Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I inwardly scoff. Any occasion I’m at a sporting event, I’m either on the field playing or I’m in one of the suites watching from the VIP section. Ergo, I never stand in line or fight for urinal time.
My parents didn’t teach me much etiquette when it comes to being fancy, but what they did teach me was that when I’m eating out at a nice restaurant, I shouldn’t keep my elbows on the table, and I should sit with my back straight.
Just as I’m reaching for my beer, Wyatt appears around the corner, feigning shock when she sees me sitting at the table.
“Dad?”
Oh shit.
“Hey!” I stumble, unprepared for her to be such an enthusiastic actor. “Kiddo.”
“Oh my God, Daddy! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here?” The girl bounds over, bubbly as ever, wrapping her puny arms around my neck and squeezing. “Daddy, I missed you so much.”
“Did she just call you Dad?” Madisson leans back in her chair, folding her arms. Stares across the table. “You didn’t tell me you have kids.”
“Oh—there are so many of us,” Wyatt informs her, voice booming, arms squeezing the life out of my neck. “I’m one of eleven.” She enunciates the number eleven. “Technically most of them are half siblings. I’m only blood related to three of them.”
My jaw drops open.
Madisson’s jaw drops open, too, red lips agape. “Eleven?”
Wyatt nods with authority. “I know, right? Can you imagine what that costs him every month in child support payments?” She lets out a low whistle. “Yikes.”
Jesus Christ.
I want to get rid of my date—not have her running to the media with fake news about my dozens of illegitimate children!
I tamp the air with the palm of my hand.
“Okay, simmer down—she doesn’t need to know all the skeletons in my closet.” I grit my teeth, prying Wyatt’s arms off me and returning them to her sides. “Who are you here with?”
“Grammy and Pop Pop,” she tells us, directing her gaze at my date and squinting. “You’re so much older than his usual type.”
Oh my God. She did not just say that.
When I said I wanted to run my date off, I didn’t mean I wanted to embarrass her to the point that I felt like crawling under the table.
“How old are you?” Wyatt asks Madisson. “Like, forty?”
Madisson has no idea what to say, managing a low, irritated “Twenty-four.”
“Dang.” My “daughter” grimaces. “You look way older. I was being nice.”
I can see the range of emotions changing Madisson’s face—she wants to say something rude to my “child” but also doesn’t want to be rude to my child.
It’s a touchy spot to be in, except I don’t sympathize. She misrepresented herself the same way she thinks I did. Unlike in her profile, she has that ankle thing on and also clearly comes off as a gold digger, only interested in a relationship for clout.
“Hey, Dad, did you order that rat for me yet?” she loudly asks.
“Rat?” Madisson’s eyes go wide.
“Yeah. I love rats so much. My last one got loose in the house, and now he’s living in the wall, so Dad said he’d buy me a new one.” She lets out a long, loud sigh, then boasts, “Our house has a reptile room. One of my many brothers has a snake collection.”
“Snakes?”
Wyatt nods enthusiastically. “Do you like snakes? Ricky has some big ones.” She laughs. “Bob is my favorite—except for the times he escapes and gets into my bed. He loves beds.”
My date shakes her head. “No. I don’t like snakes.”
“That’s too bad. Dad lets us keep some of the aquariums in the living room.”
I am genuinely amazed at the words coming out of this kid’s mouth—and dare I say she is one of the best improv artists of her generation.
Give this kid an Oscar!
For real.
I am so impressed with her performance I’m tempted to slip her another hundred bucks.
My lips part, ready to reply to her snake comment, when a gasp has my attention.
“Wyatt Hazel St. John! I was about to send out a search party for you.”
A woman who can only be identified as Wyatt’s mother is standing next to the table, her hands going to my fake daughter’s shoulders.
“I am so sorry.” The woman begins her apology tour.
Stops speaking.
Stares me dead in the eyes as if she can see into my black soul, as if she knows me.
And this is where it all starts making sense, my friends—this is where it all catches up to me, shit hitting the fan as my sweaty brain zips along a mile a minute, details clicking into place. Click.
Click.
Click.
Now you know the full story of how we got here, so can we all chill the fuck out and move on?
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
“You.” She’s glaring at me harder than anyone has ever glared. “What are you doing with my daughter?”