Free If I Tell by Janet Gurtler Page B

of the guilts or something. He’d dumped money in an account for me, the one and only time he’d ever acknowledged his part in my existence. All he’d asked for in a letter written to my mom was that I not contact him. Isn’t that what they called hush money?
    “So I should be grateful? He paid me off so he doesn’t ever have to advertise his half-white daughter. Or the blond he knocked up. Mighty big of him, I’d say.”
    I’d googled him last year in a moment of weakness. He was some sort of business guru now. Used his football scholarship well, apparently, after he’d blown out his knee his final year. He owned property all over the place. The black woman he’d married, his college sweetheart, ran her own real-estate business. They’d had two little girls. A picture of the couple appeared on the home page of his website. Tall, dark, and beautiful. Happy and perfect. Smiling. His profile said they met at college. She’d been in the same year as him and had majored in business. They’d graduated together. Married and had babies right on schedule.
    I wondered if she even knew I existed, his half-mocha daughter. I wondered if his kids knew they had a half sister. Half blood. Half sister. Half white. I wondered if they’d care someday.
    Mom sighed, and the waiter hovered closer to our table, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping. She flicked her hand in the air, waving him away, and he slowly moved along. She clenched her jaws, her resolve hardening like an old man’s arteries.
    “I can’t change what happened or who your father is. I thought we’d dealt with it.”
    I snorted. “You thought we’d dealt with it? I’m the one with the father who bought me off with a deposit in a bank account. You had the best father in the world, and you didn’t even tell him. Grandpa Joe would have done anything for you. He did do anything. He became a father to your own child.”
    “Hey, ladies, sorry I’m late.”
    It figured Simon would pick that moment to swoop up to the table. He looked back and forth at us, his big charming smile fading a little. “Did I miss something?”
    “A condom?” I said.
    His lips turned down. His eyes had bags under them. Maybe I wasn’t the only one at the table suffering from a hangover.
    “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually didn’t like me anymore, Jaz.” He smiled, but it wasn’t sincere. “But you’re a teenager, so I’ll pretend you do. You look nice. Cute dress. I like that color on you.”
    His condescending smile made me sick. I’d only worn the dress to try to please Grandma. I hated it. More now. Simon looked hipper than me in his T-shirt and jeans. A couple of teenage girls at the table next to us actually ogled him.
    Simon completely ignored the obvious tension at our table. He joked and touched Mom a few times as he babbled. I stared through him, hating his handsome face, hating his gift of gab. Hating the way he played her. I knew that he’d already done something to hurt her. With Lacey. I just didn’t know how far they’d gone.
    “God. I wish I could have a drink,” Mom said when he finally paused for a breath.
    “Go ahead,” I snapped. “It’s not like you’re getting nominated for a Mother of the Year award.”
    In the background people talked and cutlery clinked. The silence at our table was louder.
    “Hey,” Simon said. “Your mom wouldn’t drink in her condition. She’s going to be a great mom. She already is.” He reached out and stroked her hand.
    I wanted to barf.
    “How do you know?” Mom asked and pulled away. “I didn’t even raise her.” She pointed at me. “She doesn’t even like me.”
    I stared down at the table and forced myself not to apologize or reassure her. I loved her, but right then I didn’t care. Why should I be the only one who hurt?
    “That was different,” Simon said. “You were very young. And you’ve always been there for Jaz. You have a great relationship.” I glanced up.