Jake froze, Coors light dangling. Mom, cut the bullshit. That’s nuts, he said.
Jaw clenched. Linda leaned in, gleeful. Wake up, genius.
You two were on the rocks before Eli. She bunked at her mom’s for a week, remember? Then, poof, pregnant. Smell the coffee, kid.
Jake’s mind reeled as Linda spun her yarn, twisting old spats into a daytime TV plot. She’s crazy, but… What if, he thought, shoving it down. He shook her off, but the doubt stuck.
That night, after the last guest bailed and Eli crashed in his Spider-Man PJs, Jake lost it. Em, we’re talking now, he barked, pacing the living room, voice like steel. This reunion crap.
Matt, your first love. Linda’s got me twisted up. I want a DNA test for Eli, or we’re through.
Emily’s face shattered, tears streaming. You’re serious. You’re swallowing her garbage.
She choked, floored. She swiped at her cheeks, anger flaring. Fine, Jake.
Test Eli, but you’re doing one too. Let’s check if Nick’s your real dad. Maybe Linda’s got her own skeletons.
Fair game, right? Jake blinked, stunned. What the hell? That’s insane! He shouted, fists balled. But Emily didn’t budge, her glare fierce, and the challenge was set, straight out of a Rockies playoff showdown.
The air in the Arvada condo buzzed like a live wire after Emily lobbed her counter-challenge. Jake stood rooted, fists balled, his face a storm of shock and rage. You’re flipping this on my mum.
That’s messed up, Em, he barked, voice ricocheting off the walls. Emily crossed her arms, eyes still teary but fierce. Messed up? You’re questioning our son over her wacko conspiracies.
If we’re chasing truth, let’s go full throttle. Maybe Linda’s hiding her own dirt. Jake huffed, raking a hand through his hair, but her words clawed at him.
Deep down he knew she wasn’t wrong. Next day, Jake bit the bullet and dialed Nick. Dad, I need a solid.
No grilling me, just listen, he said, pacing the brewery breakroom, sandwich untouched. Nick’s gruff voice crackled back. What’s this crap, Jake? DNA test.
For what? Jake sighed, rubbing his eyes. It’s a mess. Emily and I, we’re figuring it out.
Please, just roll with it. Nick growled, clearly pissed but relented. Fine, kid.
But this better not be some Jerry Springer stunt. Jake muttered thanks, hanging up with a knot in his gut. A week later, they crammed into Nick and Linda’s Littleton living room, Emily gripping Eli’s hand, Jake clutching two sealed clinic envelopes, Linda lounging on the couch, smirking like she’d clinched the Super Bowl.
Nick slumped in his recliner, nursing a cause, the TV muttering a muted wheel of fortune. Jake cleared his throat, the silence thick except for Eli’s toy truck vrooming on the rug. Here’s the play, he said, voice firm but strained.
Eli’s results and mine with Dad’s. Mum, if you’re right about Em, we’re toast. If not, you say sorry and butt out permanently.
Linda nodded, her smirk pure cat that ate the canary. Jake ripped open Eli’s envelope, eyes darting over it. 99.9% match.
I’m his dad, he said, relief washing over him. Emily let out a breath, squeezing Eli’s shoulder, while Linda’s grin twitched, eyes slitting. Jake locked on to her, then tore into the second envelope.
He stopped cold, re-reading, breath hitching. Dad, it says I’m not… You’re not my bio, Dad, he croaked, voice breaking. Nick grabbed the sheet, face draining.
What the hell? Linda, talk now. Linda’s smug mask cracked. She lunged, screeching.
That’s fake. You set me up, you little… Like a real housewife’s reject. Nick bellowed.
Thirty years, and this? I raised him, you lying… The room exploded. Eli’s truck drowned out by yells. Emily sat shell-shocked, thinking I wanted her wrong, not this train wreck.
Her wind tasted sour. Neighbours pounded the wall, hollering to pipe down, but the Thompsons were a full-on meltdown, secrets erupting like a Fourth of July finale gone rogue. The Littleton living room became a full-on battlefield, a shouting match that could have roused the whole cul-de-sac.
Nick loomed over Linda, brandishing the DNA results like a war banner, his voice thundering. You stepped out, and I raised another man’s kid. I should… He bellowed, fist hovering before dropping.
Linda thrashed, mascara rivers down her face, screaming, It’s a damn frame job. I’d never… You’re all out to get me. Her pleas were wild, a trapped raccoon clawing for daylight.
Neighbours pounded the wall, one yelling, Cops or quiet, pick one. But the storm raged on. Jake stood dazed, the paper shaking in his grip, his reality crumbling.
Mum, how? He whispered, barely audible. Emily sat mute on the couch. Eli pressed against her, eyes big but hushed.
She’d proven Linda’s double standards, but it stung. I didn’t mean to nuke them, she thought, guilt gnawing. She’d wanted Linda exposed, not this carnage.
Nick wheeled on Linda. I’m out. Divorce is next.
You’re done, he snarled. Charging to the garage, the door slamming so hard a bronco’s frame hit the deck. Linda collapsed on the couch, bawling, her armour shattered.
It was one stupid night, decades ago, I swear, she blubbered, a lifetime movie sob story nobody bought. Jake shook his head, grabbing Emily’s hand. We’re gone.
No calls, no visits. Clean up your train wreck, he said, ice in his tone. He hoisted Eli, truck in tow, and they bolted for the car.
Emily glanced back. Linda, a mascara-streaked mess, alone in her chaos. The ride home was graveyard quiet, just I-70’s drone, and Eli’s snores from the back seat.
Siena Vada. Jake flopped on their Ikea couch, staring at the ceiling fan. Emily eased in beside him.
I’m sorry it went nuclear, she murmured. Jake exhaled, scrubbing his face. Not on you.
Truth sucks, but it’s better than her lies eating at us. She’s been toxic, and I was too thick to clock it. He tugged her close, a rock in the rubble.
You and Eli, that’s my line in the sand. She’s got no shot at us now. Emily nodded, head on his shoulder, a shaky calm taking root.
Linda’s plot imploded spectacularly. Nick filed for divorce by week’s end, crashing in a pal’s lakewood basement. She rattled around that Littleton house, her schemes ashes on the wind.
Gossip flew. Neighbours yapped over picket fences. Cousins took teams.
And Linda’s days as family puppet master fizzled out. Jake and Emily kept stacking their life, tougher for it, their condo a stronghold against her faded spite. Fate pulled a fast one.
Linda the finger pointer. Got smoked by her own skeletons, a karma slap colder than a Coors straight from the Rockies.