Page 39 of Really Truly Yours
“How much do you think about finding your biological father? Who he is? What he was?”
“Zero. I don’t waste any more time on him than he wasted on me.”
Does Tripp realize every last one of his muscles has visibly tensed? That this particular set of his jaw is reserved for the topic of his father and his father alone?
“But you said yourself he might not have even known you existed. If that’s the case—”
“Doesn’t matter. I remember well the kind of men Mom brought home. I’m better off not knowing. Besides, she gave me nothing to go on. My only shot might be with DNA and forensic genealogy or whatever. Frankly, I don’t see he’s worth the trouble.”
“Sure, but wouldn’t you like to know just to…know?”
“No, I would not.” He frowns. “I’ve told you how I feel. What’s this all about, man? Misery loves company?”
Could be. Heck, I’m not sure all this trouble is worth it myself. I have the best parents on the planet and could have happily gone a lifetime not knowing Donny.
Meaty-smelling smoke swirls around us, seeping into the conversational gaps. Setting the towel aside, I drag my hands down my face. “I don’t suppose you’d want to meet him?”
Tripp stares.
“Sorry. Don’t know where that came from.” Truly, the question parachuted in from nowhere.
“Donny and I did not do well together.” His features harden. “Though, believe it or not, he wasn’t the worst.”
I was the fortunate one, adopted quickly. I’m glad life was kinder to my brother later.
And now. Avery is fantastic, and soon, Tripp will be a father, and not the kind who will repeat Donny’s or his own parents’ mistakes.
I watch him drag a very long breath through his nostrils. “That being said, Gray, if, for whatever reason, you want me to meet him, I’m there for you, bro.”
I slump fully into the chair. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Well, take your time. Figure it out—and let me know if I can help.”
Chapter 9
Sydnee
Every morning, I wake up with a set of guidelines for my day.
And every single day makes its own stinking rules.
Today’s gameplan did not include texting Grayson Smith and pleading for help. For Donny, that is.
Why is this my job?
Because Donny wants his son to come back of his own accord and will not make the first move no matter the reason.
I stare at one excellent reason, a reason now littering Donny’s living room. Pink insulation, rotted lumber, and soggy, squishy carpet.
Last night’s cold front churned a flurry of severe thunderstorms. I heard of tornados one county over. Here, they say it was straight-line winds—straight-line winds powerful enough to take down the large elm that was the one pleasant feature of an otherwise boring lot with an ugly house on it.
Most of the tree missed most of the house, but one huge limb met the roofline on its way down. A minor shift in direction probably would have meant no Donny by morning. A gaping hole and significant water damage are left behind.
I couldn’t fix the hole to save my own life. Sam is unreachable, probably with one of his girlfriends, and, naturally, Donny has no money to hire a contractor. Topping the fun, I’m having precious little luck convincing him he can’t stay in the house as it is.
The idea whirling through my head I don’t dare mention, not after the stink Donny made last night when I came over to check on him and found him in a pit of despair yet got my hair blown back for suggesting he reach out to Grayson again.
They say it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.