Chapter 4 - The Bottom of the Glass
In a dingy, nine-by-twelve foot room at the Pacific Sea Motel in Long Beach, the shades were drawn tight against the afternoon sun.
The air smelled of stale tobacco, cheap whiskey, and moldy carpet.
Jake sat on the edge of the saggy mattress wearing a stained gray t-shirt and track pants.
On the nightstand stood three empty bottles of cheap bourbon and a half-eaten container of cold Chinese takeout.
His phone lay on the floor, its screen cracked across the center.
Every morning for three weeks, Jake had woken up believing, for a fraction of a second, that he was in his sunlit master bedroom in Pasadena. He would reach out his arm expecting to feel Emily’s warm, pregnant belly resting against his back.
Then the smell of mildew would hit him, and reality would crush his chest like an anvil.
He picked up his phone and opened the photo gallery.
He scrolled past hundreds of recent photos—photos of high-end launch parties, photos of him posing in tailored tuxedos beside luxury cars, photos of Vanessa pouting for the camera at roof-top bars.
He kept scrolling until he reached the photos from four years ago.
Emily, standing on a windy beach in Carmel, wearing an oversized cable-knit sweater, her dark hair blowing across her face, laughing uncontrollably as Jake tried to take a selfie while holding two dripping ice cream cones.
Emily, sitting on the floor of their first tiny apartment, surrounded by cardboard boxes, wearing a paper hat, eating pizza from the box to celebrate their first fifty-thousand-dollar logistics contract.
She had looked at him in those photos like he was the only man in the universe.
Not because he was rich. He wasn't rich then.
Not because he was powerful. He was a struggling guy trying to get a business off the ground.
She had loved him.
And he had taken that priceless, miraculous, unearned devotion, treated it like trash, and traded it for the fake admiration of people who wouldn't even answer his text messages today.
A loud knock rattled the flimsy wooden motel door.
Jake didn't move. “Go away! I don't need room service!”
The knock came again, louder, firmer.
“Jake. Open the damn door.”
Jake recognized the voice. It was Marcus Vance—his former CFO and the only person from his past life who hadn't completely blocked his number.
Jake groaned, dragged himself off the bed, and unlatched the rusty chain lock.
Marcus stepped into the room, took one breath of the putrid air, and immediately walked over to push open the single window, letting the salt breeze cut through the stench.
Marcus looked at Jake with a mix of anger and profound sadness.
“You look like hell, Jake,” Marcus said, tossing a paper bag containing two diner burgers and a bottle of water onto the small table.
“What are you doing here, Marcus?” Jake mumbled, sinking back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. “Did the Board send you to take my watch too?”
“Nobody sent me,” Marcus said, pulling up a plastic chair. “I came because I worked with you for five years, and despite what an absolute idiot you’ve been, I didn't want to read about you overdosing in a thirty-dollar motel room.”
Jake didn't answer.
“Emily took over the executive chair three days ago,” Marcus said quietly.
Jake’s shoulders flinched, but he kept his head down. “How... how is she?”
“She’s incredible, Jake,” Marcus said candidly. “She came into the boardroom on Tuesday morning, thirty-eight weeks pregnant, addressed the investors, laid out a five-year international expansion plan that cut operational overhead by fourteen percent, and had the entire room standing and clapping within twenty minutes.”
Jake let out a bitter, choked sob. “She never needed me.”
“She wanted you, Jake,” Marcus corrected him sharply. “That’s what you never understood. She didn't stay with you because she needed your money or your corporate title. She stayed because she believed in you. You were the one who thought the title made the man.”
Marcus reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, setting it on the mattress beside Jake.
“What’s that?” Jake asked, his voice raw.
“That’s a formal notice from the Los Angeles County Court,” Marcus said. “Emily went into early labor two hours ago at the hospital in Newport Beach. You have four hours to show up at the family court mediator’s office tomorrow if you want to sign the paternity acknowledgement documents before the birth certificate is finalized.”
Jake looked at the white envelope. His fingers trembled as he touched the paper.
May you like
“She’s in labor?” Jake gasped, his eyes wide with terror and sudden, overwhelming longing. “Is she okay? Are there complications?”
“She’s fine,” Marcus said. “But if you want to ever be anything more than a biological ghost in that child’s life, Jake, you need to throw out the whiskey, wash your face, and start acting like a human being.”
