The next day was agony. Every twenty minutes I was checking Facebook, waiting for Zahra to respond. It never happened. So by the time the week had passed, I’d pushed it to the back of my mind. It was possible she was one of those people who never checked Facebook. I certainly didn’t. I posted about four photos there for my mom to comment on and that was about it. Facebook had never been a hot hang out spot for anyone queer. Best to stick to Twitter and Instagram for that.

            We were really trying to roll out sex toys in earnest at my job, which had now had increased to thirty hours a week. Shelby did events and social media posts, but I took care of everything else, so I was learning how to hold up an infant company with zero business knowledge and an elementary-level understanding of accounting. Shelby hired a part-time accountant to help her with financial matters, but some things still ended up on my plate, so I would occasionally text Thad and ask for his help. I knew Stupid Gary was good at Business-with-a-capital-B but I loathed to ask him for assistance on anything. Best to just wing it and hope things worked out. Shelby seemed to take my mistakes in stride, because she hadn’t fired me yet. The weird side effect of constantly being made uncomfortable is that my confidence levels were now substantially higher than they’d been six months ago. Six months ago I would have never thought myself capable of running a whole goddamn meeting with distributors on my own, but I did that shit, and I was even starting to like it a little.

            “They call you Mr. Perkins?” Josh asked me as we caught lunch together on Friday. “You wear a suit?”

            “Mr. Perkins sounds like the name of a clown.”

            Josh laughed. “You are a clown.”

            “And I don’t wear a suit, thank God. This is California, dude. Only bankers and lawyers wear suits to work.”

            “You wear eyeliner?”

            “No, but I’m tempted constantly. I think I could have a real cool rock star vibe if I’m full of myself enough.”

            I didn’t tell Josh about trying to connect with Zahra Fisher because if she never contacted me I didn’t want to shoulder anyone’s disappointment but my own. I was glad that my relationship with Josh was mostly back to normal, though both of us made a point to avoid mentioning Duncan. Josh did ask me about how things were with Thad, and I had only good things to say. We were apart and that fucking sucked, but our relationship seemed mostly the same beyond the physical. He still made me fall asleep with a smile on my face.

            I spent much of Saturday sleeping, playing video games, and browsing Star Wars fan blogs on Reddit. I didn’t check Facebook once. However, when I woke up on Sunday, I decided to look. And there was a little red box with the number one staring at me in the messenger app.

            “Fuck!” I blurted. Curling my legs up against my chest, I took a deep breath and tapped the message.

            That photo would be of my husband, Kent Fisher, and most likely the one you’re looking for. He told me he had a son by the name of Justin. Would that be you? He’s never mentioned your last name, but he’s definitely talked about you! Would you like his number? It’s 406-555-6910. I have a feeling he’d be ecstatic to hear from you. You can also email him at kfisher@tannerbarns.com. That’s his work email, so I know he checks it!

            My breath escaped me with a rattle, and I rubbed my face to the point of pain, trying to figure out what the hell I was feeling at the moment. This woman had just blown apart my world, and now there was a ringing in my ears.

            I immediately searched for the website tannerbarns.com. It was a company that put up pole buildings, like garages and barns. The website looked like it had been designed by a 14-year-old in 2007, but there were some photos of leadership staff under the Contact menu. At the very bottom was a photo of K. Fisher, Lead Carpenter/Foreman, and there he was. My dad. He was leaning on the back of a pick-up, smiling a little but not much, wearing a puffy brown vest, a flannel shirt, and jeans. I have no idea where I got my fashion sense from, because my dad looked like the kind of model you’d find in a fishing supply catalogue. At the same time, I could see some dark curls peeking out from under his yellow baseball cap, and he was shockingly thin for a guy who built barns every day. I would have liked to study the details more, but the photo was grainy as shit, and blowing it up didn’t help. He didn’t look much older than his forty-four years, so whatever drinking he’d done in his life hadn’t fucked up his face.

            I don’t know why, but I suddenly wanted to cry. All the photos I’d seen of this person had been over twenty years old. He’d been a scrawny kid with a wispy mustache, looking scared and uncomfortable on a plaid couch with a baby in his arms. The person on this website was someone else entirely. Skinny as he was, he still looked confident and capable, as anyone with a job as lead carpenter/foreman would probably be. I wanted to reach through the screen and punch his face in. If he’d been a mess of a person with no job and no prospects, I might have understood why he’d never showed up in my life. But now he was married, with a kid and a wife, and he’d never fucking reached out to me or my mom? Did he even try? Did he care at all? Apparently he’d talked about me to his wife, which made me angrier. He talked about me to her and yet he didn’t have the fucking balls to talk to me?

            I threw my phone on the floor and wrapped myself up in my blankets, stewing. I was both distraught and pissed, and I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I regretted reaching out to Zahra in the first place. I had been better off not knowing.

            Twenty minutes later, I crawled out from underneath my sheets and grabbed my phone. I needed to call Thad.

            “That son of a bitch is still in Missoula!” I blurted when Thad picked up. “He’s married with a kid and he never thought once to maybe try to get in touch with me?”

            “Did she respond to your message then?”

            “Yes! She gave me his phone number and email and told me to get in touch with him. Fuck that! Fuck everyone.”

            “So she knew about you.”

            “Yeah. She said he’d told her about me.”

            “I guess that’s better than not tellin’ her about you.”

            “I’m so fucking mad, Thad. I wanna punch something.”

            “You got his email. Write him somethin’ scathin’.”

            “You’re encouraging me to yell at him?”
            “Maybe. I wanna yell at my dad all the time. You and I are in the same situation, ‘member. Deadbeat dads who are happier with other women and other children.”

            I couldn’t believe Thad was encouraging me to be my hateful bitchy self. He was usually the one holding me back.

            “But,” Thad continued, “I think you should wait a few days and digest this first. You can yell at him, but figure out exactly how you feel.”

            Right. That was solid advice.

            Which is why, of course, I didn’t follow it.

            Immediately after hanging up with Thad, I grabbed my laptop and pounded out an angry screed in an email.

            Hey Kent,

            I just messaged your wife on Facebook and she gave me this email because she knew you’d see it. She probably wanted me to send you a nice email but it’s not going to be nice because honestly I’m PO’d beyond belief. Why the hell have you spent over twenty years pretending I don’t exist? No calls, no contact… why? Do you even care? I hope you’re having fun parenting this kid of yours. Guess you’re getting more out of it than you ever did with me. Maybe he’ll grow up better than I did and won’t be a fuck up. But honestly half the reason I’m fucked up is because of my shitty step dad. Can I blame him? He was looking after someone else’s kid. It’s not his fault you couldn’t be a decent fucking person and support a kid YOU brought into the world.

            Anyway, good luck with your son Charlie. Hope he doesn’t grow up to be a drug addict faggot like your first one did.

Sincerely,

 the shitty ass son you never wanted

            I sent it, then slammed my computer shut and tossed it away. I burrowed deep into my bed, wiping away tears. The rage had crumbled away into hurt and grief—grief over a childhood yearning for the dads I saw in movies, hurt by someone who was willing to parent this wanted baby but who had no interest in parenting me, the mistake.