DAD AND BECCA stay out of my way since I came home. A blessing, considering I’m not ready to talk. I’m still processing the news, trying to understand what I learned.
Whenever I think I’ve figured out what happened, new questions pop up, screwing with the timeline of events I’ve assembled. My mind’s reeling. The constant galloping thoughts sap my energy, but I can’t sleep no matter how tired I am.
Things took such a quick, sharp turn that I begged my doctor for an emergency appointment.
He prescribed me new meds again.
Well, not exactly new. I took Adderall a few years ago, but now I take a long-term release every morning and a short-term release in the afternoon to boost the morning dose as it wears off.
It’s only been a day. The adjustment period usually lasts about a week, so I’m in for a few more days of blindly navigating the emotional labyrinth.
That’s if the dosage is correct and won’t need adjusting…
In the midst of all the chaos, or maybe despite the chaos, there’s not a minute I don’t think about Conor.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. It’s wrong to remember every time he kissed me. Even worse to recall every time he touched me. How he looked when his big, toned body hovered over me in bed. How he sounded when he said he loves me.
Wrong. All of it.
While my mind knows it, my heart disagrees because my relationship with Conor doesn’t feel taboo. Kissing him, holding his hand, or coming undone beneath him never felt wrong. Not once.
I keep thinking about the scene in Back to the Future when Lorraine kisses Marty and immediately knows something is off. I’ve never had that with Conor. The opposite, actually. It felt so fucking right to kiss him.
It’s not, but I can’t seem to let the thought sink.
Rose tried talking to me a few times. At first, she was sympathetic. She held my hand or climbed to my bunk and spent a monotonous hour brushing my hair. When playing nice didn’t work, she changed her tactic to plain rude, saying I should call Conor and tell him what Dad told me. That maybe he’d help me piece together what happened twenty-one years ago.
But what’s the point?
Telling him we’re related won’t change anything. We can’t make it work, no matter what. I could risk blowing his family wide open if there’s a chance his parents don’t know I exist, like if Robert Hayes was my father and my mother never told him, but that’s not the case.
They know I exist.
They chose to give me up, which means I’m not welcome.
Unleashing that news will devastate Conor’s life… it’s not worth it. I love him too much to hurt him when there’s no chance of a good outcome.
Gripping my phone, I lay in bed late in the evening. Rose is here, watching a movie on her phone, earbuds in.
I scroll through the pictures of Conor and me, then read every single text he ever sent. I’ve been doing that for the past five long days. I should delete every single one, convince myself we never happened. That we were never happy.
It would be safer for my heart, but whenever my finger hovers over delete, I can’t bring myself to click.
Those photos are all I have left of him. I’m not throwing them away.
Another thing I’ve been doing a lot is googling Monica Hayes to find myriad pictures of her at the many galas and balls she organizes.
We look similar. Not identical, but similar enough that our relationship makes sense. It’s not our features that match. I inherited my face shape from Dad, but Monica has my eyes. Or rather, I have hers. When she was younger, her hair was the exact same shade as mine.
I find a picture of Monica in her thirties and climb down the ladder to fetch an old shoebox from my closet. There’s not much here, just a few Polaroids of the woman my father claimed was my mother.
I look like her too. Silver eyes, caramel hair, freckles.
I guess if you look closely, you’ll discover similarities in everyone, but the sense of familiarity I get from the woman in the picture isn’t there when I look at Monica Hayes.
I grab the box, joining my dad in the living room. I can’t piece together a convincing story, and he’s the one who blew up my entire world, so he’ll have to help me out.
He sits in his armchair, eyes glued to the TV. Becca’s not here, working the night shift at the Motel by Costa Mesa.
That’s good.
I don’t need her listening to our conversation.
I don’t mind Becca per se. I’ve never particularly liked her because she’s so strict toward Rose and because she doesn’t try harder than she has to. She could work overtime to pay at least half Rose’s college tuition, but she relies on my dad and me to do the heavy lifting around here.
Dad looks up, eyes dull as he looks me over from head to toe. He’s worried. I’ve not left my room much this week. I skipped work and hardly spoke a full sentence the past five days, but it’s time to get some answers.
“Who is she?” I ask, throwing a picture at him, carefully watching his expression. “Who’s the woman in those pictures?” I fan more out on the table, but he remains silent, his face stoic. “She’s obviously not my mother. My mother’s Monica Hayes, so who is this woman?”
A long, tense moment passes before he looks up at me, eyes full of pain and remorse. “You really love him, don’t you?”
I clamp my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut tight to not let another tear fall. I’ve cried every day, and I’m exhausted. So fucking weak. Tired of the pain ripping me wide open. Tired of the sinking, sick feeling wrenching my stomach whenever I force myself to eat, and tired of missing Conor.
“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper, eyes still closed.
I hear him get up, and his arms circle my back as he cradles my head, holding me flush against him. “It does, Angel. It matters a great deal.” He kisses my head, pushing me back a little. “Is he everything you ever hoped for?”
I want him to stop, drop the subject and stop reminding me how much I love Conor, but something in his eyes has me bobbing my head, barely holding off tears.
“More than I hoped for. I miss him so much.”
A heavy sigh deflates him. “I know. You’re so consumed by the pain you didn’t even stop to think.”
“I’ve not stopped thinking,” I spit out, pulling away. “That’s all I’ve done for days! I wonder why you never told me. Why Monica gave me away, why—”
“Promise me one thing, okay?” he cuts in like he hasn’t heard a word I said. “Things are about to take a turn, and we’ll need to be here for each other. Promise me you’ll be here.”
I move away to look at him, his words making less sense by the second. “What do you mean? Dad, please, I’m tired. I just want the whole story. I want to forget. Tell me who the woman in the pictures is.”
“She’s your mother,” he coos, moving to sit in the armchair. “I’m sorry, Angel. Everything happened so fast, and Becca…” He shakes his head, clamping his jaw, holding back words he might regret. “You’re young… I didn’t think your feelings were valid, that they were enough to risk our family, to trade one daughter for the other, but I’ve watched you all week, and little by little, it’s killed me to see you hurting like that. You reminded me of myself when I lost your mother. It was the darkest time of my life, Vivienne. I don’t wish it on anyone, so I want to make this right.” He grabs a picture, pinching the corner between his fingers. “Look at the very beginning. When’s your birthday?”
My eyebrows bunch together, anger skyrocketing. “You don’t know when my birthday is?”
“October twelfth,” he replies with a sigh. “And when’s Conor’s birthday?”
It strikes me like a lightning bolt.
How have I not realized this sooner? Monica can’t be my mother. She had the triplets two months before I was born. It’s physically impossible. I look to Dad, but instead of hope filling me up, my heart threatens to burst.
“So…” I whisper, eyes brimming with tears. “You’re not my real dad?”
“I’m very much your dad. Always have been, and always will be.” The softest smile brightens his face before he starts talking again, flipping my world on its axis for the second time this week.
***
“No, no, no…” I chant, patting the steering wheel. “Please, not now. Just a little longer. We’re halfway there. Keep going.”
It doesn’t. The engine sputters, growls, jerks a few times, and stops. The sudden silence is almost deafening, punctuated only by my shallow breaths.
“Not now!” I snap, my mind still in overdrive, racing as Dad’s words linger, replaying like a broken record. “Fine,” I huff, reaching for my jacket, aware how ridiculous my words are, how stupid I’d look to a passive observer, scolding my car. “I don’t need you. I’ll call a taxi.”
A quick pat-down proves me wrong. I don’t have my phone, so a taxi is out of the question. “Well, I have legs. I’ll run.”
I’m not surprised the street’s deserted. It’s Sunday. Almost eleven o’clock at night. No traffic around at this time in Newport Beach on the eve of New Year’s Eve. Streetlights cast eerie shadows on the sidewalks, illuminating the shopfronts.
“I wish I scrapped you a long time ago,” I snap, beating the steering wheel with my fist, my heart racing, adrenaline pumping through my veins at the sharp burst of pain. “Ouch!”
Yanking the door open, I leave the keys in the ignition. “I hope someone steals you and saves me the trouble of taking you to the scrap yard.” And bang. The door snaps shut, but the window stays intact despite my unvoiced pleas that it shatters.
The cold, dark night envelops me like a cloak. It can’t be more than forty degrees. The coldest day of the year, I’m sure. Undeterred, with Dad’s words spurring me on, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the ride, and take off at a sprint.
The wind whips my hair, the chill of the night air stinging my cheeks as I dodge parked cars and leap over the cracks in the sidewalk. Everything blurs together, a sea of dark buildings. My breathing ticks like a metronome, my footsteps echoing over the silent streets, counting time.
I don’t get far before my muscles burn with the effort. Instead of taking a short break to smooth my breath, I push myself harder, ignoring the ache in my legs and lungs.
Just then, as if this couldn’t get any worse, the first raindrops strike my head. I make myself stop, my brain hitting the brakes so fast my legs barely have time to react.
“Please don’t let it be thunder,” I whisper, peering at the dark, starless sky.
Swallowing big gulps of air, my ears perk, listening for any sounds that’d strip my courage in a flash. My heart painfully screams against my ribs.
Rain. It’s just rain. Not even heavy. No gusting winds or roaring strikes of lightning. Just a typical California shower.
With a sigh of relief, I recognize the neighborhood. It’s not been here long, a few years at most. The houses still look brand new, with lush lawns and gray cladding.
Reassured, I cross the street, settling into a walking pace until my pulse slows. I’m still subconsciously waiting for lightning to burn the sky wide open with a bright flash, but after five minutes of gentle rain, I calm down enough to sprint again.
I’d consider myself physically fit, but no more than three streets over my body tells a different story, every muscle rebelling against my brain urging me forward.
“Not far now. Just five more minutes.” And after those five minutes… “Almost there, just five more minutes.”
The poor attempts to trick my brain work to some extent when—panting and heaving—I stop at the bottom of Nico’s driveway twenty minutes later.
The rain’s still just a soft, misty drizzle, but it’s soaked through my clothes, leaving me chilled to the bone.
Two Mustangs sit to the left of the garage, the house dark save for the soft glow of LED lights embedded in the concrete steps.
On my last legs, I rest my forehead on the door and rap my fist against it, perfectly aware I’ll wake more people than I’d like. I don’t even know what time it is. It can’t be past midnight, so maybe they’re not asleep, watching TV in the living room that’s not overlooking the driveway.
Point invalidated when my hand starts turning numb from repeated banging. If someone was downstairs, they’d open the door by now.
I keep at it, ignoring the pain increasing with each blow. Conor’s bedroom is right above, the balcony shielding me from the rain. Just when I think I’ll have to climb up there to wake him, the upstairs light suddenly floods the driveway. Within seconds, the hallway light blinks, and I hear the characteristic sound of the lock being turned.
A touch too late… I’m still slathered to the door and fall forward as soon as it opens, but two strong hands grip my shoulders, steadying me before I face-plant the floor.
“Vivienne, shit, you’re all wet,” Cody clips, pulling me inside, eyes roving my frame. “Did you run here?”
“Sorry,” I mumble, dark spots coruscating in my eyes as I find my feet. “Sorry I woke you, I—” I press my hand to my wet forehead, feeling like I weigh a ton. “I need to talk to Conor.”
“Whoa, easy there.” He grips my shoulders again. “You’re swaying, Vee. Are you feeling okay? C’mon, you need to sit down. I’ll go get Conor in a minute.”
“What’s going on?” Colt’s voice sounds on my left when Cody helps me to a breakfast stool in the kitchen. “Is she alright?” he asks his brother, pulling a tee over his head as he approaches. “What the hell happened?”
“I think she ran here. Go get Conor.”
Colt turns on his heel, his bare feet slapping against the marble floor.
An unpleasant thought materializes out of the blue.
What if Conor doesn’t want me back? What if, during the last week, he took a step back, considered everything I told him at Abby’s, and decided it was true?
My mind’s screeching so loud I can’t understand what Cody’s saying as he sets a glass of water in front of me. His lips move, but the words hit an invisible wall between us, dispersing before they reach my ringing ears.
