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“What about Willow?”

Mom snorts, glancing at Willow. “She’s okay.”

I don’t bother to restrain my giggle. Willow shifts, curling into me. Mom washed her hair, and I tuck a still-damp lock of it behind her ear.

“You’ll make a great dad someday, Remy.”

“Yeah?”

“The best,” she says, toying with my curls. “You’ll change someone’s world.”

“Like you did for mine?”

“No,” whispers Mom. I think she might cry. “Like you did for ours.”

We fall quiet. My mind doesn’t. It buzzes and roars with new thoughts: a birth mother, a sister, a possible birth father, people who might change my entire world. I’m not sure I want that.

18

Message from Free Williams

Saturday. Aurora Coffee. Little 5. Meet me @ 10 a.m.

Sent Oct 31 9:19 p.m.

* * *

Meeting the sister you didn’tknow you had is the SAT of familial situations. You can prepare all you want with cram sessions studying her Instagram, her Facebook. You can research her zodiac sign to anticipate her personality traits—I didn’t do that but I think Rio would have.

I should’ve invited Rio. No. This is awkward enough. Texting Rio “Hey, do you wanna spend Saturday morning meeting my birth sister? BTW, I have a birth sister… crazy, right?!” isn’t the way I want this to go down. It’s not the way I want any of my friends to find out about Free. Do I want my friends to know about Free? I still haven’t decided.

Aurora Coffee is a chill, old-school-meets-now coffee shop. It’s in Little Five Points, a two-and-a-half-mile strip of shops gathered in Midtown. Little Five is a black hole of hipsters and city-dwellers and bohemians. It’s also where suburban moms go to find vintage clothes in their horrible attempts to appear cool.

The vibe of Aurora isn’t Zombie Café, but I still like it. An entire wall of posters advertising indie bands and comedy shows and drag performances is to my left. A creepy mural of snowy mountains and phoenixes with TVs for faces line the opposite wall. Burnt-orange plastic chairs and wooden tables clutter the space between the door and bar.

Every customer has a neatly-kept beard or tattoos or flip-flops. I stick out, at a table near the front. Maybe it’s my curls. Maybe it’s the ultra-blue Vans with no socks. Maybe it’s my nerves vibrating. My leg won’t quit shaking. I’ve only had three sips of my iced coffee. I’m too busy checking my phone and tracing a finger over all the names carved into the tabletop and watching the glass doors. I’m early.

I keep typing and deleting a text to Ian. I hope he’s asleep. I hope he doesn’t see those three ellipses appearing and disappearing. What do I say?

Thanks for spending your evening with me and my little sister. BTW, you’re an amazing kisser!

There’s nothing wrong with that. As truthful as it is, it’s not enough. It’s missing something, like me. All my life, I’ve been missing something.

“Wow. You really look likehim.”

My eyes raise.

Free Williams has been misrepresented by her Instagram photos. She’sstunning. A cloud of loosely-flared curls as dark as her thick veil of eyelashes frames her face like a lion’s mane. Her dark brown eyes are wide, very expressive. Her skin is like the edge of autumn—rich-bronze.

She flops down across from me, dropping a hefty bookbag in the chair next to her.

I can’t take my eyes off her. We don’t lookexactlythe same. But we have similar noses and cheekbones. Her mouth curves a little at the corners the way mine does when I’m about to smile.

My voice cracks. “Him?”

“Your father.”

I flinch hard. Some of my coffee spills. Free arches an eyebrow as I try to clean up my mess with napkins. “Sorry.”