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I sober as I stride into the living room. When I see Anna sitting on the couch, I know she stayed up waiting for me. Then, the air is thick with tension as I sit in the armchair across from her.
“Connor is very important to me.” I say in a resigned voice, “So, I think a truce between us, while it won’t be easy, is necessary.”
I watch as she leans forward, her hands clasped before her. A look of relief flashes across her face. “Thank you.”
“Now, I have a few questions,” I warn her firmly. Her eyes warily meet mine, but she doesn’t protest. “I want my son to have my last name. Who is listed as the father on his birth certificate?”
“I understand,” Anna finally manages. I watch as she licks her lips, a nervous habit. Avoiding my eyes, she reluctantly answers, “His birth certificate doesn’t list a father. It’s blank.”
I narrow my eyes at her as I clarify. “We don’t need to remove Graham’s name?” My voice sounds tight and tinged with doubt.
“No. Like I said, I left it blank.” She lifts her eyes to mine, an unreadable look in them.
“What’s Connor’s full name? He goes by Johnson, right?”
She nods and states quietly, “Yes. It was easier since that was my last name. His full name is Connor Carlton Johnson.” When I suck in my breath sharply at his middle name, she looks up at me with a soft smile. “I remember you mentioned your father once, and you said his name was Carlton. So, I… I gave him that as a middle name.”
“You named him after my father?” I say in stunned disbelief.
“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate, but her eyes give me a soulful look.
I clamp my teeth tightly together because there are so many questions I want to ask her. Questions about her husband and her marriage. Did he think Connor was his? Didn’t he question when she didn’t list him as the father?
But there’s a bigger part of me that doesn’t want to know the answers. I don’t want to even think of her with another man. I blink. Shouldn’t I be more worried that this man helped raise my son, at least for the first three or four years of his life? I need to focus on my son, not his mother or what type of marriage she had. But the questions still linger. Making me wonder…
I pull my thoughts away and look over at Anna as I clear my throat.
“I’ll get with my lawyer to have the paperwork updated,” I finish vaguely.
She just nods, her clear gray eyes studying my face as she says, “You’ll probably want a paternity test.”
I remain motionless for a beat, and then I nod, “Yes, but only to make it official. I’m convinced he’s mine.”
I meant the words to reassure her, but I see twin flags of color mark her cheeks as if my words offend her, but she presses her lips together without saying another word.
I watch her for another moment or two, but it seems she’s learning to hide her emotions. Yet her eyes are so expressive, I remember getting lost in those deep, clear pools.
I clear my throat again. “It sounds like we have a lot of paperwork to get started. If you need my lawyer to help with the school records, let me know.” I stand, and without a backward glance, I leave her sitting there, alone on the couch.
Once I’m in bed, I can’t forget the look she gave me after she shared that our son was named after my father. I remember mentioning my parents to her and telling her how close-knit my family was. I blinked again to try and dislodge the wounded deer look she gave me as if it hurt her that I wasn’t there with her to name our child.
The walls feel like they’re closing in on me as I lie in bed, trying to slow my racing heartbeat. Sleep is hard to find, and as I toss and turn, images of our time together repeat in my mind. So does Anna’s easy smile, the sound of her laughter, the way we communicated with just a glance.
How compatible we were. Inside and outside of bed. I roll over and viciously punch my pillow, turning it over and searching for a cooler spot for my heavy head. Sometime in the wee hours, I finally fall into a restless sleep.
When I climb out of bed the next morning, I’m surprised to see it’s after nine. I listen, but I don’t hear any sounds coming from the rest of the apartment. I throw on a pair of boxers and tentatively open my bedroom door. I’m alone in the apartment.
For one split second, panic freezes my limbs as I imagine she’s left and taken my son with her. Alarm flares through me, followed quickly by a surge of pure disbelief. I walk furiously through the empty living room as the silence presses in on me. Then I see a note on the dining room table. I pick it up, ‘Gone to get groceries. Connor is with me. Be back later. Anna’.
I take a deep, calming breath as a wave of relief washes over me. Yet, I still detour into her and Connor’s rooms just to confirm their clothes and things are still there. I even glance into the main bathroom and give a rueful grin when I spot their toothbrushes. Maybe I’m overreacting.
After I dress in blue jeans and a golf shirt, I pick up my phone and give my mother a call. “Hey, Mom, do you have any plans for today?”
Later, when I hear Anna and Connor at the door, I open it and swing it wide. I reach out to help take some of the bags.
“There’s more in the car,” Anna says with a slight smile. “I hope you don’t mind. I like to cook, so I got enough to last through the week. Kind of. It’s hard to tell with a growing boy.” She says as she throws a grin at Connor. Then she looks back at me, “Did you eat breakfast? Connor and I had cereal.”
“That’s what I ate too.” She arches her brows in surprise and gives me a playful look, “How long has it been since you last had a bowl of cereal?” She asks me.
