“Tell me that’s bullshit,” Carson growled, stabbing his finger into the paper angrily. “Tell me that’s your little sister or something.”
I gulped and shook my head. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I had hoped this moment would never come. I’d always tried to keep this away from him for his own good, so he could live his dream instead of being trapped with a waster like me. How was I going to explain this to him?
“That’s not my sister,” I whispered.
He let out a load groan. “That’s your daughter?” he asked, his voice still tight with anger. I could tell he was trying hard to keep it together and not scream at me, and I was extremely grateful because I wasn’t sure I could cope with that on top of everything else.
“Yeah.” I nodded, looking at his feet, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. Or maybe I could somehow magically jump back in time and call in sick the night Rodger Harris came to the club and saw Carson there.
“Is she…” he shifted on his feet uncomfortably, “… mine?” he whispered.
Could I lie and say no? Could I really lie right to his face and save us both the pain of going through this, to save him the burden of having a daughter with someone he didn’t love? Deep down, I knew I had to tell the truth now, but I had no idea how he’d react. Maybe he’d want to see her and be in her life, or maybe he’d run a mile and all I’d see of him would be the dust cloud where he left so quickly.
“Carson,” I started but stopped, unsure as to what I should say. I couldn’t lie to him and say no, but I didn’t want him to feel obligated or anything to us.
He snatched the paper from my hands, flicking from the first page, going a few pages in. He held up the double-page spread in front of my face. “You put on her birth certificate that I was the father.”
Birth certificate? How would he know that? I glanced at the paper he was waving in front of my face to see Sasha’s birth certificate printed there. They had blocked out my address, but everything else was clearly visible: her full name, date and place of birth, my name, where I was born. They had circled the father’s name and occupation in red. ‘Carson Gerard Matthews, Racing Driver’ was printed there clear as day, with my signature at the bottom as the person who gave the information.
“How did they even get that? Why would they put that there?” I asked, shaking my head in disbelief.
He laughed humourlessly. “That’s their job, Emma, to research things. They have people everywhere; they just slip someone a few quid in the records office and bam, easy. Now answer the fucking question!” he growled. “Is. She. Mine?”
His tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand up on end. I gulped and nodded.
“Jesus, Emma! For fucking hell’s sake!” he shouted. He stepped into the hallway, grabbing my arm and making me step back as he slammed the door shut with so much force it sprang back open again. He smashed his hand on it, slamming it again. I whimpered; I’d never seen Carson angry, and he was actually scaring me a little. “How could you not tell me something like this? How? WHY?” he ranted. His face turned slightly red from anger.
I flinched and bumped into the wall as he stepped forward again. “I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing,” I whispered. He stepped forward again, his hand slamming into the wall by the side of my head. He was glaring at me with so much hate I actually felt scared of him, but at the same time he looked so hurt I just wanted to wrap my arms around him and hold him.
“You’re sorry? I have a fucking daughter I didn’t know about, and you’re sorry?” he snapped, his face inches from mine.
“I didn’t want to trap you,” I whispered. Big, fat tears were silently rolling down my cheeks.
He pushed himself away from me and instantly I both missed his closeness and breathed a sigh of relief that he had given me some space to breathe. He turned his back on me and gripped his hands in his hair.
“She’s two?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at me, his expression unreadable.
“Next month,” I confirmed, nodding.
His body was still and tense. “How the hell could you keep something like this from me? Why didn’t you tell me?” he spat, glaring at me.
I swiped at the tears falling uncontrollably. He was looking at me like he hated me, and it was breaking my heart. To see the man I loved look at me with such distaste and revulsion actually made my legs feel a little weak.
“I was thinking of you,” I whispered.
He snorted and rounded on me again, trapping me against the wall, his angry face millimetres from mine. His breath was blowing across my cheek as he spoke. “You were thinking of me? Do you want me to thank you then?” he snapped sarcastically.
I whimpered and shook my head, silently wondering if he was actually going to hurt me. I’d never seen anyone so angry, and the way he was looking at me made me nervous. Deep down, I wondered if I deserved him to hurt me. Maybe I’d made the wrong choice, and I deserved to be punished like my parents had always told me. They had always reminded me every day of what a dirty little tramp I was, how I was a disappointment which wouldn’t amount to anything and how I had the devil inside me. Maybe I really did and I’d just refused to see it until now.
“Thank you for keeping my daughter away from me, Emma. Thank you for keeping things like her first step or word away from me. Maybe I’m better off not knowing her. Is that what you mean by ‘thinking of me’? Or maybe you thought I didn’t deserve to share those things with you?” he ranted. His hands were on either side of my body, trapping me against the wall as his body pressed against mine heavily, pinning me there.