Who’s Your Daddy?

Who’s Your Daddy?

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: You and Joel make a mess of things—again.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Creampie. Age gap. Breeding kink. Period mishap / mentions of blood (!) Eepy Joel is eepy but always down to hit it raw 🤝 Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—for complete content warnings, please read this post!

Word count: 11.5k

Things changed.

You woke up snug in someone’s arms and didn’t move.

You couldn’t blame the warmth or the comfort of the bed—yours was a Twin XL, and your sheets were all tangled through your limbs in crude, haphazard fashion—for why you had. You just did. Like breathing, the decision not to leave this time around was as reflexive as it was freeing.

You buried your nose in an old, familiar neck and inhaled.

Joel.

Don’t go.

Please don’t go.

That voice was childlike and selfish: Don’t leave me here.

For once, you weren’t the one pushing him away; you were begging him to stay and let the scent of him linger on a little while longer in this too-small bed, in this too-cramped dorm, on this too-cold campus in a town over two thousand miles away from the one you called home.

He’d already spent every minute of the weekend here—Parents’ Weekend, of all things. After the initial shock and consternation of his surprise visit wore off and you’d finally had The Talk about what this thing between you was, you’d accepted that Joel loved you. You accepted that you loved him back. And not a second had passed since the end of that night where you didn’t want to be by his side. It hurt to think he’d be leaving you so soon, so of course, he’d offered to extend his stay to Monday.

The motel Joel had booked wouldn’t let him add an extra night, though, so that was how you ended up here: in the confines of your altogether new-and-nice-but-ridiculously-tiny dorm room that you shared with your roommate. Lucky for you, Aly had slept over at a friend’s. Unlucky for Joel, the only bed you had to offer him might as well have been built for a nine-year-old—his hulking frame nearly swallowed the whole thing, and his weight all but toppled the mattress off its risers. You’d only laughed your ass off a little when you saw it happen.

“Me and my old back need Tempur-Pedic, sweetheart,” he’d grumbled in your hair before drifting off to sleep.

“Tempur-Peepaw,” you’d murmured back, and could’ve sworn you felt his grip tighten while you nodded off too.

Now, your gaze was darting to the only source of light in the room—a digital clock between your bed and Aly’s.

5:11 A.M.

Why the fuck were you awake?

Your stomach hurt. Your head ached. You could’ve easily attributed both to the heaping plates of seafood you’d downed with Joel, Aly, and her family the night before. Dallas had picked the last place you went out to eat, and of course, his choice was fucked. While he swore up and down that this was the spot for him and his friends, the rest of you were wary of how hygienic the restaurant’s practices were. You all had felt a little queasy afterward.

But no, this wasn’t nausea you were feeling right now. It was worse, almost. There was a churning in your gut, an airiness in your head, and a searing warmth between your legs, too hot for even your box fan to combat.

You swallowed hard and stared into the darkness.

Were you…

No, no you were not.

No way were you horny at 5 AM.

But you most definitely were.

You hated yourself for it.

You kicked your foot in that muted self-loathing and huffed—you couldn’t move much else with Joel’s body blanketing yours. But you stirred what you could. It wasn’t fucking fair. You knew yourself, and you knew your body, and you would bet a million bucks that this feeling wouldn’t ebb until you’d thoroughly fucked yourself or someone else to a toe-curling, earth-shattering climax. In the next fifteen minutes.

Joel was fast asleep.

Your hands were currently plastered to your sides under the weight of one of the man’s big, tanned, hairy arms, and you didn’t have a hope of moving it more than an inch without waking him. Your gut twisted in despair.

I. WANT. TO. FUCK.

“Shut up,” you silently chided the fiend between your two shaking, slick thighs. And—oh fuck, were they wet.

This was like your own personal hell, not having access to the release you so desperately needed. Not having Joel to roll over with a knowing, crooked grin and a ‘Missin’ me already, honey?’ before a hand dove under the waistband of his boxers to retrieve what you wanted.

No, he needed to sleep.

He had a two-day drive back to Texas, and it would be unspeakably selfish for you to ask for dick right now.

But you needed reprieve from this awful feeling.

You’d rub your legs together. Dull the ache. Take a worn edge of your comforter and hump the thing like the world was ending today. That wouldn’t be weird.

It also wouldn’t be possible, you learned within minutes.

Try as you might to grind your hips and your desperate cunt through cotton without disturbing the man beside you, you quickly realized that the effort was fruitless: you couldn’t make a single seesaw motion back-and-forth without shaking the whole fucking bed. The old thing creaked and screamed worse than the one in the motel.

While need blossomed in your belly and your head swam with unsated desire, your mind hummed with new ideas.

Stupid ideas.

You shifted in place. Joel grunted and hugged you closer. Ordinarily, your heart would’ve melted at the gesture, but in your present bearings, with these pressing urges, you wanted nothing more than to push it straight off. The thought was slowly taking shape in your mind’s eye that maybe you could pull this off—perhaps you could get off without Joel’s noticing if you just…slid down.

If you slunk under his bicep and ever-so delicately pulled your right arm out from underneath his ribs, if you got his leg to stop draping so heavily over your thigh, you could slide down further. Try not to jostle him much.

It was doable.

With the right maneuvering, you could sneak off the bed.

Pleasure beckoned. Success was well within reach when you scooted your butt down the mattress and past the python-grip of Joel’s upper body. Before you knew it, your ass was gliding down, down, down, and then your torso was twisting, your knees shakily planting themselves closer to the foot of the bed. You sat up.

And as soon as you did, the first thing that greeted you through the darkened room was a wide, toothy grin.

“Climb on then, cowgirl,” came Joel’s gravelly invitation.

In the otherwise biting chill of the room, you felt your cheeks burn a hundred degrees. Your stomach flipped.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” you hissed back.

Those words were followed by a little smack to his arm. Joel took the hit in stride and simply stretched both hands behind his head on the pillow, eyeing you lazily.

“I was. ‘Til you started humpin’ my leg like a dog.”

“I did not.”

Your nostrils flared, and your words nearly rose to a whisper-scream. You still couldn’t make out Joel’s expression in the dark but sensed that it was smug.

“Did too.”

“Did n—”

“Baby, this was what the bed just felt like.”

To illustrate his point, Joel rocked his hips the tiniest bit. With the force of two thrusts, the whole frame screeched like a banshee. It seemed you’d been too horny to hear it.

“That’s not—” you started, voice tight.

“Just admit it. You needed to cum.”

He might as well have stuck his tongue out after.

You would’ve been irked beyond words if you’d had half a mind to channel the feeling. As it was, though, your brain was fried off a fucking need like no other, and your limbs were driven on pure impulse. You couldn’t be bothered to carry on this petty fight with your peri-geriatric partner right now; you needed release. So, hanging your head in shame for no longer than a moment, and working your panties down your legs while you did, you finally nodded.

The movement was slight. You’d only tipped your chin up once before those instinct-driven limbs were clambering quick to straddle Joel’s lap. He was lying supine on the bed, but you couldn’t see much else. You felt his smile stretch bigger as you lowered yourself onto him, though.

He was tired, you could tell. You normally weren’t one to rebuff an offer to have Joel inside you, no matter the hour, but this felt greedier than usual. You felt needy.

Which was why you didn’t immediately reach for the bulge in his boxers when you’d first mounted him.

Instead, you reached to touch yourself.

You were soaked as you’d ever been.

“I— I can get myself off in a minute,” you found yourself stammering out the second your index and middle fingers connected with your wet, throbbing clit.

And it was true. The sensations you felt were so sharp they almost stung, with sparks igniting across your lower half in just one brush against that pulsing bud. You’d scarcely completed one circuit with your fingers when Joel’s hands were gliding up to find your hips, grip firm.

He swiftly adjusted your seat. Made you rub him harder.

Amusement tinged his voice while he mumbled, low:

“Only place you’re gettin’ off is my cock, got that?”

You hated how quickly you nodded in response.

Okay. He was letting you be selfish. He wanted to help quell your thirst, no matter how early it was or how long of a drive he had. That realization only made you wetter.

You were practically dripping between the legs when Joel slid his boxers down and let his cock spring free.

You knew what to do. You didn’t need his assistance, but still, ever the caretaker, Joel palmed your backside with one hand and held the base of his cock with the other. He guided your heat to his tip, and in the dim, dull gloom of your dorm room, you could feel him watching. What his eyes couldn’t see his mouth elucidated in words.

“You ready for me, baby?”

He nudged just the head between your weeping folds and let you take the lead. You whimpered. “Yes, daddy.”

Desperate as you were, you didn’t wait for the right moment to move. You didn’t bother readying yourself, because you already knew what you needed. You sank down, and your walls parted without protest. You took him in and gripped him tight and all but choked Joel’s length with the soft, hot, and needy clutch of your body.

“Fuck, honey—”

“Feels so good,” you panted, lips parting as he filled you. You rolled your hips and whimpered again. “So— oh—.”

Your words split on a shriek. You hadn’t even meant to let it out, but the stretch of Joel’s girth felt unusually tough. It almost hurt. But, rather than shy away, you leaned into it. You braced your knees and bore down harder, relishing the sting of his throbbing cock as you slid up and then collapsed again. Pleasure surged through your veins.

The bed groaned and creaked. Your motions didn’t slow. Joel grunted, feeling you clench again, and in an effort to curtail his own need, evidently, starting kneading at the flesh of your thighs. He moved them inward, touch soft.

“Hon,” he breathed, tone just as gentle, “you’re soaked.”

You were restless, too. You anchored your knees a little deeper and leaned back, allowing Joel access to the space between your thighs that was sticky-wet with residue. He swept his fingers through your nectar and thumbed at your clit. You whined with hypersensitivity.

You felt delicate everywhere. Joel was so big inside you, stretching your most precious, sensitive parts and making room for himself. He was throbbing. Leaking. Reaching up and smearing your own wetness across your face while a grin no doubt spread across his own—‘There’s a good girl. Ride my cock. Take what you need, baby’—and you could tell he was just as invested in your pleasure as you were, if not more. He relished whatever remnants of your arousal he could find and praised you with it. You wished you could see him while he did it all.

If light wouldn’t allow you that view, you would take matters into your own hands, you quickly decided. Prying your lower half off of Joel with a grunt and a sigh, you squeezed his legs. You patted his thighs, gently.

“Need you closer,” you mumbled. Your hands slid up his front, and you smiled when you felt him snag your wrists.

Joel pulled you up. Kissed your palms. Kissed your cheeks. Drew you into his lips and, at the same time, flipped you over so that he was on top. His shaft was slippery as it bumped and rubbed between your folds, and you couldn’t help but let out a moan into his mouth.

“Where do you want me, sweetheart?” he said, panting.

In answer, you took the base of his cock in one hand and guided it closer to your center. Joel rutted his hips, and his length pushed up—it glided across your lower belly, smearing the plane of skin with your combined fluids.

He was teasing you. Canting his hips as if fucking someplace deep in your cunt. Biting back a laugh.

“You dick,” you breathed out, both a warning and a momentary reprieve from the severity of wanting.

You gripped his cheek with the same hand that had just held his length and drew him closer to your face. You kissed him and wrapped your legs around his hips, knowing the effect it would have. Joel grunted.

And, though you knew it would amuse him to no end to have you begging for his cock, you also guessed that he wasn’t quite as resilient as he made himself out to be. He couldn’t keep grinning forever—the second your legs nudged him back and the tip of his dick notched in, again, he moaned in pleasure. It ended in a whimper.

Joel was just as fucked-out and desperate as you.

You couldn’t see his full expression, but you could sense it would show he was right on the brink, same as you.

You kissed him deeply. You let his length glide back inside your needy cunt, squeezing every inch of the way.

“Gonna cum for daddy now? Make a mess of this cock?”

In a breath, you could tell he was already there. His balls began slapping rhythmically against your ass, and his stomach muscles clenched. Tufts of grey and black in that thatch of wiry hair at his base kept rubbing your mound, prompting you to squirm and beg for more.

“I-I’m close, Joel,” you told him. Your toes curled.

The bed frame all but shrieked beneath the weight of your body and his, now that Joel was on top and delivering thrusts hard and fast. You braced yourself.

If the bed broke, it broke. You’d gladly pay to have it fixed. Explaining the unusual charge on your student account to your dad was a separate question, though.

“Fuck,” you keened, just as a stroke to your most sensitive spot inside had stars flashing before your eyes.

“Right there,” Joel grunted, going again. “Just like that.”

His forearms bracketed your head, and his face was close. His thrusts were relentless. The little tendril of pleasure coiling up through your gut was just then beginning to take root—two more thrusts and it felt fit to burst. Your arms wound around the back of his neck, and your breaths sped up while Joel kept plunging in and out

In and out.

In and out.

“Gonna let me cum inside?” Joel grit through his teeth.

You nodded, braindead as you’d ever felt before.

“Gonna let me breed this pretty little cunt?”

Oh, fuck.

You came. You didn’t have a say in the matter. It simply swelled and flowed and expelled like a water’s stream, coating the front of Joel’s stomach and your own as well. Your eyes rolled, stomach clenched, walls pulsed and squeezed and flooded your whole body with pleasure.

At the tail end of the sensation, and only dimly grazing your present cognition, you felt his spend unload in ropes. They painted your insides and sent your head spinning, half-feral with the idea of him marking you in this risky, forbidden way. You wanted him spurting so far up your body you could taste him in your mouth. Your hips rolled one more time and your lips brushed with his.

“I— I love you. Fuck, I fucking love you,” Joel groaned.

His cum continued to pulse out from his tip.

“I love you, too,” you panted back.

When Joel collapsed, you feared the bed might split right down the middle with the force of it. Dizzy with pleasure, bliss, and more love than you thought was possible for just one person, you didn’t worry for long. You stroked the back of Joel’s head, silently thanked the bed frame for lasting as long as it had, and inhaled the man’s scent.

It was gonna hurt like a motherfucker when he left.

You weren’t going to think about that now.

Instead, you locked your legs tight around his hips and held him as close as you could. The head of his cock nudged somewhere deep inside you, and his face tilted sideways. Joel nuzzled your cheek. He kissed it softly.

“You alright, honey?” he checked in.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” It wasn’t a total lie.

You felt as content as you could be laying between the soaked sheets of your bed with Joel draped overtop. For several minutes, you did just that: laid back and emptied your head of any thoughts of leaving. You hugged him. Buried your face in the crook of his neck and sighed.

Alright, get up.

Go to the bathroom.

It’s 6 AM and you’re about to cry.

Attempting to get out from under Joel and off the bed proved futile—you would’ve had better luck punching a hole through a brick wall—but luckily, he eased up. He let you stand from the bed once he decided he’d doled out a sufficient number of kisses, then you rose on shaky legs.

You flicked on the light. You rubbed your too-tired eyes.

And just as you were about to scour the floor for some clothes and get ready to head outside, you heard a strangled sort of noise from the bed. You paused.

Joel cleared his throat.

“Hey, uh, honey…”

You turned.

FUCK.

Your bed looked like a crime scene. Joel was trying to sit up, though it seemed he wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands, as half the fucking mattress and sheets were all but soaked through with blood. Your stomach turned.

No. No. Your period wasn’t due for another two days. You hadn’t been caught off guard with a bloody mess like this in years. And in front of Joel? All over Joel, from his groin to his chest to his neck to his chin—you’d been touching him a lot in the dark—and now he was looking on at you in muted horror? You didn’t want to know what you looked like. You wanted to hurl yourself out of the window, if it meant you didn’t have to face the repercussions of this. Joel must be disgusted.

“I am…so sorry.” Your words came out mostly muffled through your fingers. Your hands shielded your face.

Before you could think, you were stumbling toward the sink. Your eyes were burning. He’s leaving. He’s leaving now, in an hour or two, and the last thing he’ll have to remember you by is your menstrual blood on his dick.

Just shoot me.

Make it quick.

“Sweetheart?”

Again, Joel’s voice was soft as he approached from behind. You had a hand towel thrust under a spray of water that was slowly going warm, and your bottom lip was clamped between your teeth. Your fingers trembled.

“Baby…” He said it like a harsher-spoken word might fairly split you in two. That only made you feel worse.

You still weren’t thinking completely straight when you yanked the towel out, wrung it once, and then turned to Joel, almost smacking him in the belly with it as you did.

Scrubbing his blood-smeared tummy seemed like the most logical course of action to take in the moment, so that was what you did. It was just that small matter of having your hands shaking so much you could hardly hold the towel that made it tricky. And Joel’s own warm, callused touch closing in over your fingers, squeezing.

“Hey, look at me,” he urged you gently. You wouldn’t, or couldn’t, so he tilted your chin up to his to make you meet his gaze and momentarily halt your motions.

His eyes were far too soft for a man drenched in blood and preparing to take a thirty-hour road trip that day.

The smile was too sweet for someone leaving you here.

“This is so embarrassing,” you blurted out, heart clenching. “I’ve— it’s never happened…like that.”

With a man, yes. On the person you love, even more so.

You were about to try and start scrubbing the blood again, wanting to rid yourself and him of this mess, when Joel’s smile stretched wider. It seemed almost like a grin.

“Honey, you’re fine,” he said, reassuring. Pressing at your wrist again. “It’s just a little blood. We can rinse off in the shower. Wash the sheets. No need to be embarrassed.”

Easier said than done.

Your brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry, Joel.”

The man in front of you took the towel from you then. He tossed the rag in the sink and cupped your likely-blood-smeared cheeks in his hands before meeting your gaze. His palms were warm. His eyes, as usual, were soft. Kind.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly.

With words like those and a look as serious as his, you couldn’t help but relent. Your muscles relaxed. In the glance you stole toward your floor-length mirror, you might’ve caught a glimpse of your own tousled, bloodied exterior for a second, but that memory didn’t last long.

Joel was reaching for a bigger towel. Wrapping you up. Grabbing another for himself and then nudging you over to the door, where you knew you’d need to sneak out and down the hallway to make it to the communal bathroom. Silently, you cursed yourself for opting to live on-campus that year, but there was nothing you could do about it now. Behind you, Joel secured a bright pink, polka-dotted towel around his hips and tried not to smirk.

“Never thought I’d be doin’ this again,” he murmured.

You shot him a look over your shoulder.

“Sneak out of any other girls’ dorms lately, Miller?”

Joel eyed you right back, undaunted.

“Yeah. About a decade before you were born.”

And neither one of you possessed the sense to control it: you had to laugh, and Joel had to elbow you playfully and tell you to respect your fuckin’ elders, kid, and your amusement only grew as you approached the door. His arm hooked around your neck before pulling your back against his chest. Your giggles turned to squeals as he nipped the skin just below your ear and kissed you in a manner more akin to tickling. You begged him to quit, but the grin on your face said you wanted it. Joel gripped the doorknob in his free hand and was about to pull it back, when the thing jumped forward, at you both.

The door opened, and light from the hallway poured in.

“Wh- oh! Hey. Woah. Hey.”

Dallas Ingram’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, but a smile was as quick to form. He eyed you both—up and down.

And almost as swift as his smirk was to appear:

“Gettin’ busy, huh?”

You stared back slack-jawed, covered in blood, and frankly wanting to die a little bit as your roommate’s brother looked on with the biggest, dumbest grin.

Evidently, your undercover skills needed some work.

Despite your best efforts all weekend, Dallas had come to learn that you and Joel weren’t actually stepdaughter and stepfather by the end of breakfast early Saturday morning, and it wasn’t because his sister had snitched. He’d seen Joel smack your ass en route to the bathroom in the dining hall and swiftly surmised that there was more to the story than either one of you were letting on.

He hadn’t been shocked to find you and Joel in your dorm that morning after Aly had asked him to stop by and pick up her gym bag, but he had seemed relatively intrigued by the blood. He’d asked if you and Joel had been fighting or fucking—or both—and you’d rolled your eyes so hard they’d nearly hit the back of your skull. Joel had looked like he either wanted to deck the kid or laugh with him. You suspected by the smirk that ensued it was probably the latter. His face had still flushed a little bit.

Now you were showered, dressed, decently groomed, equipped with enough tampons and pads to supply a city, and perched in the passenger seat of Joel’s Bronco.

“Take a left in half a mile. Onto Kirkland,” you dictated.

Joel squinted to see your phone screen.

“That ain’t right,” he replied.

He made a pass for the phone. You pulled it out of reach.

“I know where I’m going, Joel,” you said, directing his gaze back to the road. “I’m here every other weekend.”

“I’ve been here, too. You go straight on Prescott, take a right by the bank, keep going past the food trucks—”

“No, no, this is Putnam. You’ve got it all fucked up.”

You pointed out a street sign as if to say, ‘See?’

“That ain’t the same one we saw comin’ in.”

“It is. Open your eyes and maybe we’d—”

“My vision’s just fine, kid. Seriously—”

“Seriously? We’ve been circling!”

“It’s called finding the right—”

“—HERE, RIGHT HERE—”

“That ain’t th—”

“Miller!”

The Bronco barreled right past Kirkland Street, along with the diner the two of you had been trying to find for the last twenty minutes. Every time the navigation on your phone had directed you one step closer to the spot, Joel had insisted that his memory served him better.

It hadn’t.

You missed your turn for what felt like the fiftieth time that day, and you were one wide, jerky U-turn away from just throwing yourself out of the moving vehicle. That was how bad Joel’s navigational skills and your level of frustration were at the moment. Add to that a stabbing pain in your stomach and you were truly ready to jump.

Joel cut the wheel and headed back in that direction.

“‘M’sorry,” he said. He glanced your way, where your knees were pulling up to your chest on a particularly tough cramp, and he reached for you. Squeezed your leg. “I’m sorry. That was on me. I should’ve…listened to you.”

“No shit.”

You winced—in pain and in shame for sounding so mean.

“I mean,” you returned, quickly recovering yourself. “Sorry. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”

Watching Joel’s side profile, you saw his lips twitch.

“‘S’alright. I like you feisty.”

You bit your tongue.

Sure, he did.

You were just then pulling into the parking lot of your favorite brunch spot in town, and the air outside was cold. The tips of your toes still prickled at the memory of a crisp, frigid trek from your residence hall to the car, and for a moment, you dreaded going inside to eat at all. You wished your body had timed its monthly implosion a little better and your last hour with Joel wasn’t spent in half-agony and agitation, but that was life, you reckoned. With a resigned sigh, you reached for the door handle.

Your boots were back on the floor and about to heave your body out when Joel stopped you in your tracks.

“Wait here,” he murmured.

He motioned for you to stay.

You turned to ask why; the driver’s side door was already slamming shut behind him. Through the windshield, you saw his broad, hunched form round the front of the car. He paused a moment to draw his jacket tighter about himself, and shortly sidled up and swung your door open.

He offered his hand to help you out of the Bronco.

Then, to your surprise, he retracted it even faster.

His eyes had just landed somewhere inside and flashed with recognition, as if remembering something big. Joel reached in, past you, mumbling softly—‘Shit, I meant to give you these earlier. Forgot I even bought ‘em’—and he looked contrite. He opened the glove compartment and tugged out a box. Before you could try and ask what it was, Joel had its contents out. He stepped closer, casting a quick look over his shoulder and frowning.

“Here, why don’t you scoot over? I’m gettin’ you cold.”

He gestured to the wind overhead and moved in nearer like he meant to climb in. You slid across the bucket seat, not entirely sure of what he intended to do, but let him shut the door after himself again and go in all the same.

Shortly, Joel held up what looked to be a heating pad.

His gaze flitted to your stomach, and he nodded once.

“When I first got here you mentioned you were expectin’ your— your, uh…time of the month soon, so I went out and got these. Forgot I bought the pack of ‘em. ‘M’sorry.”

Joel’s frown grew, as if chastising himself. You blinked.

“If you just lift your shirt a bit…maybe tuck it right—” He pinched a belt loop to tug the denim out from your waist. “—under the band here. I don’t know if it’ll stick, but—”

His words trailed off in your mind—you’d caught a glimpse of what was stuffed in the glove box along with the heating pads, and you saw a trove of other items: Advil, chocolate, your favorite trail mix, saltines, jerky, fucking chamomile tea, like he knew exactly what you needed. All because you’d said in passing—actually, right before you’d begged him to finish inside you Friday night—that you were going to be starting your period soon.

And you’d just chewed the poor guy out for his driving.

You blinked some more, not saying a word because you didn’t know what else to tell him, and your throat ached.

Thank you for being sweet.

Sorry I’m so damn mean.

Please don’t leave me.

Slow, steady breaths warmed your cheeks, and a hand tugged your shirt up. Another touch smoothed the heating pad over your belly. Joel wriggled your waistband a second, trying to fit the thing snug underneath it, and all the while, you said nothing.

“I had to text my brother. That’s how clueless I was.”

Joel breathed a laugh. It was soft and sheepish. In contrast to how taciturn you were, he couldn’t seem to keep quiet—like filling the silence with words might make him feel less nervous or awkward about this.

“He’s been seeing this girl, Maria. Well, Tommy’s always been better’n me—much better, I’d say—with, y’know, bein’ in touch with his feminine side, I guess. He’s had more girls than me, friends and girlfriends alike. Anyway, I just needed all the help I could get buyin’ this stuff, and he and Maria gave me advice on what to do. I hope it—”

“Miller,” you cut in.

“Yeah?”

Your breath hitched.

“Have you ever…had a girlfriend?”

The words tumbled out before you could rein them in. Joel had just finished pressing the heating pad flat across your stomach and was pulling your shirt back down when his gaze jumped to yours. For several seconds, it was his turn to be silent, staring at you.

Your insides burned like you’d doused them in kerosene.

“I haven’t…really…” he started again, speaking slow.

Why the fuck were you doing this? Why now?

“Would you…want me to be your girlfriend?”

For whatever reason, your voice cracked.

You hated the sound of that with everything in you, but it was too late to stop the surge of word vomit coming out.

“Even if I’m…mean, and I’m needy, and I— I— I can’t—”

“Sweetheart.” Joel’s expression visibly softened.

“And I can’t show love like a normal person should. I don’t…know how to be good like that. Or receptive to affection. And just knowing that pisses me off so m—”

“You aren’t.”

“What?”

“Mean.”

“Wh—”

“Or needy.”

Joel’s gaze skated from your eyes to your lips, and in a fraction of a second, you could see something threaten to tempt his own. He looked back up instead, smoothed your hair out of your face, and then cupped your cheek.

“Kinda thought you already were my girlfriend, honey.”

It sounded like a confession and a stunt, almost—how could the man be so assured when a reality like that scarcely seemed plausible to you? He was fighting a smile as if he knew something you didn’t. He had to.

“And I love you, you know that?” He said it gently.

You blinked.

You still weren’t used to hearing it.

“You do?” Your voice was small for some reason.

For some reason, it was like you were a child all over again, wishing your father would reach out and hug you sometimes. Approaching adolescence and missing your mother. You’d never felt it, much less heard it from the mouth of someone else in a way that seemed weightless. Joel said it like loving you was as easy as drawing breath.

Then he said it again:

“I love you, sweetheart.”

You said it back, and meant it.

You said it another time while strolling hand-in-hand into the diner. Felt it rumble through Joel’s chest when you took your spot beside him in a booth by the window. Heard it in his tone. Sensed it with his looks. Tasted it on his lips, if only for the briefest of moments while you sat and picked out breakfast together. Your knuckles brushed and your shoulders bumped with damn near every other bite of the meal, but neither of you minded. There was comfort and security in every touch. There was home, and then there was Joel—even though Austin would stay 2,000 miles away as long as you stayed here, he was all you needed to feel safe and content right now.

You didn’t want him to leave.

Back on campus, standing in the parking lot behind the dorms, you told him as much. You hadn’t cared how sad or desperate it made you seem—you were those things—and when Joel hugged you tight, you didn’t regret saying it. He held you close and kissed the crown of your head.

And when it was time for him to leave, you could tell he couldn’t help himself when he leaned down even lower, lips grazing the shell of your ear. Grinning. You felt him.

You heard the words he’d murmured but almost couldn’t believe what he said when he’d said it. You’d discussed it some over eggs and cheesy grits that morning, but still.

It was scary.

Unsettling.

Maybe exactly what you needed, judging by that smile on his face when he finally leaned back and pulled away.

“Just…think about it, OK?” he said, tone encouraging, “We can take this as slow or as fast as you wanna go.”

You nodded that you would.

You knew this could wait.

But still, as you headed back inside and waved the Bronco off for another long spell of time apart—your boyfriend was going home, and taking a piece of you with him—your muscles tensed. Your stomach stirred with uncertainty just shy of a pain, and it wasn’t your cramps that you could reasonably blame this on now.

Your steps were slower; your legs were leaden. The impression of Joel’s last words were still fresh in your mind, and though the prospect was thrilling in some ways, in others it chilled you to your core. While you walked, his words echoed again and again and again:

“I’m ready to tell your dad whenever you are.”

Time passed, and the days wore on.

One minute he’d had you wrapped in his arms, and now you were gone. Every day. It felt like a weight, though nothing, no one, was there, and Joel found himself loathing it more and more with each passing day.

He called your phone more often than he should.

Without a doubt, you had a busy life in college. Finals were drawing close on the horizon, you had at least five different projects and essays and whatever the hell else those fuckass professors decided assigning last minute, and Joel wasn’t too much of a jealous man, but he also craved your time. Your touch. Your voice. When distance deprived him of your presence, he sought any means to be with you, even if it meant looking lame and pathetic.

He was.

He worked evenings. Whenever he saw your name pop up on his phone screen, he’d walk out on just about any task he had and take your call. He kept the old device in his breast pocket just so he could feel you when you did.

Joel Miller was in way too fucking deep, and he knew it.

So, in an effort to curb the fixation, he took to housework during the day. Real, manual labor. It wasn’t for his own home but his granddad’s, and it had been something he’d promised to do for years—him and Tommy both.

The old man had been gone for over a decade now, but the home had stayed in the family. It was in a constant state of disrepair, rarely saw a hint of human life outside of the occasional visit from either brother just to ‘go and check the place out,’ but he and Tommy knew they’d have to do something about it soon. Inspiration just hadn’t struck for what that ‘something’ might be.

Today he was cutting grass. Cleaning out gutters. Pulling weeds—lots and lots of weeds, the sheer mass of which he hadn’t been able to fathom at first glance of the yard.

And he felt a little guilty for just how bad he’d let this place get over the years. The fact that it had taken him an all-out infatuation with a girl he couldn’t get his head or heart off of just to haul his ass over here and work.

Something rustled in the bushes. Joel groaned.

And just as he was about to cup his hands around his mouth and shout, ‘GET THE HELL OFF’A MY PROPERTY!’ you called. He picked right up.

But he couldn’t help the huff in his voice on ‘Hello?’

“Everything alright?” You sounded confused.

“‘M’fine. Just tired of fighting this beast.”

“Beast! What beast?”

“This fuckin’ rat.”

He heard you pause, as if trying to recall when the last time you’d seen a rat yourself, and then you laughed.

Joel momentarily brightened at the sound of it.

“Yeah? Is my big, strong man scared of Stuart Little?”

And then his frown was back. He nearly rolled his eyes.

“I am not,” he returned in protest. He stalked over to the bushes where the sounds had just come from, and he shook a few errant branches. Hard. “Go on, get out!”

“Alright, I’ll go.”

Joel could hear your chuckle through the line. He didn’t need to see your face to know it had broken into a grin.

“Funny. Y’ever consider bein’ a comedian, sweetheart?”

“I’ve toyed with the idea. Now what the hell have you got going on with a rodent on your granddad’s property?”

“It ain’t a rodent.”

Another pause.

“Well, what’s—”

Joel didn’t hear the rest. He’d just shook the bush as hard as he could, and out flew the beast he’d been after. It scrambled on its paws and hightailed it across the yard

“AND STAY OUT!” he yelled after it.

Now you were invested. Your stifled giggling had turned to queries—‘What the fuck are you doing, Miller? What is it?!’—and Joel scarcely had the energy to answer. His back hurt. Hell, it ached. And his knees weren’t doing so hot either. At length, he turned to face wherever that damn critter had gotten off to, and he squinted out into the mid-afternoon sun. It was cold, but his efforts had worn him out. Warmed him up. He’d broken a sweat.

“It’s just…a dog,” he heaved at last.

A little gasp sounded through the phone.

“A puppy?!” you squealed. “Joel, you bastard!”

Joel scowled. He wished you could see it.

“Why am I a bastard? She’s trespassin’.”

“It’s a goddamn dog, Miller! C’mon.”

The man wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. Yes, it was a dog. A yellow blond beast of a thing that tore out and around the farmlands like he owned every acre of it and shit exclusively in his backyard. He’d stomped through four big, soggy gifts of this kind in the last week alone. He was sick of the thing, and determined to find out who she belonged to.

“Is she OK?”

Your voice was soft. Joel had to do a double take.

“OK? ‘Course she’s OK, she’s got a big, pretty yard to drop shits in, a loud and yappy bark to wake the whole—”

“Food, I mean. Has she eaten? Is she coming back?”

Now Joel really had to take a beat. Were you sympathizing with the beast he so despised?

He put a hand on his hip. He winced, instantly, feeling a strain in his back the size of Texas itself. He slowly lowered the hand and started off to the house.

“I don’t think you’re hearin’ me. This creature is ruining my property. My grandfather’s property—just soilin’ it.”

“Because you and your brother have done such a bang-up job of keeping that place fit for human habitation.”

“Hey,” Joel huffed, “I’m tryin’. Been here all week.”

“I know.” You took a second yourself. Probably smiled. “I’m just teasing. I’m glad you’re out there to fix it up.”

Then, before he could reply, you were jumping back in:

“So, what are you thinking of naming her?”

By now, Joel was approaching the back porch. The toe of one boot had just struck the bottom step, all molded, old, and rotten straight down to the tufts of grass below. He halted in place and shifted his phone to the other ear.

He frowned deeply.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I naming her’?”

“All that screamin’ and hollerin’ you’re bound to do while you try and evict this poor thing from your property. Might as well give her a name if you’re gonna yell.”

“You yell at me plenty and rarely use my name.”

“That’s not true. I do use your name.”

“‘Dickhead’ doesn’t count.”

He was walking up the steps now. Hearing them groan and creak beneath the weight of his body and hoping the porch wouldn’t split in two before he reached the door.

“I’m serious, Miller,” you continued, unfazed. “Give her a name. Leave out some treats. Let her get comfortable enough to where you can check her collar, or else pick her up and take her to the shelter. See if she’s chipped.”

Joel didn’t have the heart to tell you that most dogs out here didn’t have little luxuries like microchipping, and the odds of finding this thing’s owner that way were slim to none, but he also just wanted to say something sweet. Ease your mind before changing the topic to more important things—like when you planned on coming home and how he could persuade you to make it a day or ten sooner. He heard the screen door slam shut behind him, and he was heading straight for the sofa. He sighed.

“Alright, sweet pea. Why don’t you think of some names for me, and I’ll start asking around the neighborhood if anyone knows whose she is. How does that sound?”

“I’ll need to meet her first,” you answered shortly.

“What?”

Joel dropped to the couch and kicked off his shoes. On the other end of the line, he heard shuffling, like you were preparing to relax a bit yourself. You cleared your throat.

“Yeah. Can’t fairly name a dog I haven’t even seen.”

“I’ll send you a picture if I catch the little shit.”

“Nope. Gotta be in person. You know that.”

“No, I don’t. And we ain’t keepin’ her.”

“We’ll see about that, dickhead.”

“Honey.”

That last word was both a term of endearment and a warning—‘We are not, under any circumstances adopting this dog.’ For some reason, as he said it, the protest already seemed futile on his lips. Like you weren’t hearing a syllable of what he was saying.

“Okaaaaay.”

“Sweetheart.”

Another warning. Another beat of silence.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated in his grip.

For a second, he was confused. Who the fuck would be texting him other than you? His brother and friends were all serial phone call fanatics—too Boomer-adjacent to use texts as a common form of communication. He pulled his phone from his face and put you on speaker. He swiped his thumb down to snag his new notification.

And nearly choked on the spit in his mouth.

You’d texted him. He’d opened it.

Attached to the message you sent were several different pictures of you, all in various states of undress. They were taken seconds ago, if Joel had had to guess.

“Fuck me,” he groaned.

His cock was already hardening in his jeans. He could hear you stifle a laugh across the line but didn’t care.

“Weird name for a dog, but I’ll take it,” you said.

Mutts were the furthest thing from his mind.

He wasn’t shy to tell you as much as his hand slid down to the button and zip of his pants and undid them both.

“Put on the…the…Face…book,” he muttered, low.

“The what now, Joel?” you cackled back.

“The Face-whatever. Video call. Wanna see your face.”

“FaceTime, Miller. FaceTime.” You were teasing now.

You should’ve known damn well a man as old as him wouldn’t know what the fuck a FaceTime was, but you poked fun anyway. Joel reminded himself to make you pay for that later, and then took his cock in his hand.

He let go to spit in his palm. He grabbed it again.

“Put those pretty tits on FaceTime or I’m tellin’ your old man all the sick, depraved things you’ve been lettin’ m—”

“You’re insufferable, Miller.”

He grinned to himself.

“You love it.”

He knew you couldn’t argue with that. In a minute, he heard you sigh, felt you betray a little smile of your own as you got to shifting around in place again. Preparing.

“I’ve got class in twenty minutes.”

“Won’t need but five, sweet pea.”

His phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime.

Today was the day.

Well, almost the day.

Tomorrow you came home, but it was close enough to midnight now that Joel could pretend that it was today.

He was seated at a bar, both elbows planted on the sticky wet surface of a tabletop that was rarely cleaned. By now, he knew Mando’s sports bar like the back of his hand, and he could tell when certain staff weren’t around to clean spills. He could smell it, with the stench of a coconut-flavored rum wafting up to his nostrils and invading his brain. It took him back to his college days. Meanwhile, a mob of plastered bachelorettes were gathered six stools down and only getting louder.

“Kill me now,” your father grumbled beside him.

Joel hadn’t meant to say yes when he’d invited him out.

In fact, this was the last thing he wanted to be doing tonight, but your dad was unimaginably persuasive. He’d also offered to pay for Joel’s drinks at the bar, so really, this was just an opportunity to exercise his liver with an old friend, for free. Nothing dangerous about drinking with the guy whose daughter he was secretly dating.

Nothing dangerous at all.

Joel swallowed another draught of his jack and coke and stared harder at the wall of spirits in front of him, like a long enough look might save him from having to talk.

He’d never felt more awkward around his friend in his life. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to die or just confess.

Hey, man, I’m in love with your daughter, by the way.

We’ve been having filthy phone sex for weeks now.

Regular, old fashioned fucking for even longer.

“I need to take a leak,” Joel told him instead.

“Really? That’s your fourth piss in the last hour, Miller,” your father observed, almost clinically. He was drunk. “Sure you ain’t got one of them…UTIs, or whatever?”

The man had a smirk on his face when he said it.

He went on: “Catch a little somethin’ from whatever girl you screwed on vacation a couple weeks back, maybe?”

Of course, he meant the time he’d visited you at school.

Of course, he didn’t know it was you he’d gone to see.

He would, eventually. Not now. Not here. Not with eight of the most obnoxiously intoxicated women flailing limbs and lip syncing to Shania Twain just a dozen feet away.

When Joel returned from his bathroom break—another stupidly long pit stop like the last three taken before it—one of the octet had wandered over. She moved closer to him. Joel had only just slid onto his barstool and ducked his head to drink when a voice broke in, high and shrill.

He ignored her. Like the sound hadn’t even registered for him, he completely disregarded the wasted twenty-something, though it was obvious her eyes were on him.

“Ain’t feelin’ too friendly tonight?” his friend ribbed him.

Your dad didn’t seem to be seeing her either, while her fingers splayed over her hips and she slurred something more about needing some of that Southern hospitality.

Joel could smile. Nod his head.

That should get his friend off of his back.

But the moment he did, it was like a siren went off.

“Why don’t you buy her a drink, Miller?!” the man barked.

And Joel declined. Didn’t even lift his gaze in the girl’s direction and took another sip of his drink, hoping that she would leave. She did, eventually, but only after your dad had bought her and her friends a round of green tea shots, and the group had shrieked with satisfaction. His friend grimaced, but Joel could tell he was also amused.

“Never seen that before,” the man hummed.

“Seen what?” Joel took another swig of his drink.

“Never seen you so disinterested in gettin’ ass, Miller.”

Joel cringed hearing that. Not just on account of you, but knowing how crude your father could get when he was drunk. How forthright and unfiltered he’d become.

“Yeah. Just not that into…that,” Joel finished lamely.

“I’ll bet.”

His friend flitted a look from him, to the bachelorettes, to him once again. He seemed to appraise him in his seat. Then he leaned in closer and bumped Joel’s shoulder.

“Hear the way she screamed when I bought ‘em drinks?” His grin was smug. “Think she’d sound the same if y—”

“Why don’t you do it, then?” Joel said suddenly. He turned toward his friend, then nodded to the group. “Eager as you are to get some tail, go tell ‘em hi.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so abrupt. His tone was clipped, with an edge that said that he was annoyed with this conversation. Admittedly, he was, but he didn’t need your father asking why. He took a slow, steadying breath.

“Because I’m a taken man, Joel Miller. You ain’t.”

Right.

Right.

Fucking his ex-wife’s best friend was a real special thing. One could only imagine how well that would turn out.

Without thinking, Joel glowered down at his drink.

“Shit. You’re empty,” his friend slurred a little. “Sadie?”

Sadie, the bartender, had their drinks replenished in a second—she knew her regulars and didn’t talk much.

Your dad could learn a thing or two from her, Joel mused.

Then, as if reading his mind and deciding to push his luck even more for the hell of it, the man spoke again:

“Don’t worry, Joel-y. I’m sure you’ll get there someday.”

He was sneering faintly. His breath smelled of whiskey.

“Oh yeah?” Joel shot back. Sharp. “Get where?”

He couldn’t help it.

Too late to channel his own inner-Sadie now.

His companion raised his glass to his lips and smiled.

“A relationship, Miller. With the woman you love.”

“And here I thought you just liked fucking her.”

A silence stretched after he said that, and Joel couldn’t tell if it was his friend taking his time with his cocktail or really resenting his words. He hadn’t meant to be rude.

Well, no, maybe he had.

Maybe he was tired of talking about Helen like that ‘relationship’ they’d had wasn’t the reason his friend’s marriage had gone up in flames decades back and you’d grown up most of your life without a mother. Joel didn’t have the whole story—couldn’t fully gauge what had taken place all those years ago, or why she’d left—but he could guess that this wasn’t the right move for your dad.

Or for you.

Just knowing what he knew, and what he’d failed to do when his friend had first told him, was enough to piss him off. Which was why he went on, futile as it seemed.

“You really think it’s love…with Helen? I didn—”

“Yeah. I do.”

His friend’s reply sounded a little barbed, at last.

There it was. The first tinge of annoyance—a rare sight for a man as indefatigably cheerful as your father—almost made Joel smile. He could see how he really felt.

His friend was clearly drunk now.

As the man’s emotions had a tendency to take wild, arcing swings whenever the drinks had gone to his head, it appeared he was nearly there. He’d eased off on the nonsense about Joel’s hypothetical sex life and directed the discussion inward. Joel could handle these musings.

For the first time, he leaned in closer and spoke lower.

“Last time we talked, you said Helen Foley was a fling.”

His friend’s eyes widened the slightest bit. He swallowed whatever whiskey was in his mouth and shook his head.

“You don’t…Don’t even say that.”

“Say what? That was all you.”

Joel’s gaze goaded him on, and he wasn’t even sure why he wanted to. It felt like the right thing to do, though, given how otherwise tight-lipped his friend had been about his former mistress and the fact that he was flaunting it now. As drunk men often liked to do.

“I never said she was a fling, Miller. I just…”

Another shake of his head, eyes glazed.

“Just what?” Joel pressed.

“I just said I liked her. A lot.”

“You said you liked the sex.”

Joel was being crass. Crude, like his friend had been before. He knew it would provoke a reaction out of him.

And just moments later, Joel’s wish was nearly granted.

Your dad blinked. He cleared his throat and tapped his now half-empty glass on the bartop before peering up.

“You’ve got it wrong,” your dad said, low. Hoarse.

“You said—”

“I say a lot of stupid shit, Miller. You know that.”

He did.

“So what is it then? Is the sex that good that—”

“No.”

“And it wrecked your whole fucking marriag—”

“Don’t,” your dad cut in, again, harsher now than before.

His speech was slowed, sluggish, and palpably agitated. The whiskey had hit his brain. He wasn’t as in control of the words flowing out of his mouth; Joel could see it.

“So you don’t feel guilty at all for cheating with her—”

“Because I loved Helen first!”

In spite of the raucous din of the bar all around them, your father’s voice carried surprisingly fast. Loud. Sadie cocked her head from a sea of new patrons huddling in at the entrance, lifted one brow, and scanned them briefly, as if trying to tell if a fight might be brewing.

It wasn’t. Your dad just got loud when he was plastered.

And once he started something, he had to keep going. Joel was listening, but he had to admit that the drinks were beginning to affect him, too. He set his down.

“What are you talking about?” he asked him.

Your dad dropped his glass with a little more éclat.

“I’m saying,” he started. Pausing to swallow once more. “I knew Helen first. I loved her first. This was before…”

He swallowed again, and Joel could see the effort there.

“…before I ever even met Amy. I swear.”

Amy. Now that was a name Joel hadn’t heard in awhile. It had been mostly an unspoken rule between them both never to bring up his ex-wife’s name, much less mention her like this. But there he went. Six drinks in and he was reminiscing on your mother. Joel felt trouble simmering.

“But you and Amy were married—” he started, slower.

“Exactly eight months before our daughter was born,” his friend grit out. Something like ire flashed in his gaze. “How’s that for one big fuckin’ coincidence, huh, Miller?”

Joel hadn’t even thought about it. He hadn’t known your father or mother back when they were first married—though Tommy had worked with the former, and had been friends with the couple a bit longer than he had.

Joel had only seen the ugly end of the marriage. It never occurred to him to inquire when—or how—it had started, just that it pissed his friend off whenever Amy became a topic of discussion. Mostly, it was in the context of regret

He saw that again, presently.

“Nobody even knew that was a thing because we were…casual. And real private about it, for a little while. Then the pregnancy came outta left field and I thought I was doin’ the right thing, y’know? Gettin’ married and growin’ up and all. But Amy wasn’t ever really in it any more than me. She knew I’d always be in love with somebody else.”

Helen?

Her best friend?

“Then why weren’t you with her?” Joel couldn’t hope to control the fervor that warmed his tone. He was enrapt.

He’d never heard this side of the story before.

His friend shrugged like it was nothing to him.

“Timing. Life,” he answered, duller. “We tried it out for a little while when she was in college, but Helen was so…young. And full’a big notions of gettin’ out of town, doin’ something else and stayin’ someplace else. I didn’t fit.”

He sounded deflated as he said it. He went on.

“I was damn near ten years older than her. I didn’t know the first thing about keepin’ a girl her age interested, or givin’ her what she needed. Had me mad for the longest time— which was why…I guess…” his friend trailed off.

“Amy,” Joel answered for him.

“Yeah. Amy,” your dad confirmed. Something more passed behind his eyes, though Joel couldn’t quite tell what it was. If he had to guess, he would say it was guilt.

The man kept going, evidently emboldened by his present state of intoxication and ready to say the worst. He ground his molars and rolled his lips like there was something bad he was itching to say, and Joel could only stare back. Wishing he was a little more drunk himself.

“I never meant it to be serious, Joel. I was young and dumb and trying to make the girl who rejected me jealous by screwin’ her best friend, and Amy knew it just as well. She knew I was sleepin’ with other people, too.”

His words were coming out quicker now. He planted one hand on the tabletop beside him, but he was facing him.

“Amy and I were both sleepin’ with other people, Joel.”

Then he paused a moment, and Joel wasn’t sure what the man was trying to say. Shortly, it dawned on him.

His eyes widened.

“You mean…?”

Your dad swallowed. Then shrugged. Then looked away, like he was suddenly ashamed of what he’d said. Knowing what it implied for himself, his ex-wife. For you.

“I’m— I’m almost positive she’s mine, there’s just…”

What? A possibility that you weren’t his daughter?

How could the man live with something like that?

Joel’s heart thudded a little louder in his chest. He wasn’t sure why; it just felt like something strange and momentous and bizarre for him to know before you.

Did you know?

“Does she…” He found it harder to finish his sentences.

Your dad’s eyes darted back to his. He blinked rapidly.

“No, no. God, no. I’d never tell her somethin’ like that,” he answered, fast. “It— it don’t even matter now, she’d always, always be my little girl. I just found out years after there was a chance she might be…someone else’s.”

Someone else’s.

Suddenly, Joel didn’t feel like he was fit to be told any of this. He felt like he was intruding. For your father to confess all of this—sharing such heavy news—it was all he could do to keep his blinking and breathing in check.

“See, Helen was never ‘the other woman.’ Amy and I were long checked out of our marriage before we ever split, and we…I mean, I went back. To Helen. I loved her.”

Your father paused again.

“I still love her, Joel. We tried making things work again, back then, too. We’d grown up a little bit. But my divorce was too new, my daughter was too young. It— it just didn’t happen. But now she’s here, and she wants to try again. I want to try again, and see if maybe— I dunno.”

“But then…” Joel thought of you. “Your daughter.”

“She thinks I’m the piece of shit who blew our family up on account of some affair. And I’m fine with her thinking that, if it keeps her from diggin’ into the past and learning her mom and I weren’t— that I might not be…”

Joel closed his eyes a moment. He sucked in a breath.

This was the last thing he needed to learn the night before you were supposed to be coming back home.

How could he tell you something like this? Should he?

It almost seemed as if the walls were closing in, and he was faced with the same dilemma as he had before—cope with a lie or cause more pain by telling you the truth. But now it really didn’t feel like his place to tell. It felt heartless and cruel to even bring it up, and somehow worse if he didn’t. If he withheld the truth from you again

And just as he’d endeavored to get his head around the idea, to try and make sense of it, a new bomb dropped.

“But if she ain’t mine, at least I’ve got an…idea of who the father might be. Silver livings an’ all,” his friend said. The smile he flashed him was as weak as it was sardonic.

“Who?”

“There were a few—rumors, I mean. Nothing for certain. Just heard she was seeing Dave York and Javier Peña…”

Those made sense. Joel knew the guys from work.

“Marcus Pike and that dude who used to live a little ways out of town—Ezra something, I forget. You remember?”

He didn’t.

Joel was racking his brain for names, and the last two sounded familiar, though he couldn’t place their faces.

“Dieter Bravo, that actor guy…Reed Richards—shit, it’s been a minute since we talked to him, ain’t it? Damn.”

Your father kept rattling off names like this was the most normal thing in the world—he’d probably done it often over the years—but with each new pronunciation, Joel felt himself growing sicker. He didn’t want to hear more.

But he’d have to, unless he made up an excuse to leave.

Another bathroom break might do the trick.

Okay, he could slip out easily that way.

Just as Joel was clearing his throat and preparing to make his fifth restroom announcement of the night, he had to stop. He heard another name drop from your dad, and he almost choked. Then he did choke, in a second.

“And Tommy, maybe…”

“Tommy?!”

The lone word punctured the air like a strangled breath—it came from the labor of his own two lungs, at hearing his brother’s name raised in connection with all of this.

What could Tommy have to do with any of that?

“Yeah,” your dad answered, nonchalant at first. Then, seeming to recollect his senses as he realized what he’d said, he smiled sheepishly. “I mean that’s—that’s a long shot, Joel. I heard some whisperings Amy and him might’ve gotten on and hooked up once or twice back then, but it was nothing serious. The odds of him bein—”

“Your kid’s father?!” Joel spit the words out like poison. He couldn’t help it. His heart had jumped to his throat.

He couldn’t be hearing his friend correctly.

He had to have been mistaken with that.

Joel’s brain short-circuited momentarily. It felt like his heart had leapt from his throat to his head and he could sense every sick, throbbing pulse of the thing thrumming sporadically through his skull. It was deafening to him.

Your father was continuing on, but it was hard to hear.

“…Tommy must’ve been, what, twenty-two? Same as Amy. I think they had some mutual friends besides me—must’ve been a casual thing. I don’t think he even knew we were hooking up back then, too. I don’t blame him…”

The man might as well have been speaking French, because Joel didn’t understand the first fucking thing coming out of his mouth except ‘Tommy’ and ‘Amy.’

His brother and your mother.

Having sex? When the fuck had that happened?

There had to be some misunderstanding. No way could his baby brother have done something like that and not…

Fuck. It had been twenty-two goddamn years since then.

What if he didn’t remember?

What if he couldn’t remember?

What if—oh, fuck, there was no fucking shot.

“Don’t look so shocked, Miller.” Your father grinned, and for the first time in a while, through the bulk of this whole conversation, it was genuine. He thought this was funny. “You know Tommy got around back then. Shit happens.”

Then, as if to rib him again:

“What, you scared of bein’ my kid’s uncle or somethin’?”

Joel was ready to throw up.

No, not ready—he was going to retch.

Jack and coke could’ve easily taken the blame for that, but anyone with half a brain and an ability to see the situation for what it was would’ve known better.

Joel knew better.

He had to shake his head. Say something. Otherwise he would be stuck, staring at his friend and looking as if he might spew chunks all over the front of his shirt at any given moment. There was no way you two were related.

“Hey, if you are, I’d say you’d make a damn good uncle anyway. You and her have been close for awhile, right—”

Time to vomit.

Time to leave.

Time to abandon any scant sense of self-respect and simultaneously lose the last six drinks he’d consumed into the closest sink or toilet. The room was spinning.

‘Gotta…piss’ was all he remembered saying. That should’ve been enough. If it wasn’t, well…that was no longer his problem. He was gone in the next second.

In his semi-drunken state, it amazed Joel just how far he was able to disgorge his dinner. As he expected, it was mostly liquid. It was like the second he stepped into the bathroom, all bets were off, and he was heaving like he was on the brink of death. What the fuck was all that?

This didn’t feel real. Wiping his mouth, running the sink, watching the liquid trail down, down, down until there was nothing left for him to see but a concave block of porcelain staring back. Its surface was surprisingly bright, shiny, and slick. It made him want to barf again.

But this was no time for fucking around.

If anyone needed to be spilling their guts now, it was someone else. Joel couldn’t rest until he reached him.

So, pulling out his phone with sweat-damp, noticeably shaky hands, he blinked harder. He focused his gaze. For the first time in what now felt like years, he turned the device on without the intention of texting, calling, or FaceTiming you. He scrolled through his long list of contacts until he reached the name, then winced.

This wasn’t real.

This wasn’t real.

He dialed the number and grew nauseous all over again.

Tommy Miller, answer your motherfucking phone.