Page 72 of From LA to London, With Love

I heard the pitter patter of little feet and looked up from my phone. Alfie wandered out, looking miserable. Since Jenny had dropped him around last night, he’d regressed. He’d already peed twice inside and was restless, walking around the house as if he was looking for something, or maybe someone. Sophie.

Don’t think about her.

A ring sounded. Someone was at the front gate. I dragged myself off the couch and walked to the intercom. It was Jenny, and I buzzed her in. I hadn’t told her what had happened, so she was completely bewildered by my sudden decision to leave London. When her footsteps approached, Alfie’s ears pricked up, and he raced to the door, looking relieved to have any company that wasn’t his morose owner. He became even more excited when I opened the door and he saw Jenny.

“How are you?” Her nose crinkled. “And, more importantly, when did you last shower?”

“It’s not me, it’s him.” I gestured at Alfie, who was standing on his hind legs, leaning against Jenny and enjoying her vigorous head rubs. “He’s super stinky. I think it might be stress induced.”

“Uh huh.” Jenny didn’t look convinced. She looked awkward, taking a deep breath. “So, listen, a man has gotten in contact…”

Oh god, this is it. Was this about the photos? Was someone trying to blackmail me? Had Jenny seen the photos, and that was why she was acting weird?

Jenny swallowed.

“He…Well, there’s no easy way to say this…He’s claiming to be your father. He says his name is Robert Sherman. I don’t know if he’s telling the truth, but I thought I should tell you in person. This is his number. And he doesn’t seem to know that you're the Chris Trent. He still thinks your last name is Sherman,” Jenny handed me a piece of paper with a cell number written on it. “Let me know if you want me to do anything.”

I stared at the number in my hand, stunned. “Thanks, Jenny. I’ll take it from here. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” Having difficulty processing Jenny’s news, I turned and made my way back to the couch. After all these years, could it really be him? What on earth would have finally made him reach out to me? It was probably a hoax, someone trying to get some money out of me.

I spent two hours staring at the piece of paper, trying to work out what to do. In my current state, I didn’t feel up to calling him, especially given it might be a scam. Instead, I sent him a message:

Chris: Hi, this is Chris. Can you send me a photo of yourself with your thumb up, so I can confirm who I’m speaking to?

A few minutes later, a photo appeared. He was a lot older, grayer, and more wrinkled than the man in Mom’s photo albums and my distant, clouded memories, but it was him, with his thumb up. I felt sure it was him.

Shit. I wasn’t prepared for this. I’d always thought I’d want to see him again if he reached out to me, but now, I was wracked with doubt. What if he had some nefarious ulterior motive for contacting me? Given what I’d been through the last few days, I wasn’t sure I could handle another blow.

But if I didn’t meet with him, these questions would haunt me to my grave.

Fuck it. Before I could chicken out, I called my favorite fancy steak restaurant to see if their private room was available tomorrow for lunch—it was—and then sent him another message.

Chris: Where do you live?

Robert: Boston, but I’m currently in LA for work.

Chris: Are you free tomorrow for lunch. 12pm Adaline Steak House, Beverly Hills?

Robert: Yes, I’ll see you there.

* * *

I’d been nervous all morning. Now, sitting in the steak house, waiting for Robert—Dad—to arrive, my nerves intensified. The last few days had been very emotionally wrought. I hadn’t been sleeping, I hadn’t been eating, and Jenny’s suspicions about my lack of personal hygiene were spot on. I felt kinda bad for using Alfie as a scapegoat. At least I’d showered in preparation for this lunch. In my current mental state, I didn’t think I was strong enough to cope if this went badly.

Potential scenarios raced through my head. What if he was a desperate drug addict or gambler, and I was his last hope to keep him off the streets or out of jail? Or what if he needed a kidney transplant and was hoping we were a match?

When he walked in moments later, I was relieved to see that none of those scenarios seemed likely. He looked fit and healthy for a man in his sixties and was dressed well, in chinos and a shirt. Tears welled in his eyes when he saw me.

“Chris!” he said, sounding choked up. He went for a hug, and I returned it tentatively, my arms barely touching his back.

“I’m so sorry, so so sorry. When Sophie reached out and told me what had happened, I couldn’t believe it.”

It took me a second for his comment to sink in.

“Wait, what? Sophie reached out to you? When?” I couldn’t contain my surprise.

“Yes, Sophie and one of her friends who’s a journalist tracked me down in Boston with the help of some photos. I just spoke to her on the phone earlier in the week. She didn’t tell me anything about you—she said it was your decision what you shared—but she did say that when Julie showed her the photos of us together, she felt sure that I would want to be reunited with you. And she was right.”

Oh my god. Shit.