He begins to spell it out for me. “R-E-T-A-R—”
I cut Breckin off. “Oh. That,” I say. “Yeah, I learned not to say that when a chick in my economics class smacked me in the back of the head with her notebook.”
“Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” Breckin says. “Come to think of it, I did seem to hate you a lot more in high school. But I wouldn’t hate you at all if you’d stop calling me Powder Puff.”
“Aren’t you on Twitter?” Holder asks. “Don’t you see what happens to people like you?”
“People like me?”
“Yeah. Guys who say insensitive shit because they think it makes them look cool and careless.”
“I don’t think I’m cool and careless. I just had no idea Powder Puff was insensitive.”
“Bullshit,” Holder says with a fake cough.
“Okay, so maybe I knew it was insensitive,” I admit, looking back at Breckin. “But it’s a joke.”
“Well,” Breckin says, “as someone who identifies as a gay male, I feel it’s my duty to teach you how to be more sensitive. Powder Puff is insulting. So is the R word. And most of the nicknames you give to people.”
“Yeah,” Holder says. “Stop calling my girlfriend Cheese Tits.”
“But…it’s a joke. I don’t even know what Cheese Tits or Powder Puff mean.”
Holder turns his head and looks at me. “I know you don’t. Neither do I. But Breckin is right. You’re an asshole sometimes and you should stop being an asshole sometimes.”
Shit. I seem to be learning a lot of what people think about me over Thanksgiving break, whether I want to or not. So far, I’ve learned I’m insensitive. I’m an asshole. I’m annoying. I’m a guy. What else is wrong with me?
“That means I have to come up with a new nickname for you,” I say to Breckin.
“You could just call me Breckin.”
I nod. “I will. For now.”
That seems to satisfy him. I lean back, just as my phone rings. I fish it out of my pocket and look at the incoming call. It’s an unknown number.
I stand up. My heart feels like it’s still on the couch. I can feel adrenaline rush through me as I swipe to answer the phone. It might be a telemarketer, but it might not be, so I rush across the living room and go outside to take the phone call in private.
“Hello?” No one says anything, so I repeat myself. “Hello? It’s Daniel. Hello?”
If it is a telemarketer, they’ve probably never heard a guy sound so desperate to talk to one of them before.
A man clears his throat, and then says, “Hi. Daniel Wesley?”
I’m pacing the front yard, gripping the back of my neck. “Yes. Who is this?”
“I’m…well. I’m your child’s father.”
I stop pacing. In fact, I bend over at the waist when I hear those words. I feel like my stomach just fell onto the ground. I feel like I’m about to fall to the ground.
Holy. Fucking. Shit. Don’t say anything stupid, Daniel. Don’t screw this up.
“Do you have a second to chat?” the guy asks.
I nod frantically. “Yes. Yes, of course.” I walk to the front patio and take a seat. I can barely feel my legs. “Thank you for calling, sir. Thank you so much. Can I just ask how he’s doing? Is he good? Healthy? Is he happy?”
I should probably get Six for this conversation. I feel awful being feet away from her and she has no idea that I’m on the phone with a man who knows where our son is. But I’m worried there’s a chance he’s not calling with good news, so I stay seated until I can find out more information.
“He’s…” The man is hesitant. He pauses for a moment. “Listen, Daniel. I don’t know you. And I don’t know my son’s biological mother. But I know my wife, and she has been through hell. The last thing I want to do is bring stress or pain back into her life, because she’s in such a good place right now. I need to know what your intentions are before I tell her you’ve reached out. Before I decide to share anything with you. I hope you understand that.”
“She doesn’t know you’re talking to me right now?”
“No. She doesn’t. And I haven’t decided if I’m even going to tell her about this conversation yet.”
Yet.
I cling to that word. That word means this phone call is the one deciding factor in whether or not Six and I will know what happened to our child.