What I’m saying is: any asshole can cut a fucking cake. You’re here—working on the weekends, carrying a full class load, busting your balls—so one day your kid won’t have to. That’s what a good father does.”
I think about what he’s saying. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. Now dry your eyes, take some Midol, and stop with the premenstrual pity party.”
That earns him the flip of the bird.
Drew raises his chin toward my pile of notes for Statistics 101, the first-year requisite final I’m taking tomorrow morning. “You ready for Windsor’s final?”
“I think so.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t think—know. Professor Windsor’s a dick. And a snob. He’ll bust a nut if he gets to fail a redneck like you.”
I flip through the stack of papers. “I’ll look it over one more time, but I’m good.”
“Excellent.” He smacks my leg. “Then be ready to leave in an hour.”
I glance at my watch: 10 p.m. “Where are we goin’?”
Evans stands. “If I teach you only one thing before I graduate let it be this: before any big exam, you go out for a drink—one drink—and you get yourself laid. Standardized test-prep courses should add that to their rule book. It’s infallible.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t know . . .”
He holds out his arms, questioning, “What’s the problem? You and your baby mama are doing the whole open relationship now, right?”
“Yeah, but . . .”