You sit across from Eddie Munson, half-melted cherry Icee in hand, heart thudding like the downbeat of a familiar song you forgot you loved.
The pool is quieter now. A few kids splash in the shallow end, lifeguards chat about party plans. The sky is going pink at the edges, and you know it’s time. It has to be now.
Eddie leans back in the lounge chair, his curls still damp, smile lazy. “Man. It’s weird seeing you here. Good weird. Like one of those old dreams you forget until it walks right past you wearing sunglasses.”
You smile, but your fingers tighten around the cup. “I didn’t just come back for my mom.”
He lifts a brow, turning more serious. “No?”
You shake your head. “She’s fine. Still yells at the TV like it’s gonna talk back. Still makes meatloaf with too much ketchup.”
Eddie chuckles. “Classic.”
You take a breath, your voice going quieter. “I came back because I needed to tell someone something. And I didn’t know how to do it over the phone. Or in a letter. Or… God, even just a voicemail.”
He sits up straighter, sensing the shift. “Is everything okay?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. I mean—now it is. But a few months ago, everything shifted. And I’m still catching up.”
He tilts his head. “You’re kinda freaking me out here.”
You laugh — tight, not quite right. Then you set the cup down and just say it.
“I have a son. He’s ten months old.”
Eddie blinks. “Wait—what? You’re a mom?”
“Yeah.” You smile, despite the nerves. “His name’s Ozzy.”
He lets out a short laugh. “No way. Ozzy? Like—”
“Yes. Like Ozzy Osbourne,” you say. “It was… kind of a kudos to you, actually. He was this bright, loud little thing even in the womb. I used to joke he was kicking to the beat of metal solos.”
Eddie looks stunned, a hand running through his hair. “Holy shit. I—okay, wow. You’re serious.”
You nod. “Very.”
He blinks again, trying to realign the conversation. “And you came here to tell me because…?”
You bite your lip, nerves crashing in waves now. “When he was born, they said he was a month early. They assumed that meant his due date had been wrong. No one thought much of it. He was healthy. Just a little small.”
Eddie’s brow furrows, slowly catching on.
“But there was a mistake,” you continue. “I got a second opinion a few months ago, and the records were wrong. He wasn’t premature. He was born full term.”
You let the silence hang for a moment, then meet Eddie’s eyes.
“That means he was conceived the night of that gig at the Hideout. The one where you played that Sabbath cover and jumped off the amp like an idiot. Remember?”
Eddie’s jaw tightens. “I remember.”
“I came backstage after,” you say gently. “We drank warm beer. You had a bruise on your knee. And I stayed over.”
He’s quiet now. Very quiet. His face a slow, shifting storm of realization.
You add, softly, “Eddie… you’re his dad.”
He stares at you. Blinks hard. Then leans forward, elbows on his knees, running both hands over his mouth.
You wait.
Finally, he laughs — not loud, not mocking — just stunned. “Jesus H. Christ.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” you rush to say. “Not money. Not a babysitter. I just… I needed you to know. Because I look at him and he’s got your eyes. Your smile, when he’s being a little shit. And I couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter anymore.”
He looks up at you. And he’s not smiling, but he’s not pulling away either. His voice is low, hoarse. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I didn’t know sooner,” you say. “And then I was scared. What if you hated me for keeping it quiet? What if you didn’t want him? What if I showed up and ruined whatever life you were trying to build?”
“I haven’t built shit,” he says. “Not really. Just gigs and coffee jobs and late-night drives to nowhere. But I would’ve wanted to know. I do want to know.”
Your breath catches.
He leans back again, this time slower, like his bones are made of static. “Ozzy Munson,” he says softly, then lets out a shocked laugh. “That’s a name.”
You smile, relief blooming in cautious little pieces. “His full name’s Ozzy James. But you can call him whatever you want.”