The Cad and the Co-Ed Page 12

  I raised an eyebrow. This was an odd conversation, but I went with it, curious to see what her end game was. “Again, never really thought about it, but I guess it could be rewarding to raise a little boy or girl. I’ve always been a very protective sort, and I think if I had a child, or the person I was with had a child, I’d pretty much do everything I could to keep them happy and safe.”

  I gave myself a mental high-five for that one. If this was her way of interviewing me before agreeing to go out with me, I could more than respect that. She was a mother, of course she’d want the guy she was dating to treat her son well.

  Well look at you, Bryan Leech, getting one right for a change.

  Feeling pretty good about my chances, I gave her an easy smile.

  The waiter approached and placed our drinks down in front of us. Eilish grabbed her Coke, sucking a long gulp through the straw while a thoughtful expression crossed over her features.

  After quenching her thirst, she spoke again. “So, let’s imagine a scenario where you are a dad. What sort of parent do you think you’d be? Strict? Laid-back? Somewhere between the two?”

  A dad? Really? I didn’t say it, but I thought maybe she was getting ahead of herself.

  “There must be a need for both, right? Too much of either would probably mess a kid’s head up, so I’d say somewhere between the two.”

  “How about slapping a child when they’ve misbehaved? Do you think it’s necessary?”

  “I guess . . . no? I mean, I was slapped growing up and it never stopped me from misbehaving. I think a good talking to, or a discussion, would have worked better.”

  She nodded, her eyes brightening. “And you’re Catholic, right? Do you think you’d raise your kids in the church?”

  “I guess I would, but what—?”

  “And what about phones and computers? Where do you stand on children having access to the Internet?”

  “Well, obviously I think they need to be supervised up to a certain age but . . .”

  “Like how old?”

  I scratched at my stubble. “Fourteen?”

  “You think a fourteen-year-old should have unfettered access to the Internet? Really?” she questioned, not seeming to like that answer.

  “Okay, maybe sixteen then, but I don’t think you can shelter them forever, either. At some stage you need to let them make sense of the world on their own.”

  “Huh.”

  A moment of silence ensued as she thought something over.

  “Eilish, am I being interviewed for a nanny position or something? Because I have to say, I’ve never quite had the pleasure of being asked out to dinner by a beautiful woman only to be peppered with questions about parenting.” I studied her closely, noticing her blush at my calling her beautiful. She was though, and she had to at least be a small bit aware of it.

  “I know,” she answered quietly, her eyes a little sad. “And I’m sorry for all the questions, but there’s a point to all this, I promise. I just have one more question.”

  I shot her an empathetic look and spoke softly, because she seemed to be hurting in some way. “Okay, one more won’t kill me.”

  She cleared her throat. “You mentioned you struggled with an alcohol problem in the past and that you’re sober now. I was just wondering what age you’d allow your child to start drinking?”

  Quick as a flash my mood changed. Her question hit a sore spot. Growing up, Mam let me drink early. Too early. I definitely could’ve benefited from stricter rules.

  “I don’t think any child should be allowed alcohol. In fact, if I had my way we’d have similar laws to those in the U.S. that restrict alcohol consumption until the age of twenty-one.”

  She tilted her head, her expression curious. “That seems a little extreme.”

  “Yeah well, I don’t think we should ever underestimate the damage drinking can do. Our mid-to-late teens are some of the most tumultuous years in a person’s life. Every little thing that goes wrong seems like the end of the world, and having access to alcohol at that age can be extremely dangerous. My mam started offering me wine at the dinner table when I was eight. I know that’s normal in a lot of European countries, but well, my mother’s been struggling with an alcohol addiction her whole life. Before I knew it, I was mimicking her behavior, and she was too lost to care. I’d go as far as to say she was comforted by the fact that I drank with her. I essentially made her feel better about her own behavior by partaking in it.”

  When I paused to look at Eilish, she seemed horrified. “I’m sorry. That must’ve been rough.”

  I shrugged. “It was, but I never realized until I got older and saw how drink was ruining my life. It was stealing my health, preventing me from maintaining long-term relationships of any kind. It even stole my memories. Most things in life you can get back, but time isn’t one of them, and my biggest regret is the years I lost when I could’ve been doing something productive with my life.”

  I stopped speaking, because Eilish was staring at me so intensely it almost took the wind out of me. She was truly emoting to my loss and it was completely unexpected coming from a woman I thought hated my guts.

  Our gazes were still locked when she blurted, “I have a son.”

  I nodded once. “Yes. I know.” This was old news.

  “His name’s Patrick.”

  “My middle name’s Patrick,” I told her with a warm smile.

  She nodded, gulping in air. “I know.”

  Now I studied her quizzically. “You do?”

  “I do.” She pressed her lips together, her jaw ticked, her eyes now drilling into mine. And then she said, “Patrick is yours, Bryan.”

  I’d just lifted my glass to take a drink and almost spat water out all over the table. Instead, it went down the wrong pipe and I choked.

  She winced.

  “He’s what?” I half-sputtered, half-laughed. She was having me on, right?

  “He’s your son. We have a child,” she stated, clasping her hands together tightly, her tone firm. “It’s the reason I’ve been . . . acting like a lunatic.”

  What the hell?

  My brain simply couldn’t compute what she was saying, because what she was saying was completely fucking crazy. But of course you can’t say to someone, You’re completely fucking crazy.

  So instead, I decided playing things off with humor was the best approach. “I’m sorry, Eilish, but I think you’re mistaken. We only just met a few weeks ago. Although I might’ve boasted I could get women pregnant with just a look as a younger man, it wasn’t actually true, and definitely not retroactively. Certain body parts have to be in play for that to happen.”

  Her posture drew ramrod straight, her lips forming a tight line.

  “This isn’t a joke, Bryan. You spoke of your memory loss just now. Well, we’ve met before, you just don’t . . . you don’t remember me. It was five years ago, at Ronan and Annie’s wedding. We slept together once, and a few weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant.”

  My smile faded quickly as her words sank in.

  Memory loss.

  Slept together.

  Pregnant.

  The sound of my heart filled my ears, and my vision went hazy at the edges.

  Several moments passed. They could’ve lasted seconds or whole minutes, I couldn’t tell. My brain was too busy trying to untangle the information I’d just been handed. Each piece made too much sense for me to deny. That sense of déjà vu that struck me when I’d first met her, the feeling that I’d known her in another life. The unexplainable familiarity. The pull to get to know her.

  She was telling the truth.

  I had a son.

  I. Had. A. Son.

  11

  @THEBryanLeech: When you realize you’re actually really truly an arsehole.

  @SeanCassinova to @THEBryanLeech: Aw, poor baby. Want a cuddle?

  @THEBryanLeech to @SeanCassinova: Nah. Last time you got a stiffy. It was embarrassing for both of us.

  *Bryan*r />
  “Now, folks, I believe the steak was for the gentleman and the chicken wings for the lady,” the waiter said when he arrived with our food.

  I gaped at Eilish as the waiter set the dishes down in front of us. Not surprisingly, my appetite had vanished. My gaze went from the earnest honesty of her bright blue eyes, to the nervous set of her mouth, to the tension that radiated off every inch of her body.

  God, she really was telling the truth.

  This was crazy.

  I had no idea what to feel or how to deal with the bomb she just dropped.

  I had a son, a son who was almost five years old, and who I’d never even met.

  His name is Patrick . . .

  “Bryan, say something, please,” she whispered once the waiter left us alone.

  I opened my mouth, but no words felt right. “I . . . I’m sorry, I need to use the john.”

  I stood abruptly from the table, almost knocking over my glass, and staggered toward the back of the restaurant. Eilish didn’t breathe a word or try to follow me, and when I shut myself away in a cubicle, I sat down on the closed toilet seat and dropped my face into my hands.

  I was dreaming.

  I had to be dreaming.

  For the first time in a long time, I felt like drinking. It’d take the edge off if nothing else. My brain reminded me that whenever I felt like this, the best thing to do was call Sarah, have her talk me down, so I pulled my phone out and dialed her number.

  “Two calls in one day. Lots of women would be jealous,” she said as she picked up. I was relieved she hadn’t started her shift yet, because she always put her phone on silent when she was working.

  “I want a drink,” I bit out, my voice gruff.

  Her tone changed from joking to serious in a heartbeat. “Fuck. Okay. Why?”

  I let out a joyless laugh. “My entire life has just been flipped on its head, and I don’t know what to do.”

  I heard her breathe deeply. “Tell me everything.”

  “I’ve just been told I have a kid, a son I never knew about,” I blurted.

  “What!” she practically screeched, and somehow her reaction made me feel better. I definitely wasn’t overreacting here. This was huge.

  I quickly rehashed everything that had just gone down with Eilish. When I finished speaking, Sarah was quiet on the other end. Finally, she spoke.

  “Okay, Bryan, don’t freak out at me for saying this, because I know you really like this girl, but you have to consider the possibility that she might be lying.”

  I sputtered, incredulous. “Why would she lie about something so serious?”

  “Because you’re wealthy and famous and it sounds like she has a bit of a crush on you, and having a child with a man like you would basically mean she’s set for life. Please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about Jennifer, not to mention Kylie. Those two must’ve extorted at least fifty thousand each before you finally kicked them to the curb.”

  I didn’t appreciate her bringing up my past, the women who’d taken advantage of my addiction in order to feed their own. Drunks and addicts attract drunks and addicts. And now I was neither.

  “Eilish isn’t like that.”

  “You hardly know her.”

  “That doesn’t matter. She’s not a liar, and besides, she comes from a very wealthy background. She doesn’t need the money. Her cousin practically treats her like a princess.”

  A small sigh came from her end. “You still need to be wary. Even if you believe the kid’s yours, you’ll need to get a DNA test to confirm it. You can’t just run into a situation like this headfirst without thinking things through.”

  I frowned. “What makes you think I’d do that?”

  “Because you don’t sound upset. You sound sort of happy, excited even. I know you well enough by now to be able to differentiate between the two.”

  “I’m not happy,” I protested. Was I happy? How could I be happy about something this mental? And why would I feel like having a drink if I was happy about it? Then again, back when I was an addict I turned to alcohol for every occasion. Just got good news? Have a drink to celebrate. Just got bad news? Have a drink to commiserate.

  “It’s a natural reflex to want to drink when you get a shock or feel out of control, and you’ve just had a massive one. It still doesn’t mean you don’t like what’s happening. You’ve been fixated on this girl, and now all of a sudden she tells you you’re her kid’s dad. You’re excited about the possibilities of where this could lead, but I’m telling you to keep your wits about you, Bryan. Trust me. This could end badly if you don’t.”

  I rubbed my mouth, searching through the mess in my head to try and figure out what I was feeling. My pulse was beating fast. My palms were sweaty. There was a knot in my stomach similar to how I felt right before I played an important rugby match. This was basically the Six Nations Championship level of exhilaration.

  Damn, Sarah was right. I was happy. I was more than happy. I was over-fucking-joyed. Seriously, what the hell was wrong with me that I was overjoyed about being a father to a child I’d never met? If I ever had any doubts that I was screwed up, here was the evidence.

  “You’re right. I will. I’ll be smart,” I told her finally. “I need to go back out and talk to Eilish now. I’ll call you later and let you know how things go.”

  “Yes, call me. And good luck,” she replied.

  After we hung up, I emerged from the cubicle and went to splash some water over my face to compose myself. I knew if I went out there with a big psycho grin on my face I was only going to freak Eilish out. I needed to chill, act as normal as possible.

  But what was normal in this kind of situation? Hell if I knew.

  When I walked back out into the restaurant, she was still sitting at the table. She hadn’t touched her food and there were dozens of tiny pieces of tissue paper on the table from a napkin she’d torn to shreds. She was obviously anxious as hell, and I felt bad for just leaving her there. I slid into the booth and she glanced up, looking relieved to see me, yet still cautious.

  “You came back,” she breathed, eyes flickering over me in concern.

  I ran my hand through my hair. “Yeah I, uh, just needed a minute to get my head around everything.”

  Eilish nodded shakily. “Understandable.”

  A silence fell and I struggled with what to say first. The waiter, clearly having noticed we hadn’t touched our food, chose that moment to make an appearance.

  “Is everything okay? Can I get you anything else?”

  “We’re fine, thank you,” I told him, and he quietly retreated.

  “Listen I—”

  “It’s okay if—”

  We both spoke at once, cutting each other off.

  “Sorry. You go first,” she offered. “And I totally get it if you hate me right now.”

  I frowned at her. “Of course I don’t hate you. Why would I?”

  “B-b-b . . .” She closed her eyes, breathed in and out, then started again, slower this time. “Because I’ve kept this a secret from you for so long. I was young and frightened, and I had this idea of you as this wild, uncontrollable party animal. That’s not an excuse. It’s just, I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me or the baby. It may sound ludicrous, but I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Eilish, I was a wild, uncontrollable party animal, and I’m not saying it was the right thing to do, but I understand why you didn’t tell me. Fucking hell, I don’t even remember our night together.” I paused for a moment, the lovely reality of that fact sinking in.

  My eyes moved over this woman in front of me, this gorgeous, intelligent woman. I’d had her. I’d had her and I didn’t even remember. This new knowledge was a special kind of hell.

  Her eyes lowered and pink stained her cheeks. She looked uncomfortable. Actually, she looked mortified.

  “Eilish . . .” I started clumsily, but what the fuck was I going to say? How do you apologize for sleeping with someone and not remem
bering?

  Sorry, darling. I’m sure you were great, but I was too shitfaced for it to make an impression.

  Christ. I was an arsehole.

  Then again, I did have flashes, strange moments of déjà vu. She’d seemed so familiar, small memories of red hair and pale skin. Perhaps I wasn’t such a forgetful dick after all.

  She waved me away, a brittle smile claiming her features and a flash of unmistakable pain dulling her eyes. “It’s not important.” She cleared her throat, setting her teeth. When she returned her eyes to mine they were cooler, withdrawn, disinterested in a way that looked like self-preservation, and I felt the difference like a blow to the stomach. It was a look I recognized. Only now I understood why she used it on me.

  “Patrick is important. We should focus on him.” Her tone was firm and dispassionate.

  “Yes. Of course. But I’m just saying, the way I acted is hardly a glowing recommendation for fatherhood.” I sought to soften her. “If anything, it’s my own fault I’ve missed out on all these years with . . . with Patrick. The person I was back then didn’t deserve a kid.”

  “I should’ve told you.” She shook her head, the line of her jaw stubborn.

  “You’re telling me now.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why are you being so . . . so reasonable about all this?”

  I smiled. “Because I’m a fairly reasonable bloke.”

  “But you’re making me feel worse. The least you could do is shout at me, call me a few names. I deserve it.” Her face crumpled as though she might cry, but then I watched as steel and resolve forced back the tide of emotion. Holy shit, behind all the nervousness this girl was strong.

  I respected that strength and was drawn to it in a way I didn’t entirely understand.

  Acting on instinct, I reached across the table and took both of her hands in mine. She was still working on obliterating her napkin into tiny pieces, but they fell away. She sucked in a breath at the contact. Holding her soft, delicate hands in mine felt right. It felt so fucking right.