Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“I’ll answer what I can.” Dante Cafe is busy. We’re crammed in a corner, at a very tiny marble table. The only reason I’m here is for my own edification. Ronan refuses to see reason about this custody battle and I’m curious to see if she knows anything about it.
She scans a yellow pad filled with notes even though she’s recording the conversation. Little does she know that I’m recording it as well. “So you and Ronan were never married?”
“No. I found out I was pregnant with Sam after we broke up. Ronan did not know of his existence until I read the Variety article on him and figured out how to contact him. Sam was two at the time. After which we got back together for another six months and then Ronan….”
“Ronan what?”
“Are you including information about his addictions in this bio?”
“Oh yeah––and yours.”
“Mine? What do you know about mine?”
“Ronan said you had an addiction to cocaine.”
That muther… “Amy––can I call you Amy?” I don’t wait for a reply. “I’ve done a lot of things I’m ashamed of––but coke isn’t one of them. You’re going to tell me all the lies Ronan told you and we will match them against the truths I know about him.”
Twenty minutes later, armed with enough information to ruin all his shitty plans, I dial Ronan’s number. My kickass self is back.
“Yeah,” Ronan says with attitude. If only I could reach through the phone and punch him in the mouth. Unfortunately, I have to settle for the fantasy.
Bodies walk past me, brushing my arm. A sharp chill is in the air. All my senses are blurry, shapeless, my focus entirely on reining in my anger. The one saving grace is that I’m a few blocks from home. I can’t have this conversation around Sam.
“I’m going to talk and you are going to listen. You forgot to call off the dogs when you filed for joint custody. Amy Green has been hounding me for an interview as early as yesterday––I saw her this afternoon.”
The silence that follows does not surprise me.
“I liked you better when you were a junkie performing in dive bars. I’m sorry that my sweet loving son has to have you as a father. I wanted you to be better, but you’re not.”
“Get to the point.”
“I have no doubt you have enough money to bankrupt me. To keep me tied up in the courts until you bleed me dry. If you have the guts to see this through, come to New York and tell your son that you are working hard to take him away from me.”
“Amanda––”
“Don’t ‘Amanda’ me,” I bark. “You started this. I told you we’d work it out. I didn’t realize what a scumbag you’d turned into unfortunately. You told her I had a coke habit and conveniently left out your heroin addiction? And you actually believed she would simply take your word for it? She’s a reporter, Ronan. How dumb can you be?”
“I pay her––”
“You don’t pay her. Your label pays her…you were always a little clueless but I thought it was ‘the artist’ in you.”
“I don’t see how this changes anything. I gotta go.”
“Who do you think paid your broke-ass hospital bills when you ODed?” I yell. A few onlookers turn to stare and I keep walking down the narrow, broken sidewalk. Lowering my voice, I continue, “When they found you unresponsive and Sam in the crib crying while I was working? The health insurance you never had?
“Calvin paid the bills. Calvin has all the paperwork. Kept it as an insurance policy against you because he’s always been a suspicious guy and sneaky smart. Do you want me to go to your label and show them the documents? I’m guessing it’s going to mess up your folk hero image––We can make this as ugly as you want it to be. Drop the custody suit and maybe we can salvage this relationship for Sam’s sake.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Who do you want to invite to your birthday party?” I ask Sam.
October ushers in cooler weather, the autumn leaves of the Palisades Cliffs overlooking the Hudson River are in full peak and the pumpkin spice latte is back. Life should be good…and yet it feels like a funeral shroud covers our cozy apartment.
Sam turns eleven in two weeks and I promised him months ago that he could have a party at the Gaga Center, which features a dodgeball-style court. With any hope he can take some of his anger at me out on some of his classmates.
Grabbing the bowl of green beans, I place some in his dish. His elbow is on the table, his head resting on his small fist. Staring down at his plate, he seems a million miles away. “Do you want to invite your dad?” I get nothing. “Sammy? Elbow off the table and eat your greens, please.”