Page 77 of Faking It with a Single Dad

I watch it all the same. I heard at his job when I asked around, pretending to be an intern, that Miles doesn’t like digital drops from sources. He prefers physical meetings, so no digital trail leads back to them.

I don’t know what kind of logic that is, but I’m thankful. Digital proof would have been impossible for me to find.

For a second, I take a look around the sweet-smelling coffee shop. It’s scanty, as it usually is around this time in the morning. I take a sip of my coffee but quickly remove the cup from my lips as it scalds my tongue.

“Careful, Johanna,” Theo calls from across the room, behind the counter. “We don’t want anything hurting the baby.”

Theo asked me how far along I was the first day I came to the bar. I was shocked because I wasn’t showing yet, but he said it was the Italian in him that made him know I was pregnant. I’d given him a fake name just to be safe, in case anyone came asking around.

I told Theo I was watching the old building for mold as part of an old study for national research. I don’t think he believed me, but he let it go. I’m grateful he did; I don’t know how much longer I can keep lying to everyone.

“Thanks, Theo.” I flash him a small smile.

The few people in the bar turn to look at me, and I return my gaze out the window covered in raindrops. I sink my hands into the pocket of my hoodie and tighten my fingers around the pregnancy strip in it. It returns me to reality every time I touch it.

After leaving the hospital that night, I’d taken another test in my bathroom, just in case Dr. Fredson was wrong. I hoped to God he was wrong, but the two lines on plastic told me he wasn’t.

I pick up the coffee again, and this time, I blow on it before drinking. The milky coffee traces a nice line down my throat, and I almost feel sleepy. Perhaps this is a waste of time. No one has come in seven days, and Miles doesn’t step out in the mornings, so what am I doing—

The red door pulls open, and I sit up, ready. Miles steps out the door in a black raincoat that looks two sizes too big. He looks uglier in the daylight, I notice. He puts a hand over his bushy red hair to shield him from the rain, then runs into it.

It’s showtime.

I slide a note onto the table and fix my cap on my head. I nod at Theo, who is busy with some new customers. I pull my hood over my cap and step into the rain when I step out the door. It’s cold, but I shake it off.

Miles turns a corner, and I follow him at a respectable distance. He looks to be headed to the bar, something he’s never done in the afternoon. My pulse quickens as I cross the street.

Today may be the day I know who the source is. I may never see Tristan again, but at least he’ll know it wasn’t me causing the hit pieces. I may have lied, but I never betrayed him. I walk briskly behind Miles, who’s fast approaching his bar in downtown New York.

I never betrayed you, Tristan.

Chapter twenty-eight

Tristan

The gravel crunches beneath my car tires as I pull up to the gate of the Fisher’s ranch, my heart pounding with pain and anger. My all-black get-up mirrors how I feel—gloomy and unhappy. The sun isn’t out, and the clouds seem to be holding onto unshed rain.

The gate buzzes open, and I drive in. I park in front of the main house and sit in the car for a minute. The smell of booze hangs in the car, and a glimpse in the rear mirror reveals two empty whiskey bottles.

I hired a new nanny, Joan, a twenty-year-old lady who’s straight out of college. She was taking Ruby to school this morning when I drove there in my car. The letter in my pocket feels heavy despite being light.

It was the last thing Deanna wrote before she died.

A week ago, I found out Layla wasn’t who she said she was, and my world came crashing down around me. I went on a five-day drinking bender and came out on the other side worse. My bloodshot eyes in the mirror stare back at me, and I rub my head, my hand clasping my scalp.

Fuck, I need some sleep.

My dark locks were gone. I guess I’m in my Britney Spears phase because I shaved my head with my electric clipper that night after I told Layla I never wanted to see her again. My face looks leaner and more angular. My eyes seem sunken and holding pain that I don’t want to think about.

I get out of the car and head inside the house, ignoring the farm hands waving in greeting. The living room is quiet, and no one is present. The huge space atop the fireplace has a portrait, and I see Layla’s face for the first time in a week.

I stop in my tracks as I stare at her. She looks sad, I think—like an outsider looking in. I wonder where she is, and I shake off the thought. I don’t care. She betrayed me. I don’t care about her anymore. I can’t afford to care.

Yet the burning pain in my heart tells me I do care.

“Ellen!” I shout into the empty room. “Where the fuck are you?!”

She materializes from one of the inner rooms, waiting for my voice as a cue. Her cargo pants have stains that seem years old, and her red flannel shirt is a size too big.