The shower stops, and Arla appears moments later dressed in her bathrobe and her hairbrush in her hand. She gives it to me and then sits down on the floor. Quietly, I brush her long blonde hair, working through a few snags and snarls.
“I think I want to cut my hair.”
My heart seizes. I love her long hair and have only cut it once since she was born. “How come?” I ask, trying to remain calm.
She shrugs. “Pippa got her hair cut.”
“Pippa got gum in her hair, and Aunt Caroline had no choice but to cut Pippa’s hair.”
“Oh.”
“But if you still want a haircut, we can make an appointment.”
Arla shrugs again. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
My hope is that this subject matter is now closed, and my heart can return to a somewhat regular beat, although this is likely to change when I find the courage to make a phone call tonight. Part of me hopes Jack doesn’t answer, while the other half hopes he does so I can get the news out there and let him figure out what he wants to do. The question plaguing my mind right now is whether I tell him over the phone or not. There isn’t some handbook on how to say to the father of your nine-year-old daughter that he, in fact, has a child. Believe me, if there was, I’d have pages dog-eared, tabbed, and highlighted.
Arla and I snuggle on the couch together and watch a show before I tuck her in for the night. We read her favorite story, Rugby and Rosie, which we’ve done every night since she was three. After I shut her light off, I head back to the kitchen and finally open the bottle of wine I pulled out earlier. I pour more than customary into the glass and take a sip while looking out my kitchen window.
My phone rings, and I jump, sloshing my drink. “Shit,” I mutter as I rush back into the living room. My heart pounds rapidly, echoing in my ears until a wave of relief washes over me when I see my cousin Frankie’s name on my screen. “Hello.”
“Krew said I needed to call you.” Frankie may be family, but also one of my best friends. We are only a few months apart in age and grew up together.
“I’m sure he did.” I sit down with a heavy sigh and set my glass on the table next to the couch. “Jack came through town today. Krew served him at Lottie’s and told him to call me. He did, but I didn’t answer because it was an unknown number. He left a message and asked me to call him.”
“Holy shit.”
“My sentiments exactly. I’m nervous. What if he hates me?”
“How can he? He left, and you had no idea how to get a hold of him. It’s not like you didn’t try.”
“I know, but I always wonder if I could’ve tried harder.”
“Lottie, you can’t second guess yourself. Even that lady he lived with had no idea how to get in touch with him. We tried everything we could think of.”
I sigh and lean back into the cushion. “I know. Should I tell him I want to see him or just tell him over the phone about Arla?”
Frankie is quiet for a minute and then says, “As much as it’s going to suck for him to hear this over the phone, I think you need to tell him. If you invite him back to Holyoak, he may decline or think you want to see him. I know you want to tell him in person about Arla, but if he’s married or something or needs time to process this, he should be able to decide if he wants to come to Holyoak.”
“What if he doesn’t want to meet her?”
“That’s a bridge we will cross after you tell him. If he doesn’t, you go on telling Arla the same thing you’ve told her from the beginning. You haven’t lied to her.”
“I know,” I say quietly. When Arla first started asking about her father, I didn’t know what to say. Lying didn’t seem right, so I told her the truth. She knows I have no idea where he is but has always known his name. I thought that was important. “I’m going to call him or at least try,” I tell her. “I might need you to come over and actually dial the number.”
Frankie laughs. “Just let me know. I can be there in ten minutes. And call me when you’re done talking to him. I want to know everything!” Her excitement for my situation makes me smile.
“I’ll let you know.” I hang up, finish my glass of wine, and get a refill. There isn’t anything I can do about my nerves, the tightness in my throat, or how I feel like my life will change when I tell Jack he has a daughter.
I replay Jack’s voicemail and scribble his number down on the notepad I keep next to the couch. For a moment, it feels like I’m back in high school and inviting him over. Only we aren’t in history class. We’re adults with a massive bomb between us whose fuse is about to run out of space.
My thumb hovers over his number. I finally press it, close my eyes, and pray, I can do this. Jack answers on the second ring.
“Hey, Jack. It’s Charlotte.”
Chapter Five
Jack
The voice on the other end of the phone makes me speechless. Never in a million years did I think I’d ever speak to Charlotte again. As an eighteen-year-old leaving for basic training, I had zero expectations to carry on a relationship with her. Would it have been nice? Without a doubt. But I also wasn’t hurt that we ended. This was and still is how my life works. Aside from the Army, Mitch is my longest-lasting relationship.
“Hi . . . Charlotte.” It takes me a second to get her name out. I had zero expectations that she’d call me back, despite what Krew said, and I’m wholly unprepared to hear her voice. It’s like I remembered, soft and quiet, and can still get my heart racing. I point to the door of the hotel room, signaling to Mitch that I’m stepping out.
“Sorry I missed seeing you,” she says. “What dumb luck it is that you’d come in on the one day I’m not there.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I guess luck has never been on my side.”
“No, I guess it hasn’t.” There’s a long, awkward pause until she clears her throat. “Is this a good time to talk? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“No, not at all. I’m happy to hear from you.” I imagine she’s smiling on the other end. Like she mentioned earlier, it seems luck has never been on our side.
“How have you been?” she asks.
“Good, I guess. I’m in the Army and currently stationed in Italy.”
“Wow, Italy. I bet it’s beautiful.”
Not nearly as beautiful as I thought you were when we were together. “It has its moments, just like any other place. So, what about you? Are you married?” As soon as the question comes out of my mouth, I want to take it back. Of course, I want to know, but it shouldn’t be the first question I ask her. “I’m sorry, that was a bit rude.”
“It’s fine,” she says with a hint of laughter in her voice. “I’m not married. Are you?”
“No, I’m not either.”
“Good . . . I mean, oh.” There’s another pause. “I’m sorry, this seems really awkward, doesn’t it?”
“It does, but only because it’s been ten years or so since we’ve spoken. I’m sure we have a lot to tell each other and probably some stuff we’d rather not say.”