Right now, he was hoping that his father would use the main entrance when he left. He’d printed out the university’s photo and the one of his father’s family at the café and kept close watch on the door. Kids came in and out of the building, bundled against the cold. It was cold in a way the Northeast never was—a dry, biting cold that cut through every layer Josh had on. It was fine. He didn’t mind.

“Can I help you?” someone asked. She smiled and shifted her backpack.

“I’m waiting for Dr. Zane,” he said.

“Oh, he’s in office hours. He’s my professor.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. He’s great. One of the best in my program.”

Josh didn’t respond. She tilted her head, and he remembered to speak. “Glad to hear it.”

“Well. Happy holidays.”

He nodded. “You too.”

As she left, he returned his attention to the door, and right then, a man came out, dressed in a heavy winter parka. He held on to the railing, moving a bit stiffly. He was tall and held a briefcase in one hand. His hair was salt-and-pepper gray. He looked like George Clooney.

The man waved to a student, then took a left and started walking west.

Josh got up, grabbed his leather bag and jogged up behind him. “Professor Zane?” he said, his voice calm. He felt calm, too. He felt . . . nothing, really. A distant curiosity.

“Yes?” His father turned. Up close, he looked older than his pictures, shadows under his eyes, the skin on his face starting its downward journey into laxity. Still handsome, though.

“Joshua Park.” He didn’t put out his hand.

“Do I know you? Are you a student or alumnus?”

“No.” He paused. “I’m your son.”

That expression . . . the blood drained out of his face. Joshua watched as it happened. Christopher M. Zane’s face turned utterly gray. His eyes widened, and he bent over, hands on his knees. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

Josh didn’t offer to help him. He waited, and after a few seconds, his father stood up, breathing heavily. He took a step backward, his breath fogging the air. His eyes were wet, Josh observed, and he was unsteady on his feet.

Which meant nothing, of course.

“Hey, Dr. Zane! You okay?” called a student.

“Yeah. Yep, fine, thanks. Thanks.” He shook his head a little, took a few deep breaths, then looked at Josh’s face. “My God,” he said, and his tears overflowed. “My God.”

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” Josh asked. “Or do you need an ambulance?”

“No, I’m fine . . . just . . . my God. I never thought . . . I never expected to . . .”

“Is there a café or a restaurant nearby?” There was. Cookie had researched it and sent him four places. She didn’t know the reason for his visit, and she’d kill herself before asking.

“Yes. Um, this way.”

They didn’t speak, though a few times, someone said, “Hey, Professor,” or “Hi, Dr. Zane!” Joshua’s father didn’t acknowledge their greetings. Maybe he didn’t even hear them. The cold air put some color back into his face, and he kept glancing at Josh, who returned his looks calmly. He waited for feelings to come. They didn’t. They probably would, he imagined. Just not yet.

On the next block was an Irish pub. Christopher Zane opened the door and held it for Josh. Inside was dark and warm.

“Chris! How you doin’?” called the bartender.

“I’m good, Tim, I’m good.” So he was a regular here. No introduction for Josh. “Hey, we’re gonna take a booth in the back, okay?” He turned to Josh. “What would you like to drink?”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee and club soda, Tim,” he told the bartender. “We’ll save you the trip and take them with us.”

An interminable minute later, and they had their beverages.

It was almost four, and already getting dark. Josh followed his father to the booth farthest in the back. They took off their coats and sat. It was a nice pub. Rather ordinary, but homey.

“So this is . . . quite a surprise,” Christopher said, taking a big breath.

“I’m sure it is.”

“How old are you, Joshua?”

“Thirty-one as of October fourteenth.” The worst birthday of his life, this last one. The first without Lauren. The first as a widower.

“Jesus. God. I . . .” He took a long pull of his club soda. “I guess I should ask what you’d like to . . . do. Or say.”

“I wanted to meet you. Ask you a few things.”

“Right. Right. Of course.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “Sorry, this is a lot to take in.” Another swallow or two of club soda. “Uh . . . how is your . . . your mother?”

“Alive. That’s all you get to know.”

Christopher flinched. “Fair enough.”

“I know you’re married and have three children with cowboy names. I know where you grew up, where you went to school, that you have a sister named Eileen. I know your parents sold their farm in Indiana and now live in Arizona. I know you owned a café in Wicker Park.”

“Jesus, the internet really does tell all.” He blew out a breath. “Do you want money?”

Josh couldn’t help a bitter laugh. “It’s a little late for child support.”

“I mean, I do owe you. And there is money. Now. There wasn’t always. The farm sold—”

“I know, and I don’t care. I want you to tell me how you could leave a pregnant twenty-year-old and your unborn child.”