Page 59 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
Legal consultation: As needed
Column C: Emotional Preparation
This column stays blank. Because how do you prepare for fatherhood? For the possibility of holding your son and knowing he'syours?
I close the laptop. Lean back. Stare at the ceiling.
Clarence sits on my desk. The cracked calculator I've carried since university. I pick it up. Run my thumb over the broken screen.
"What would you do?" I ask the empty room.
Clarence doesn't answer. Obviously.
But somewhere, underneath the fear and the spreadsheets and the desperate need for control, something whispers:You already know.
Go to her. Tell the truth. Ask for a chance. Be the father Orry deserves. Even if you have no idea how. I set Clarence down. Pick up the letter. Read it one more time. Then I fold it carefully and tuck it in my jacket pocket.
Sleep doesn't come.I lie in bed watching the ceiling fan spin, counting rotations like sheep that refuse to jump.
Orry's face keeps surfacing. That dimple. Those eyes. The sticky muffin hand patting my cheek.
Dada.
Four-fifteen a.m. I give up. Make coffee. Open my laptop.
Practical Support Strategies (Non-Invasive)
The title alone sounds ridiculous. Like I'm planning a corporate merger instead of trying to connect with my possible son.
But spreadsheets are what I know. So I type.
Childcare assistance: Offer weekend babysitting. Low pressure. Gives Cecie freedom, builds trust.
Financial support: Review Sparkle Beauty accounts. Identify tax optimization opportunities. Small business owners often miss deductions.
Logistics: Plaza maintenance coordination. Ensure her storefront gets priority for repairs.
The list is pathetic. Transactional. Everything I do filtered through the lens ofusefulbecause I don't know how to justbearound them.
Clarence sits beside my coffee mug. I pick him up. Press the cracked seven button repeatedly.
"I'm spiraling."
Clarence's display flickers. Agrees.
The letter to Cecie lays on the corner of my desk. I reread it. Still terrible. Still necessary.
Five-thirty. The plaza won't open for hours, but I shower anyway. Shave. Iron a shirt. Choose a tie, then remove it. Too formal. This isn't a business meeting.
It's an apology. An offering. A plea.
Six-fifteen. I pocket the letter. Leave the apartment. Walk to the plaza even though it's absurdly early.
The streets are quiet. Dawn breaking over the storefront awnings. Sparkle Beauty's sign catches the light, glitter embedded in the paint sparkling like captured stars.
