Jon stared at the door. He should not be here. How was he going to explain knowing their address? He had spent the past hour walking, trying to come to terms with the truth that had only been a vague dream, a remote possibility. Until tonight.
He did not doubt Alicia. She was not the type of woman to lie. That much he knew. It was not as if she had anything to gain either. She was not demanding seven years of back child support, as she should. All she had asked was some information.
Granted, he had had to call his mother for some it. He always zoned out when the woman began to groan on about the illustrious Tyler family history. He had been drug as a child to too many Daughters of the Alamo meetings. While the first bit about his parents, brother, and sister was easy enough, the rest about long-dead grandparents and great-grandparents was not.
He was about to turn, go back to the hotel, and do he had no idea what when the door opened. Her eyes were swollen. He had done that to her. How many other tears had she shed alone over the past seven years? How many other crises had she been forced to handle on her own? Jon's throat tightened at the thought.
Before she could ask questions, demand to know how he knew where they lived, he held out the scrap of paper. "I'm sorry. It took me a while. I had to call my mother for most of it."
She nodded her head in silence. Her trembling fingers grasped the paper like it was a treasure map.
Whether she would have thrown it back in his scarred face or screamed and yelled in anger, perhaps even called the police on him as a stalker, he would never know. That tiny whirlwind of Hope rushed out of nowhere, dancing, and singing, "Jon, Jon!"
His child, his daughter. How had he not seen it before? Yes, she had her mother's warm brown eyes, her skin a light olive denoting generations of mixed blood, and her lighter blondish-brown curls several shades darker than the blond he had once been, before the fire singed it all away. It was also several shades lighter than her mother's rich brown with faint auburn highlights. He could almost remember how soft Alicia's hair had felt between his fingers that night. But it was there. The shape of her small mouth, nose, and even those eyes was Tyler too.
"Mama was putting me to bed. I have school tomorrow."
Was there a slight pout on her lips? Had he been the cause of her pain as well as her mother's? He wanted to wrap her in his arms, tell her how very sorry he was, promise her she would never hurt again. But he did not have that right.
Not yet, anyway. They needed to talk. He and Alicia. Because if she thought he was going to buy that no-strings-attached line again, she was wrong. He should not have that night. No, this little girl was so much more than a string. She was a tie that bound him to the woman he loved. A living breathing memory of the one perfect night in his long, fucked up life. And he was not walking away from that.
It was another chance at life. He had already been given a second one, surviving what few men did, what his men had not. So how many chances did a man get?
"Oh, I'm sorry. It's late. I should have known. I just stopped by to give your mother something. I'll let you get to bed," he was rambling. He wished he had that paper back, something, anything to do with his hands. Instead, he placed them behind his back. There was nothing at-ease about his stance, though.
Hope reached for his hand. It was not the first time she had touched him over the past few days. But it was the first touch of his child. His child. The words still seemed surreal in his mind. He smiled as he treasured the knowledge and her warm touch.
"Mama, can Jon help me with my prayers tonight?"
