Page 31 of Freefall
It’s not my intrusive alter ego.
That’s me.
I am pathetic.
The first time I had sex with Harper was complicated. We had been fighting, tensions were high, and in the back of my head I knew we probably should have waited until we calmed down, but I never listened to reason when it came to her. She drowned out all the noise, including the rational part of my brain. All of the logic I’ve ever possessed went out the window when she looked up at me and told me she wanted it.
Then I hurt her, but she didn’t run or cry from the pain. She asked for more. I had decided she was mine before that, but in that moment, I knew that no matter what happened, I would never love anyone else the same way I loved her. She wasn’t just mine; I was hers.
Then after, she took my picture for the first time. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I gave her a hard time about letting another man take nude photos of her, and in the end I was the target of her lens; raw, vulnerable, naked.
The human form.
It’s art, Nate.
She was right.
Those pictures told a story I didn’t even fully understand at the time. I understand it now, though.
Which is how I know that there’s only one thing that will make this right.
What she taught me.
What she craves.
What we both do.
I have to punish her.
10
HARPER
I read the email heading for the hundredth time.
Your results are ready!
I’m not sure why the exclamation point irritates me so much. It’s like they’re so sure that you’re going to be happy with said results that they decided to add it. What if you’re not happy with the results? What if the results derail your entire life?
It’s not going to be the case for me. I don’t need this email to tell me what I already know. I also didn’t need to bring Daisy to the local clinic for a cheek swab, but Nate's lawyer's “request for DNA testing to determine parentage” said otherwise. That should have annoyed me more than the stupid exclamation point, but somehow it didn’t. It also wasn’t an official court document, so I could have fought it, but again, I didn’t.
I can only imagine what it must be like to find out you have a child after all these years. The truth is, we both made mistakes; we both hurt each other, and maybe if he had said something—anything—on the phone that day…maybe if I hadn’t left…things would be different.
But he didn’t say anything, and I did leave.
I don't even know why I’m opening the email. Getting this test done was for Nate’s peace of mind, not mine. But I open it anyway, and when the instructions lead me to the secure portal with the exciting (!) results, I click the button.
Nothing in this world is 100%. That’s what my dad always says. Not in nature, not in science, nothing. But the probability of Nate being Daisy's father? It’s pretty damn close. Ninety-nine point nine-nine to be exact.
Once again, I’m not surprised, but I still can’t help but picture Nate now, jaw set tight as he studies those four nines, gunmetal eyes scanning the page for an asterisk that says, “Just kidding. The slut did cheat on you. Better luck next time!”
I can’t help but wonder if he’s happy, excited, or just plain pissed. If we were still in college, he’d already be at my door, invading my space and demanding we talk about it, regardless of whether I was ready. But we’re not in college, and we’re not those kids who thought they knew it all.
My phone chirps and my blood runs cold. Is it Nate wanting to talk about the paternity test? Is this his way of showing up at my door? I guess he did actually show up at my door the other day. It’s hard to believe that was almost a week ago. Now it’s Friday again, and he has a daughter he didn’t know existed when we met at that beach park.
I check my phone, but it’s not Nate. Then it occurs to me that he probably deleted my number years ago after that silent phone call.
The text is from TJ asking if I can pick up his daughter, Ella, from school and drop her off at her mother’s house, since she’s home with her sick toddler. He got called at the last minute to fill in at the Botanic Garden show downtown.
